The extremes of New York's climate are always an unpleasant surprise to Europeans. Of course, northern Europe can be very cold and southern Europe very hot, but you don't usually find both conditions in the same country! As it happens, New York's winter of 1911, my second in this country, was the coldest on record until that time; and the summer that followed was the hottest on record, so that my own introduction to the rigors of New York's weather was not what you'd call gradual!
By the summer of 1912, my second season at the Ritz-Carlton, we had to face the fact that the heat was drastically affecting the business in our dining rooms, and Mr. Goelet found an ideal solution—an outdoor dining room. The architects created a Japanese garden in the open courtyard between the Ritz and the Carlton House. A tiny stream stocked with goldfish wound through narrow grassy banks, small decorative trees grew in pots, flowers bloomed everywhere, cages of singing birds swung from the trees and from bamboo supports, and bamboo awnings formed a roof over the tablet. This cool rendezvous quickly became the talk of the town, so a la mode with New York society and also with travelers in town on their way to Europe that it was almost impossible to get a table without a reservation. Today almost any fine eating place is likely to be crowded, but in 1912 popularity of that kind was something to be proud of.
Dining alfresco at the Ritz was a very elegant and sophisticated occasion indeed and we offered an appropriately elegant menu. In the Oval Room, through which one passed to reach the new Japanese Garden, we set up an elaborate cold buffet that would not have shamed the Paris or London Ritz, laden with extravagantly decorated dishes inaspic and pièces montées of meats, fish, and poultry that reflected the artistry of the chefs who prepared them.
I must here make the point that aspics and Chaudsfroids are more than beautiful and delicious, important as these two attributes are. They also serve, in hot weather, to keep cold foods from drying out. The jellied coating, in effect, imprisons the succulence which ordinary unprotected chilling might dry our and destroy.
My friend Philées Gilbert, a celebrated chef and writer on gastronomy, tells the story of how Chaud-froid got its unusual name. According to Gilbert—there are, of course, many versions of the tale—the story began in the eighteenth century, at the château of the Maréchal de Luxembourg in Montmorency. His table was reputed to be one of the best in France and invitations to dinner at the château were eagerly sought. The guests were just about to sir down, at one such dinner, when a messenger arrived from King Louis XV, summoning the maréechal at once to an emergency meeting of the King's Council. There was nothing to do but to ask the guests to go on with dinner without their host, and they did so. When the maréchal arrived home late that evening, he ordered the meal served to him, and all the dishes were brought in again, just as they had been presented earlier to the dinner guests. All except the chicken. It had been finished in a sauce rich with egg yolks; if it were to be heated through, the sauce would undoubtedly curdle. So the chicken was brought in cold. The gelatin in the chicken stock had jellied the sauce, and the maréchal, tasting it, pronounced it delicious and dubbed it Chaud-froid— made hot, served cold.
Similar accidents have produced oilier recipes which have stood the test of years. Cold chicken broiled with mustard, for instance, is one of these. Of course, broiled chicken diable, as it is sometimes called, had always been served hot at the Ritz. One day, Theodore, our maître d'hôtel, had to ask us to cancel an order which had been prepared for a party. The chickens were beautifully done, and I was convinced that they would taste as good cold as anything we bad on the cold buffer. We arranged each half chicken on a slice of bam and served it with a cool salad; the new dish proved such a succès fou that it remained on the summer menu at the Ritz for more than thirty years.
When I hear people say that they do not like cold meat or poultry, I know that they have never eaten them properly cooked. Meat and poultry that are to be served cold should never be over-cooked, and they should not be carved until they are cool. A bird should not be transferred directly from the oven or broiler to the refrigerator. It should be allowed to cool gradually. And unless it is going to be coated with aspic or chaud-froid, it should not be refrigerated at all. Long chilling dries the flesh and invests it with an unpleasant clamminess. Here is where aspic's special talent for protecting the freshness and the flavor of poultry is most valuable.
It is a sensible precaution to make aspic a day or two before you plan to use it, so that you can test its firmness. If after several hours in the refrigerator it seems too quivery, gelatin may be added, in the proportion of 1 envelope of gelatin to 3 or 4 cups of semiliquid aspic. Soften the gelatin in 3 tablespoons cold water, bring the aspic to the boiling point, and dissolve the gelatin in it. If the original aspic has remained quite liquid, use 1 envelope of gelatin to stiffen every 2 cups of stock.
Aspic should be so clear that it sparkles. This crystal clarity is achieved by adding to the stock egg whites or egg whites mixed with lean chopped beef, using I or 2 egg whiles for each quart of stock. Beat the whites lightly with a fork, combine them with ½ pound ground beef, add the mixture to the stock, and bring the stock to a boil, stirring it constantly with a wire whip or a slotted spoon. The instant the stock reaches the boiling point, stop stirring it. Let it simmer gently, without touching it, for 40 minutes. With a skimmer lift our as much of the egg white and beef as possible and strain the aspic through several thicknesses of cheesecloth. Aspic will keep indefinitely in a home freezer and for about a week in the refrigerator.
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