"The combat deepens. On ye brave,
The Cordon Bleu—and then the grave
Wave Landlord, all thy menus wave,
And charge with all thy deviltry."
—Old Ballad
Tomato Volga
ussia is justly famed as the land of hors d' oeuvres—delightful whets that clear the palate. But none of these delicacies are more tempting to the epicure than Tomato Volga.
That chef—his name unhappily is not known—who bestowed this culinary gift upon the elect is worthy of our deepest gratitude. Only in the land of the Volga is the worth of such gastronomic artists rightly appraised. Endowed with perfect technique, clear palates and inexhaustible patience, chefs there are considered in a class apart—second only to the nobles.
At the Congress, Tomato Volga is served in a manner that would delight the heart of its creator. Only the finest vine ripened tomatoes—tributes of the hotbed—are used. The pommes de amour, as the French call them on account of their beautiful red hue, are hollowed out and stuffed with Beluga caviar and grated yolks of eggs.