SALADE Á LA TURC
I don’t profess to shine much as a cook. I would rather have somebody do it for me, but there are one or two things that I sometimes like to fix on my own hook.
Years ago there was some sort of a Centennial Exposition out in Nashville, Tenn. I don’t remember what they had to celebrate, but at any rate I had to take it in. I didn’t know a soul and good old Al Williams, the snake man—who died last year—gave me a letter of introduction to the Turk who ran the Hoochy-Koochy show on the midway. It is the only time I ever used a letter of introduction with efficiency and delectation. This Turk—who, incidentally, was one of the finest looking chaps I ever saw, and a man of education—welcomed me with open arms. First of all I had to see the show, and I was so enthusiastic about the gyrations of the sumptuous beauties that he did me the great honor of asking me to dine with him, en famille. It was a great experience. All the Hoochy-koochy dancers were there, in their stage costumes, with ma and pa and mother-in-law, and mother’s great uncle and a rabble of other folks, large and small. We had a lot of funny things to eat, but there was one dish that really appealed to me. They called it “Salada” and I ate of it in such copious portions that my friend, the Turk, insisted on showing me how it was made. I have made it many times since for my own pleasure, at least—and most folk who try it once will try it again.
It is a salad of ripe tomatoes, cucumbers and onions. The main point is that you must not slice them up but—after you peel your onions, cucumbers and tomatoes—put them whole into a chopping bowl, and chop them into chunks with a chopping knife. The chunks should be about as large as the end of your thumb. After the chopping operation, put the whole business on the ice until it gets good and cold. Then drain off the juice.
Add a sharp French dressing, get a big spoon and a plate and go to it. If it doesn’t taste good, I’ll eat it myself.
PANDORA FRENCH DRESSING
I have discovered that the secret of French dressing, to my way of thinking, is to use plenty of salt. When I make it at home—say for five or six people—I take an ordinary salt dish or saucer and cover the bottom with a lot of salt. Add black pepper and some of that Chili powder that comes from a place down in Texas. This Chili powder has a better flavor than paprika, and has a sort of onion taste to it, but don’t use too much of it. Then I cover this with a good quantity of olive oil and beat it up with a fork until it gets stiff. It is a good idea to have the olive oil cold. Then add your vinegar—good, old-fashioned cider vinegar. There is a lot of it around nowadays because, while it is easy to turn sweet cider into hard, it is a good deal easier to turn hard cider into vinegar. You add the vinegar to suit your taste—and this depends a good deal on the kind of salad you are going to have. For asparagus I like the dressing a little tart. For lettuce, not so tart. But this is a matter you can easily adjust to your own satisfaction.
WELSH RABBIT Á LA MORGAN ROBERTSON
I wonder how many folk who read these pages remember Morgan Robertson. Poor old Morgan is dead and gone, now, but in his day he wrote some of the best sea stories ever put into English. He used to keep bachelor hall in a funny little studio down on 25th Street, off Sixth Avenue, New York—and when his friends came to call his special delight was a Welsh Rabbit. He told me how to make it, and I am trying to pass the recipe on. The beauty of Robertson’s rabbit was that it never got stringy.
First you put a good-sized lump of butter into a chafing dish and let it sizzle. Add some Coleman’s mustard and paprika and stir it round a bit. For six people I would use two pounds of cheese. Real old New York State full cream cheese—none of this odoriferous imported stuff. The kind of cheese they used to make down on the farm. Cut it up in chunks and put it in the pan with a little beer (near beer will do), or you could use milk. Keep adding a little more beer as the cheese commences to melt and put in a little Worcestershire sauce, if you like it. When it is well melted take a heaping tablespoonful of corn starch, mix it with a little water, and mix it with the mess. Meanwhile keep stirring it. Let it bubble and when it comes to the consistency of pancake batter (meanwhile keep stirring it—you can’t stir it too much!) it is ready to serve. And please serve it on toasted bread. If there is anything makes me tired, it is to have Welsh Rabbit served on crackers—it isn’t the same thing. Don’t be afraid the rabbit will get stringy, because it won’t. Some folks put the corn starch in dry, instead of mixing it with water. Either way is right. Season it to suit yourself. But for the love of Mike don’t beat an egg up in it. That’s another kind of fish entirely.