Galloping Gourmet: Adam’s Epicurious Adventures
“Dadburnit! It can't be time for Hop Sing's vacation again. He just got back.”
“A year ago, son,” Ben reminded Hoss. “He's entitled to time off to visit his family.”
“I know, Pa. It's just….well. We're gonna starve in the meantime.”
“Oh now, son. We'll do what we always do. We'll make the best of it and share the cooking responsibilities.”
Ben, Hoss and Joe sighed.
“I know we three can hold up our end,” Joe said. “It's Adam I'm worried about.”
“Yeah, his coffee is so strong it can pour itself,” Hoss complained.
“And his bacon is so ‘crisp’ it tastes like charcoal,” Joe added.
“Blast that Sam Clemens…or Mark Twain or whatever he calls himself these days. Sending that darn high falutin' Galaxy Magazine to Adam just stirred things up.”
Eyebrows arching, Ben looked at Hoss, asking “How?”
“Not Sam's articles, Pa. They're funny and I like 'em. It's what else is in that magazine. Those ‘Dining’ articles by that French cook are the problem. They're giving Adam ideas…creative, crazy cooking ideas.”
“Hope springs eternal, sons. Maybe Monsieur Blot's column will help.” He sighed. “Probably not,” he muttered under his breath.
They shook their heads.
As if on cue Adam entered carrying a new book and a large bag. The book was The Handbook of Practical Cookery by Pierre Blot, late of the Galaxy Magazine. “Who knew I'd find oregano and basil at the mercantile!” Adam exclaimed.
**********
That night Adam sat in the kitchen and began reading.
“There are a great many people who know a good dinner when they eat it; but there are very few who know how to prepare, or even order one…To get up a good dinner requires thought and attention.”
Adam looked around the kitchen, seeing a new order of things. Perhaps he'd failed at cooking because he never gave it the attention M. Blot advocated. He was beginning to see cooking as an honorable tradition, an art. A savory stew was the culmination of a series of scientific formulae. He was up for the challenge! M. Blot would show him the way.
**********
The next day Ben, Hoss and Joe headed toward the dinner table, hungry and tired after a long day. It was Adam's turn to cook. While he had sophisticated tastes, his culinary skills were not up to snuff. They braced themselves for another barely edible meal. At least Hop Sing had filled the cookie jar before he left. They could raid it later.
The table was set with a red checkered cloth and there were wine goblets at each table setting. Joe rolled his eyes. They were in for an "adventure in dining" courtesy of that blasted chef in New York.
Adam entered with bowls of pasta and placed them in front of his family.
“What's this?” Hoss asked, smelling the food.
“It's pasta a la Bolognese, peasant.”
“Bowl o' what?” Joe chided.
“Noodles with red sauce to you, little brother. I wanted to make a marinara sauce but you all can't imagine a meal without meat. So, Bolognese it is.”
“It's Eye-talian, ain't it? I knew it. You been reading that book. This is one of them ‘ini’ foods.”
“Wha…?”
“Ya know, Joe. Scaloppini, linguini, fettuccini….The stuff he eats in San Francisco.”
“For your information, Hoss. This is spaghetti. Spaghetti a la Bolognese.”
“Baloney!” Joe added, chuckling.
“Well sons, I for one, am vey hungry. Let's quit bickering and eat.”
“There's some grated cheese…. Don't even start, Hoss. It's fine without the cheese.”
Joe stared at the bowl and wondered how to begin. Adam instructed them to take a fork and spin it to create a mouthful. “Not the size of your fist, Hoss!”
“You know, Adam. This is excellent. Those herbs you bought yesterday sure make a tasty sauce.”
“I'm just trying to expand your palates, Pa.”
“Well, I don't know about any palates, but this red sauce is deelicious, big brother.”
“I've got a nice Chianti to go with the spaghetti.” No one looked up. They were devouring his pasta. Adam smiled. Pesto next week!
**********
“The savage falls to on whatever is first set before him, and proceeds to gorge himself. But the civilized man, the gastronomer, observes fixed law in the order of his dishes: he never overloads his stomach and dulls his palate by partaking too much of one dish; but always so arranges the succession of dishes that the taste is constantly diverted and stimulated by variety.”
**********
Dinner time at the Ponderosa in the second week of Hop Sing’s vacation was a rather sad and unsavory event. The cooking responsibilities were rotated, and instead of Hop Sing’s filling and delicious meals, some inedible efforts had been served. Ben’s thought of breakfast for dinner fell short of expectations when the eggs were rubbery and the bread, though toasted, was soggy. Joe’s fried chicken was crispy on the outside, raw in the middle. Hoss made a hash of potatoes and canned corned beef that he embellished with mesquite beans. The pasty mess was unpalatable to all but Hoss who doused it in catsup.
Ben, Hoss and Joe were not looking forward to tonight’s dinner. Adam was cooking again. They had to admit that his last endeavor, the spaghetti a la Bolognese, was surprisingly good. But his reputation as the worst of the Cartwright cooks could not be erased so quickly. The fact that Adam had not ridden out with them that morning had them all worried, especially since they had seen him pouring through The Handbook of Practical Cookery by Pierre Blot the evening before. He was gaining confidence in the kitchen. They feared that Adam’s efforts to make dinner would lead them on a French culinary adventure. Mon dieu!
Tom and his little brother Jodie showed up just after lunch with the “ingredients” that Adam had requested. That anyone would want to eat the watercress that grew by their spring was a mystery to them. But the creatures they carried in the burlap sack were just plain confounding to them. Money was money, however, and they smiled as they thanked Adam for the nickel he gave each of them.
Adam washed the watercress and wrapped it in a clean towel. He’d dress the greens and some tomatoes with a vinaigrette for a first course.
He propped up the cookbook and opened the page to “Grenouilles.” The adventure had begun. As instructed, he cleaned the legs in warm water and then marinated them in cold vinegar for an hour before removing the skin. Then he wiped them dry, dusted them in flour and fried them in garlic butter. Ben, Hoss and Joe walked in as he poured white wine in the pan and sprinkled chopped parsley over them.
The table was set in white linen this time. The smell of garlic and wine confirmed their suspicion. No cowboy cooking tonight. They headed to the table and found plates of salad at their places.
“What’s this?”
“It’s called ‘salad’, Hoss.”
“It’s clover, Adam.”
“It’s a garden salad, Hoss. It’s good for you. Bon Appetit!”
“Bone a what?” Joe asked.
“Joe, I thought you of all people would appreciate this meal. I made it in honor of your mother.”
“I told you, Hoss. He’s cookin’ French tonight.”
“You mean he’s cookin’ frog food?”
Adam smiled demurely. After the salad course, he cleared the plates and returned to the kitchen.
“You need any help in there, Adam?”
“No Pa, I’m fine.”
He came back with plates for the entrée. Then, he brought bowls of mashed potatoes and buttered peas with chopped mint on top. Finally he brought in a platter and set it on the table.
Hoss’s eyes were enormous. There on the platter were legs that looked like they should have been in a jumping contest.
“Adam, these ain’t what I think they are, are they?”
“They're grenouilles, brother.”
Ben smiled. Marie had been thrilled when she discovered the frogs near the creek. That Adam had remembered her cooking them pleased him. They smelled delicious and he reached over to fill his plate.
“Frog legs. He made frog legs!”
“It's your fricasseed nightmare, Hoss,” Joe added laughing.
“When is Hop Sing due back? I jest hope he makes it home before Adam cooks again,” Hoss sighed.
**********
“Sometimes a person feels the need of food late in the evening, but is afraid to eat anything that might disturb sleep.”
“Hoss! Is that you?” Joe called out in the dark.
“I can't help it, Joe. I'm hungry. Them frog legs put me off my dinner. Good thing Pa bought this apple pie.”
**********
Hoss was on his second stack of pancakes when a bleary-eyed Joe stumbled to the table. He greeted his brother with a friendly, “Good mornin’, Joe.”
“Yeah? What’s so good about it?”
“Well, you’re a ray of sunshine this morning, aren’t you?” his father scolded.
“Sorry, Pa. It’s those mourning doves cooing and cooing outside my window. They’re driving me crazy. I can’t get any rest with them making noise. I’d like to wring their little necks.”
“And it has nothing to do with returning late from town last night, of course.”
Hoss and Adam grinned at their brother’s expense. Still, Adam thought, the birds were annoying. Perhaps he had a way to solve Joe’s problem and test a new recipe.
That night as his family sat down to dinner, Adam brought a platter of roasted squab in a lemon butter and parsley sauce to the table.
“What’s this?” Joe asked.
“The answer to your problem, Joe.” Adam answered, winking at Hoss. “You can thank me tomorrow morning after a peaceful sleep. Bon appétit!”
**********
“Birds constitute but a small proportion of the food of the human race, and are considered a delicacy rather than a staple article. It is stated that the flesh of those whose muscles are dark colored is more nutritious than that of whitefleshed birds.”
“How'd ya sleep, Joe?”
“Like a baby, Hoss.”
“No cooing to wake you?”
“Didn't hear a thing.”
“Any of those squabs left? They sure were tasty.”
**********
Billy met Hoss on the boardwalk in front of the Bucket of Blood. There was a telegram from Hop Sing. He was leaving San Francisco on the morning stage.
“Home by Friday!” Hoss shouted. “Yippie! That's about the best news I ever heard!”
There was time for only one more of Adam's fine dining experiments. The pasta and the frogs' legs had met with mixed success. Perhaps it was time to stick with familiar flavors and concentrate on technique! With a few new flourishes, he'd transform a simple meal into a feast. “Cooking is alchemy, after all,” he thought.
He settled on a menu that was sure to please his "big" brother Hoss: trout almondine, peas cooked in bacon and fried potatoes. He took careful notes and then headed to the general store for almonds and olive oil. There were potatoes and peas fresh in the garden and bacon in Hop Sing's larder.
The recipes for the trout and peas looked uncomplicated. The potatoes required more steps. Hop Sing usually just sliced them and fried them in lard. M. Blot was more original in his directions. There was a French method to frying potatoes and it sounded tantalizing.
“Fried.--To be fried, the potatoes are cut either with a vegetable spoon, in fillets, in slices, with a scalloped knife, or with an ordinary one, or cut in pieces like carpels of oranges, or even in dice. When cut, drain and wipe them dry. This must be done quickly, so as not to allow the potatoes to turn reddish. Have a coarse towel ready, then turn the potatoes into a colander, and immediately turn them in the towel, shake them a little, and quickly drop them in hot fat. (See FRYING.) When done, turn them into a colander, sprinkle salt on them, and serve hot. Bear in mind that fried potatoes must be eaten as hot as possible.
To fry them light, or swelled.--When fried, turn into the colander, and have the fat over a brisk fire; leave the potatoes in the colander only about half a minute, then put them back in the very hot fat, stir for about one minute and put them again in the colander, salt them, and serve hot. If the fat is very hot, when dropped into it for the second time they will certainly swell; there is no other way known to do it. It is as easily done as it is simple. Potatoes cut in fillets and fried are sometimes called à la Parisienne; when cut in slices or with a vegetable spoon, they are called à la française.”
That evening his father and brothers sat down to dinner tired and hungry and a little apprehensive about what would be served. They comforted themselves in knowing that Hop Sing would be home soon. Whatever experimenting was being performed in the kitchen would end with this, the last supper, as it were.
The aromas from the kitchen were enticing. There were no fancy plate settings and no high faultin' wines on the table to Hoss’s relief. In fact, Adam had taken the trouble to chill some beer. On a hot night, it was more than welcome.
Adam brought out a bowl with the peas cooked with bacon, followed by a platter with the trout.
“So far, so good,” Hoss said under his breath.
Lastly, Adam carried in a bowl with the fried potatoes. A mountain of thin, crispy, golden, salted potato sticks you could eat with your hands. They smelled heavenly and tasted even better.
“My compliments to the chef!” Hoss said between mouthfuls. “These frenchy fries are great! Pass that bowl over here.”
Adam smiled, pleased with himself and his culinary efforts. “I wonder if Monsieur Blot needs a sous chef for a cowboy cookery book.”
**********
“A cook-book is like a book on chemistry, it cannot be used to any advantage if theory is not blended with practice. It must also be written according to the natural products and climate of the country in which it is to be used, and with a perfect knowledge of the properties of the different articles of food and condiments.”**
**Quoted passages are from Pierre Blot’s Handbook of Practical Cookery available in full text in Google Books.