The Essential James Beard Cookbook: 450 Recipes That Shaped the Tradition of American Cooking

477 Pages·2012·2.74 MB·English

by  James Beard

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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Acknowledgments
Foreword: Cooking with James Beard by Betty Fussell

Introduction: “An American Attitude Toward Food” by James Beard
Notes from the Editor

FIRST COURSES AND COCKTAIL FOOD
SOUPS
SALADS
BEEF AND VEAL
PORK
LAMB
POULTRY AND GAME BIRDS
FISH AND SHELLFISH
EGGS
PASTA
VEGETABLES
RICE, GRAINS, AND BEANS
YEAST AND QUICK BREADS
FRUITS
HOT, COLD, AND FROZEN DESSERTS
CAKES
PIES AND TARTS
COOKIES AND BARS
BASIC STOCKS AND SAUCES
Index
Also by James Beard
Copyright
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am grateful to Elizabeth Beier at St. Martin’s Press, for asking me to take part
in this celebration of James Beard’s work, and for introducing me to John
Ferrone, the charming and erudite executor of Beard’s estate. Thanks also to
Michelle Richter and Elizabeth Curione, for keeping the project on track. Copy
editor Leah Stewart, proofreader Jane Liddle, and designer James Sinclair are
consummate professionals, and their invaluable contributions show on every
page of this book.
My partner, Patrick Fisher, and kitchen manager, Diane Kniss, took on the
unenviable job of managing hundreds of recipes. The nuts and bolts of
transcribing photocopies into Word documents fell to a dream team of food
lovers, some of whom are also cookbook writers who brought their own
appreciation of Beard to the chore: Peggy Fallon, Judy Kreloff, Johnisha Levi,
Charles Pierce, Carl Raymond, Debbie Schulman, and Dédé Wilson.

—Rick Rodgers
FOREWORD
COOKING WITH JAMES BEARD
“Don’t gussy up spareribs with all that gunk,” the chef boomed at us as we
crowded around some naked ribs in the basement kitchen of his brownstone.
“Just sprinkle with plain salt and pepper and half an acre of garlic.” At 6 feet 4
inches and three hundred pounds, the chef seemed to take up half an acre
himself. He certainly took up most of the kitchen. This was thirty years ago, in
the now revered “James Beard House” on Twelfth Street in Greenwich Village,
where the owner gave cooking classes to small groups of amateurs over the
decades. I knew in 1981 how lucky I was to be among them.
Thirty years before that, I’d opened my very first cookbook, which happened
to be The Fireside Cook Book of 1949. I was a newlywed and knew nothing. It
was James Beard who taught me how to boil water, in my own language. He
spoke to me directly. He gave me confidence. This was decades before
Americans got all “gourmeticized” and learned how to cook French. Beard was
as down-home American as “easy side up” and “a cuppa Joe.” He taught us to
cook American, in our own kitchens, with the simplest of foods, like garlic and
onions, and lemons and parsley, and bread. He taught us how to bake our own
bread. This was new!
He wasn’t a schoolmarm like Fanny Farmer, uptight about thrift and nutrition.
Nor a phony marketing brand like Betty Crocker. He was real, he was male, and
he was big—he talked big, he thought big—American style. He spoke to guys
outdoors at their grills and to gals indoors at their new electric stoves. He
celebrated real food, what was fresh, and local, and growing anew after the
deprivations of the Depression and the War. He celebrated our new sense of
freedom, bounty, and largesse, both in his person and on the page. He was born
to cook and to teach because he wanted to share his joy in being alive and
savoring every sensuous moment, which is what food is for. Before Julia Child
or Craig Claiborne or Jacques Pépin, or the hundreds of kitchen gurus who
followed, Beard was the first to reshape the American palate at that moment of
self-discovery when America found its new place in the world.
The place he came from mattered. Like Julia Child and M.F.K. Fisher, James
Beard was a Westerner. Born thirteen and a half pounds on May 5, 1903, Beard
learned to cook as he learned to breathe. His father, Jonathan, was “a Mississippi
gambler type who wore a red carnation, smelled of fine soaps and colognes, and
was loved by all the ladies,” Beard wrote. His mother, Elizabeth Jones, was an
English adventuress turned hotel owner, who paused briefly at age forty-two to
birth a son. She brought her child up the same way she ran her hotel, which was
sold a few years before James’s birth. Beard described her as “That incredible
woman who was my father.”
That incredible woman had arrived in America at age sixteen, under the guise
of governess, to travel through America and most of Europe and Central
America before she settled in Portland, Oregon, and bought the Gladstone Hotel
in 1896. Despite the hotel’s dignified name, Beard remembers Portland as a
raunchy port of waterfront hearties and sporting ladies with their pimps. There
were plenty of French and Italian immigrants to hire as hotel cooks, but they
would catch gold fever and head for the Yukon to leave Mother Beard fuming
among her pots. She finally solved the help problem by hiring Chinese, men like
Let, Gin, Poy, and Billy, immortalized now in Beard’s recipes.
If hotel life was a natural theater, the landscape was a work of art. The waters
teemed with Olympia oysters, Dungeness crab, razor clams, and Columbia River
salmon. The woods were blue with huckleberries and blackberries. Tables were
loaded with terrapin stew and chicken sautéed with wild mushrooms. The
Yamhill Street public market offered seasonally white raspberries, husk
tomatoes, morels, lemon cucumbers, dozens of heritage apples. Italian truck
gardeners brought in cardoons, fava beans, leeks, and Savoy cabbages.
With all this natural bounty at their command, Mother Beard and Let battled
daily over the proper way to make aspic capon, or curries, applying the ancient
arts of China, England, and France to the provender of western shores. Beard
remembers Let brandishing a knife and Mother parrying with a stick of
firewood. But such quarrels ended in laughter and renewed argument over the
proper way to preserve a fig. They instilled in the wide-eyed child watching “a
love for food … the most varied gastronomic experiences any child ever had.”
For an American child, it was a dream kitchen.
There was Let’s Wonderful Sweet Cream Biscuit and My Mother’s Black
Fruitcake and My Father’s Favorite Pear Preserves. It was the great American
amalgam, where Mother imported the muffin and crumpet rings of her youth so
that Chinese Let could make perfect English crumpets,“dripping with butter and
daubed with our strawberry jam,” as Beard wrote in his magnificent memoir,
Delights and Prejudices. It was also a social amalgam of backyard, carside, and
oceanside picnics. There were champagne parties, whist parties, bridge parties,
fashionable luncheons and after-theater suppers. For a large fat boy, it was bliss.
He was so pampered, Beard recalls, that he became “as precocious and nasty a
child as ever inhabited Portland.” His lifelong friend Mary Hamblet agreed that
he was a holy terror on occasion but always so generous that to admire a toy was
to be given it to keep. She also remembers what may have been his first culinary
dish, as they played on the beach at Gearhart and made a sand pie. They frosted
it with a pink marshmallow whipped with salt water. “Eat it,” said James.”And I
did,” said Mary. “Because I adored him—and he was big.”
Gifted with a taste memory as acute as perfect pitch, Beard remembers his
first gastronomic moment: after he’d crawled into a vegetable bin, he bit into a
giant onion, eating it up skin and all. At three, sick with malaria, he remembers
being fed a superb chicken jelly. At four, his father took him to dine out in
Portland once a week so that he could begin to discriminate among restaurants.
At five, his mother—in a lapse of discretion—took him to “a palace of high
living” called the Louvre, where he sampled French cuisine in a burgundy
boudoir setting. And at all ages, his Chinese godfather Let took him to eat in
Chinatown.
Still, even as a child prodigy of gustation, his first love was not eating but
acting. He advanced from charades in his mother’s hotel to playing Tweedledum
in the Red Lantern Players’ production of Alice in Wonderland and Mr.
Fuzzywig in their annual performance of A Christmas Carol. At nineteen, he set
forth to be an opera singer, traveling by freighter (The Highland Heather)
through the Panama Canal to London and Paris.
When a vocal ailment derailed that ambition, he sailed back to New York,
played Cyrano and Othello at Walter Hampden’s Theater, and went on to radio
in San Francisco, broadcasting food commercials. But when it was clear, after
more than a decade’s trial, that he could not both act and eat, he chose to eat. He
came back to Manhattan to become what he called a “gastronomic gigolo.” In
1937 jobs were scarce but hunger was not. So he cooked for his supper at the
houses of friends, and still he went hungry. He went hungry until, with a pair of
friends, he opened a catering shop on 66th Street and Park Avenue and went
after the carriage trade. At last he had found his destiny. With his first book,
Hors d’Oeuvre & Canapés in 1940, Beard spoke in a new voice for a new
audience of both men and women. He revolutionized the feminine canapés of the
time, those dabs and “doots” of cream cheese on soft white bread. Instead, he
offered he-man highball stuff, like artichokes stuffed with caviar, smoked salmon
rolls, brioche-onion rings. A year later, he hacked out the Real-Men-Eat-Good
trail with Cook It Outdoors and later expanded it with cookery books on fowl
and game, barbecue and rotisserie, and fish.
World War II interrupted his promising beginning with the draft. After a stint
in a cryptography school, Beard was released from the Army to join the United
Seamen’s Service. It was back to the boards and he directed shows at USS clubs
from Marseilles to Rio. “Get him to take his teeth out and sing ‘Sylvie,’” said
one of his oldest Portland friends, who remembered dying with laughter at
Beard’s tales of entertaining servicemen abroad. Veteran traveler that he was,
Beard also picked up tips on food, like a dessert made with avocado, lime, and
sugar whipped up by a cook in Brazil.
At the war’s end, he found a new theater for food when NBC asked him to do
the first major network cooking classes on television. “At last,” he thought, “a
chance to cook and act at the same time.” Unfortunately, he had to share billing
with a cow, fashioned by Bill Baird and produced by the Borden Company: Elsie
Presents James Beard in I Love to Eat. A new medium inaugurated new
“cuisines of advertisement” and a new age for the theater of food, but in 1946
Beard’s cooking show was way ahead of its time. It would be decades before
television’s mainstream audience embraced the image of a man in an apron
wielding an iron skillet and shouting, Bam!
Even without television, however, by the 1950s the Beard image of a bald
man wearing a big grin and bow tie was as iconic as the ever-happy Green Giant.
The Beard name branded American food the way I Love Lucy branded American
comedy. In 1954 The New York Times dubbed Beard the “Dean of American
Cookery,” but that was too pompous a term for such a genial man with such a
democratic message: “If I can cook it, you can too.” His name became a
household word through the continuous outpouring of his articles and books, and
particularly his mass-market paperback in 1959, The James Beard Cookbook. It
is still and forever my quick-reference kitchen bible, even though half the pages
have fallen out. From then on he was the majordomo of the food establishment, a
grinning Gargantua beaming over platters of fat sausages and hams and chops
that fit the American mood in our heady decades of post-war affluence.
To those who carped that he worked too closely with the food industry
promoting commodity products like Omaha Steaks and Camp Maple Syrup,
Beard replied, “People take food too damn seriously. It’s something you enjoy
and have fun with, and if you don’t, to hell with it.” He expressed the same credo
in his Theory & Practice of Good Cooking in 1977: “In my twenty-five years of
teaching I have tried to make people realize that cooking is primarily fun and
that the more they know about what they are doing, the more fun it is.”
Of course, like our other food mavens after the war, Beard spent a lot of time
eating and drinking in France, soaking up the pleasures of French cuisine in
Paris and Provence. But unlike many, he translated them fully into an American
idiom and put them squarely on an American table. He reveled in the riches of
America’s cooking tradition when the French sniffed there was no such animal.
In 1972, he revealed our riches like a horde of gold in his groundbreaking