The 50 Greatest Dishes of the World

by James Steen

  Place the onions on a high heat for only a minute or so, and spoon them on top of the käsknöpfle. Serve.

  ASPARAGUS, POACHED EGG, HOLLANDAISE SAUCE

  Purity on a plate. Typically enjoyed in Britain and France.

  What came to Britain first; the chicken or the egg? Both arrived simultaneously, during the Iron Age, and were brought by migrating tribes. That is the accepted theory, and little more is known. The birds were not eaten, it seems, but bred for fighting. Their eggs, too, would have to wait to see a plate. The Romans, arriving in Britain in the 1st century, came with cargos of chicken and eggs – both of which they ate with enthusiastic vigour. And both would work their way into the British diet, and then some.

  Today the British eat 10 million eggs every day. Of chickens, The Poultry Site reports: ‘Around 95 per cent of the population eat chicken, and they tend to do so at least twice a week. Over the course of a year that’s 6.3 billion occasions where chicken is eaten in homes, schools, hospitals, and restaurants across the country.’ (The people of Hong Kong, by the way, are the world’s greatest consumers of chicken.)

  As with the ancient Greeks and Egyptians, the Romans were fans of asparagus and introduced the vegetable to Britain, although it took many centuries to establish itself as a popular vegetable. The Roman cook Apicius had a recipe for what we might know today as asparagus omelette. The asparagus is pounded in a mortar with wine, passed through a sieve, and then fried in a pan with black pepper, coriander, lovage, onion, the herb savory, more wine, liquamen and olive oil. Eggs are then poured into the pan, and the whole lot cooks on the fire until set.

  In 15th-century Italy, the fabled gourmet Bartolomeo Platina viewed asparagus as a delicacy of princes, and declared that it was beneficial for the intestines, eyes, stomach and kidneys, and ‘excites lechery’.

  Medieval Britain, it must be said, did not have a taste for asparagus. The vegetable only began to enter the cuisine of Britain, Germany and France in the 16th and 17th centuries. In Britain it was commonly known as sperage and then sparrow grass; asparagus became the accepted form in the 19th century.

  The diarist Samuel Pepys mentions a shopping trip in 1667, from which, ‘… Brought home with me from Fenchurch St a hundred of sparrow grass, cost 18d’. He was buying in April, right at the beginning of the asparagus season, which is said to begin officially on St George’s Day, 23 April. Pepys’ journal shows that he beat that by two days. (Asparagus from the Wye Valley, on the border of England and Wales, is often said to be the best in Britain.)

  In France, Louis XIV had asparagus ‘force’ grown in hothouse beds within greenhouses at the Palace of Versailles, enabling him to eat it for most of the year. The French would come to enjoy the asparagus–egg pairing. In Lorraine (home of the quiche) and Franche-Comté, there are two examples: one is tarte aux asperges – a baked egg custard containing slices of white or green asparagus; the other is eggs which are scrambled with diced asparagus stalks, and the tips are used as decoration. In America, incidentally, President Thomas Jefferson was an asparagus admirer, growing it at his home in Virginia in the late 1700s.

  Hollandaise sauce, meanwhile, is an emulsion of egg yolk and clarified butter, whisked in a bain-marie over a gentle heat, and with a hint of acidity to its taste. It is rich, creamy and buttery, and that acidity comes from the use of lemon juice. The sauce is possibly a French creation, and in Le Cuisinier François (1651), François Pierre La Varenne provides a recipe that calls for butter, vinegar, salt, nutmeg and egg yolk to bind it. It sounds distinctly hollandaise by ingredients if not by name. Of France’s recipe books in the mid-18th century, Les Dons de Comus offers two versions of the sauce, one made with egg yolk (as we know it today), the other does not include the yolk, and is made with butter, a little flour, bouillon and herbs. Both are for sauce ‘Hollondaise’.

  There are disputes, however, over the provenance of hollandaise. Was it, for instance, originally Sauce Isigny, named after the town in Normandy where the good quality of butter is renowned? Or should we believe another suggestion, that the French Huguenots brought it from the Netherlands when they returned to their homeland? Béarnaise sauce is certainly French, and derives from hollandaise, but calls for tarragon (and sometimes chervil), shallots and white wine vinegar instead of lemon juice. Delicious with beef.

  Whatever the case, eggs Benedict is not eggs Benedict without hollandaise. And it is the perfect sauce to spoon over asparagus – which has been steamed or dropped into salted boiling water for a few minutes – and a poached egg or two. Many accomplished chefs who are able to create the most complex of dishes, still choose this simply-crafted combination as one of their favourites.

  PIZZA

  Tomato, mozzarella and herbs on a dough base, baked in the fierce heat of a wood-fired oven. Other toppings optional. Swooned over by Italians, and crooned over by Dean Martin: ‘When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore …’

  Who better to talk pizza than Francesco Mazzei, chef-proprietor of Sartoria in London’s Savile Row? ‘Can you imagine a world without pizza?’ he says, shuddering slightly at the thought. ‘It would be like a world without espresso. Pizza is light, affordable, and can be eaten wherever and whenever – over a romantic meal or when you’re watching the football on TV.’

  Only a few, inexpensive ingredients are required. In fact, it costs about as much to make a dreadful pizza as it does to make a great one. The dough should be light and, says Mazzei, give some thought to the tomato sauce:

  ‘Don’t use fresh tomatoes. Instead, pass tinned tomatoes through a sieve, or mouli, into a bowl. Add to this, one clove of crushed, chopped garlic – no more than that – a torn fresh basil leaf, dried oregano, extra virgin olive oil and a little salt. Cover the bowl with cling film, let the mixture marinate overnight. Tomorrow morning, spread this mixture onto toast. Eat it, and call me …’

  The cheese should be a high-quality mozzarella. Next there is the temperature of the wood-fired oven. ‘I like it to be about 380˚C,’ he says.

  ‘A pizza should take no more than a minute to cook. It should be slightly burnt around the edges, and the underside of the base should have ashes on it, with the mozzarella bubbling. All of this adds flavour. Do you know what – a pizza is something which spreads happiness. It will make you feel happy just to smell it and see it. If it doesn’t have that happy feel about it, then eating it won’t make you happy. When it is right, when the dough is light, it is also a gourmet dish.’

  Mazzei does not see the need for embellishments such as pineapple, sweet corn or chicken (pizza bianca has no topping). ‘So many people have tried to change it, but why? It is a food that will never die. It will continue for as long as there is a future, and as long as there is Italy there is pizza.’

  The ancient inhabitants of Mediterranean countries, not only Italy, ate flat bread with toppings, and the word possibly stems from pitta, the Arab bread. The pizza, however, is said to come from Naples. Then it is a napoletana. And the most basic version of the napoletana is topped with tomato sauce, oregano and garlic. It is also known as marinara because sailors (marinai) would take it on voyages, sailing from the city’s port, happy at least that they had a stash of pizzas which would keep for a while.

  *

  The royal seal of approval works wonders for dishes, and such was the case, apparently, in June 1889 when Margherita, the queen of Italy, paid a visit to Naples.

  Here, the tale is taken up by The Washington Post of the time:

  Queen Margaret is in Naples at the palace of Capedimonte, and a story is related of her which explains the secret of her popularity among the people. A favorite eatable with the Neapolitans is the pizza, a sort of cake … that is in a round form, and seasoned with various condiments. The Queen sent for a pizzaiolo who is famous for his skill in making these cakes, as she said ‘she wanted to eat like the poor people’.

  The man went to the palace, was received, and having shown a list of thirty-five varieties of
pizza, was sent to the royal kitchen to make the kind which the Queen had selected. He made eight which were the ideals of their kind, and the little Prince and his mother found them excellent, but to eat as the poor people in Naples eat – that is often not at all, and is more than could be expected. But she has visited the poor quarter of Naples, and sympathizes with the misery she sees there.

  It is acknowledged that the pizza-maker (or pizzaiolo) was Raffaele Esposito, and his winning creation was named Margherita; tomato sauce with mozzarella, basil and oregano, as described by chef Mazzei. Esposito’s winner was an edible salute to the red (tomato), white (mozzarella) and green (basil) of the Il Tricolore, the Italian flag.

  In 2012 it was disputed that Esposito had actually been the pizzaiolo who made the Queen’s pizza. Zachary Nowak, the assistant director of Food Studies at the Umbra Institute in Perugia, investigated the story. He concluded that Esposito had indeed received permission to put the royal seal above his shop during the royal visit, but at the time it was a wine shop and not a pizzeria.

  Nowak also questioned the letter of thanks from the Queen’s secretary Signore Galli to Esposito. ‘The letter bears the royal seal. Or does it?’ asked Nowak.

  A careful comparison of the seal shows that it is very similar but not identical to the various royal seals of the period. Even more obvious to even the casual glance is that the seal is quite off-centre and several degrees off the vertical axis. Unlike all the other royal correspondence of the day – which had seals printed on them, not rubber-stamped on like the Galli letter – this seal appears at the bottom centre, not on the top left. The words ‘House of her Royal Majesty’ is handwritten on the top of the letter, leaving us to believe that the queen had run out of stationery.

  The phenomenal success of the pizza in America began with the influx of Italian immigrants in the early 1900s, many of them settling along the Eastern seaboard. The country’s first pizzeria was opened by Gennaro Lombardi in New York’s Spring Street in 1905. Others soon followed, and the pizza would evolve.

  The Encyclopaedia of American Food and Drink points out:

  The ingredients these immigrants found in their new country differed from those in the old. In New York there was no buffalo-milk mozzarella, so cow’s milk mozzarella was used; oregano, a staple southern Italian herb, was replaced in America by sweet marjoram; and American tomatoes, flour, even water, were different. Here pizza evolved into a large, sheet-like pie, perhaps eighteen inches or more in diameter, reflecting the abundance of the new country.

  The beginning of Britain’s affection for pizza roughly coincides with the opening of the first Pizza Express, in Soho’s Wardour Street, in 1965. Today the chain has about 400 restaurants around the globe, and the business is valued at about £1 billion. A world without pizza is unlikely.

  FOR AFTERS

  ICE CREAM SUNDAE

  Balls of ice cream, drizzled with syrup, adorned with a cherry and nuts. Born in America, but where and how?

  Three places in the United States of America feature in the peculiar story of the ice cream sundae, taking us from Wisconsin to Illinois and New York. More than a strong whiff of rivalry surrounds the claims of ownership over this dessert.

  Let us begin in Two Rivers, on Lake Michigan, in Wisconsin.

  In 1881, it is said, one George Hallauer wandered into Berner’s Soda Fountain. He asked the owner, Edward Berners, to drizzle chocolate syrup over the ice cream. ‘Are you crazy?’ said Berners, or words to that effect. ‘That syrup is for the sodas.’

  However, he agreed to Hallauer’s request. At that moment the sundae was born. This led to a booming trade in the novel dish, which Berners cheerfully sold at a nickel a time. He started selling them on Sundays before realising he was onto a winner and so made them and sold them every day.

  There are counter claims which question this account, notably the argument that Ed Berners was a teenager in 1881 – too young, therefore, to have his own business.

  This takes us to Evanston, in Illinois, and the early 1890s. A law was introduced which prohibited the sale of sodas on a Sunday. Ice cream therefore was served instead, with soda syrups poured over it and – hey presto! – the ‘Sunday’ was born. However, Methodist ministers objected to the dish taking its name from the Sabbath. Hence the ice cream Sunday became the ice cream sundae.

  Meanwhile, the residents of Ithaca, New York, have gone to enormous trouble and effort to prove that their town is birthplace to the sundae.

  Ithaca’s tourism website states that its information and documentation is so specific that the city can almost pinpoint the exact hour the first ice cream ‘Sunday’ was served: ‘While other cities may claim the sundae, none can support its claim with primary evidence.’ Ithaca’s evidence now follows.

  On the afternoon of Sunday, 3 April 1892, Reverend John M. Scott finished his service at the Unitarian Church and then wandered downtown to the Platt & Colt Pharmacy. The pastor was a regular at the shop, and the proprietor, Chester C. Platt, was the church treasurer.

  The two men often met for a chat on Sundays. On this particular one, as they sat chatting, Platt turned to his fountain clerk, DeForest Christiance, and said: ‘DeForest, please bring us two bowls of ice cream.’ When the ice cream – vanilla, it is said – was placed in front of them, proprietor Platt topped each with cherry syrup and a candied cherry.

  In 1936, DeForest wrote a letter to the city’s resident historian John Brooks, in which he addressed the event. He recalled that when the two men:

  … Tried out this new concoction they became very enthusiastic about its flavor and appearance, and immediately started casting about for a suitable name. It was then that Mr Scott said, why not call it Cherry Sunday in commemoration of the day on which it was founded. This name appealed to Mr Platt, so from that day on we served Cherry Sunday, and later on Strawberry, Pineapple, Chocolate etc.

  His letter continued: ‘The new Sunday became very popular with the student trade, so when they went home for their vacations they naturally told their local druggists about it, which soon spread the name throughout the country.’

  DeForest concludes that shortly afterwards, ‘One of the fruit syrup manufacturers came out with the name Sundae, and later a competitor with it spelled Sunda or Sundi. The original, which I am satisfied was first prepared and named in the old Platt & Colt was, as you know spelled Sunday.’

  There is also documentation to show that in 1894 Platt & Colt tried to patent the Sunday. The request was turned down on the grounds that the shop had no intention of shipping the Sunday abroad and it was therefore not entitled to such protection. Add to this, a newspaper advertisement in the Ithaca Daily Journal of 5 April 1892, a couple of days after the creation: ‘Cherry Sunday. A new 10 cent ice cream specialty served only at Platt & Colt’s famous day and night soda fountain.’ This is the first-known mention in print of the ice cream. And on Monday, 11 April, beneath the news that a hunter had shot a wild goose in the marsh, there is this paragraph:

  ‘Platt & Colt’s soda fountain specialty is Cherry Sunday. It is ice cream served in a champagne glass with cherry juice syrup and candied French cherries on top.’ By 1894, and the failed attempt at trademarking the ‘Sunday’, the fruit syrup manufacturer, it seems, had swapped a ‘y’ for an ‘e’ to avoid potential legal action; and was selling syrups to be drizzled over the ice cream.

  The knickerbocker glory – an ice cream sundae in a tall glass – is also the cause of confusion. There are many theories for how it got its name. To me, the most probable is that is was named after the Knickerbocker Hotel, in Manhattan, which opened in 1906 and closed in 1920, as a result of Prohibition. It was grand and opulent, tall (sixteen storeys), and with a pink and cream facade. The Knickerbocker was also home to an extremely popular café where, I imagine, the ice creams included the glorious Knickerbocker.

  A brief mention of Britain. From the early 1850s, ‘iced cream’ or ‘street ices’ were sold by street vendors (who included entrepreneu
rial dairy farmers). In the parks and markets of London, there were the cries: ‘Raspberry cream! Iced raspberry cream, ha’penny a glass!’ You would be given the ice cream in a small glass, and ate it with your fingers or slurped it. Many of them were trying ice cream for the first time, and remarked upon the feeling that ‘it had snowed in their bellies’. Then you would hand back the glass, which was ‘cleaned’ in dirty, cold water and was ready to be filled for the next customer. Disease spread through this unhygienic method of feeding.

  In 1851, one commentator wrote that street ices ‘were somewhat of a failure last year … but this year they seem likely to succeed’. A hundred years later there were 20,000 ice cream vans in Britain – a number that would decline once supermarkets mastered the ice cream trade.

  TRIFLE

  A British dessert comprising layers of custard (sometimes sherry-soaked); sponge; jam or jelly; and whipped cream. Often decorated with chopped nuts, such as almonds or walnuts, and presented in a large glass bowl.

  Trifle was a dessert waiting to happen. Before its arrival, the British had syllabub and fool, the ancestors of the trifle.

  Syllabub is a mixture of cream and alcohol – sweet wine, sweet sherry or sweet cider – and was a drink taken as a dessert before it thickened and needed a spoon. The fool is a mixture of cream and fruit, often gooseberries or damsons.

  Today, we whisk the cream for both dishes. Whisking takes just a minute or two, thanks to the power of electricity. In earlier times, whisking was an exhausting, time-consuming chore and probably something of a culinary skill. Thus, the cream for both syllabub and fool was rarely whisked. Cookery books talked of ‘stirring’ to achieve a thick consistency. Far easier to heat the cream by the fire, and often the fool was made like this; cream baked with sugar. Much fruit was also thought to be poisonous, so the fool would have to wait for it to be included.