Crème de la Crème

Nero would probably have relished the succulence—and certainly the spectacle—of a Baked Alaska lapped with flaming brandy, but this erratic emperor had to pique his sweet tooth with simpler pleasures: buckets of snow from the distant Alps were borne to Rome by the swiftest centurions, drenched in the rarest fruit syrups, then rushed to the festal board for the approval of his surfeited palate. A sweet-scarce millennium later, the first iced delights joined boar haunch and blood pudding on the banquet tables of Britain's lionhearted (and iron-stomached) sovereign, Richard I, who returned from the Crusades not with the Holy Grail, but with a dandy recipe for orange ice presented to him by Saladin, the gourmet-warrior-sultan of Egypt and Syria. Enjoying Thirteenth Century hospitality in Cathay, Marco Polo tasted a sugary none-such which he was foresighted enough to take home to Italy, along with the silks and spices of the East: a treasure-trove of voluptuous recipes for cold confections made with milk. It remained for the French, of course, to stir cream into what came to be known—and sometimes worshiped—as glacé. Charles I became so enamored of this bonne bouche that he employed the services of a full-time glacé-chef, who pledged himself to keep the king's exclusive formulas on ice. Overcome with sweet sorrow when security measures melted, the miffed monarch summarily sent the glacé-maker to his Maker.

Happily, however, these same recipes were soon brought from France to America by our earliest and most eminent epicure, Thomas Jefferson—who probably had no idea what an avalanche of sweetness he was setting into motion. In thousands of Colonial kitchens, Charles' favorite dessert—now less elegantly called "ice cream" and cranked laboriously by hand in wooden tubs—began to supplement, and even pre-empt, such traditional American standards as bread pudding and pumpkin pie. It wasn't long before entrepreneurs discovered that bigger tubs produced even more of the creamy stuff; ice cream became a business. By 1867 it was being mass manufactured, and sweet-fanciers from coast to coast were sitting on wire-backed chairs stowing it away, amidst the candy-jar-and-ceiling-fan decor of cool urban oases called ice-cream parlors. The flavors were basic—vanilla, chocolate, strawberry and, for an exotic treat, butter pecan; even so, people couldn't get enough of it. With each generation, their numbers became larger, their tastes more sophisticated; until today Americans gobble up more than two billion quarts of ice cream a year in a cornucopian variety of flavors ranging from licorice to lingonberry. Even such frozen glories as Nesselrode pudding and cherries jubilee—long among the aristocracy of haute cuisine—have become familiar fare to burgeoning multitudes of ice-cream cognoscenti.

For the knowledgeable bachelor chef, there could be no more fitting finale to a fall feast than such a chilled treat; perhaps one of those marron-dolloped hippodromes of oven-browned egg white and French vanilla ice cream known as meringue glacé; or a frappé-glassful of that velvety compote of heavy cream, chilled liqueur and puréed fruit which the French call a mousse. Before venturing to serve up such silken savories, however, any dessertmeister worth his ice-cream scoop should become privy to a few pointers about the art of frigid feasting.

The first fact to file away: "French" doesn't necessarily connote quality in ice cream. "French" ice cream in this country is made with egg yolks; while they do enrich the flavor, it is butterfat that imparts irresistible smoothness to the true French product; the more butterfat, the creamier the ice cream. Most American manufacturers use twelve to fourteen percent butterfat; connoisseurs, consequently, will seek out those few companies which raise the content to a buttery twenty percent.

French or American, glacé gourmets steer clear of ice cream that's coarse or icy, gummy or frothy; there's no pleasure in eating—or paying for—an insubstantial product with air whipped into it during the freezing process. Lift the package; it must be hefty. The best plan is to buy ice cream freshly scooped out of five-gallon canisters at the local fountain. Bulk or brick, all but vivid flavors should be shunned. The chocolate must be overpoweringly rich, the vanilla mature and refined; the coffee must call forth the aroma of freshly roasted beans; the strawberry must be bursting with juicy pink buds.

In the summer season, commercial ice creams emerge from their customary classifications and appear in such far-out flavors as plum and ginger, persimmon and peanut brittle; some are inspired innovations, others, merely bizarre; for the adventurous, all (continued on page 174)Crème(continued from page 101) are worth a try. If even these exotica don't appeal, however, it's simplicity itself to ad lib frosty fancies in answer to one's mood, using rich, pristine vanilla as a base and embellishing it with improvisations. Devotees of the buttered almond have but to buy a three-ounce package of slivered almonds, bake them in a moderate oven with a few tablespoons of butter until light brown, salt them generously, soften a quart of vanilla in the refrigerator until easily scoopable, then quickly stir in the almonds, secrete the mixture in the freezer for hardening and, just before serving, cover the collage with orgeat or almond syrup. Voilà—we guarantee an almond ice cream to eclipse any frozen facsimile west of Rumpelmayer's emporium, long the gourmet's mecca of mouth-watering polar joys.

For those game to attempt real spellbinders, we suggest an exploration of the toothsome world of preserved fruits. Such sweets as brandied dates or Nesselrode, rum or brandy sauce, bottled guavas, mangoes or papayas can transform prosaic vanilla into the most dulcet extravagance in the dessert kingdom. Merely drain them, dice them, then perform the same mixing ritual as with the toasted almonds. And for a final fillip to Caribbean-fruit-based creams, cap the creation with canned coconut in syrup.

The French coupe—not a car style, but another realm of chilled delight—is simply a standard American sundae with no holds barred. Those with a well-developed ice-cream sense can whip up a million variations: with any ice cream (from apricot to avocado) as a base, heap on any fresh fruit (from peach to pineapple), top with any liqueur (from Cointreau to Curaçao), any nuts (from cashews to filberts) and any given amount of sugared whipped cream—but please, no corny maraschino crown. Or perhaps a parfait would be preferred; years ago a pièce de résistance requiring hours of preparation, today's parfait is nothing more than a coupe that doesn't know when to stop: mountains of ice cream and compatible condiments are succulently stratified in a tall Pilsner glass. For instance: put strawberries in the bottom of the glass; fill almost to the top with alternate layers of vanilla and strawberry, mint or what-have-you; let more berries drizzle down from above; and top it with a Matterhorn of rum-laced whipped cream. Or: fill the glass with coffee ice cream and apricot ice, and surmount this achievement with fruits marinated in kirsch. Or even: fill glass with strata of chocolate ice cream and hazelnuts, and atop, pour a cool pool of crème de menthe.

For those lacking long spoons, we recommend such free-form, plate-borne inspirations as these: in the hollow of a ripe honeydew melon, place a scoop of fresh lime sherbet; or combine tart raspberry ice and fresh peach ice cream, flank them with ladyfingers dipped in benedictine, and top with sugared berries. To anyone who can contrive a kinglier culmination to an autumnal repast we offer our unreserved admiration.

Just remember that any ice-cream invention will conjure up more delight if it's scooped out and spooned up when it's just beginning to lounge on the soft side. If it's to be kept for any length of time, of course, it should be stored in the freezer. Simply transfer it to the main chamber of the refrigerator about half an hour before bestowing. And when the time comes, don't downgrade the delicacy by serving it in those toy-town sherbet cups on glass feet; use either a mammoth frappé or Pilsner glass, or one of those oversize dessert dishes called nappies. Ladle out melba sauce, marrons and brandied fruits with a lavish hand. In the regal recipes below—each intended for four—serve up the portions in prodigal proportions, supply each man and maid with a large dessert spoon (never a teaspoon), tuck napkins in collars, if necessary—and dig in without further ceremony.

[recipe_title]Baked Alaska[/recipe_title]

[recipe]l/2 cup strawberry jam[/recipe]

[recipe]1 small loaf sponge cake[/recipe]

[recipe]4 egg whites[/recipe]

[recipe]1/8 teaspoon salt[/recipe]

[recipe]1/2 cup sugar[/recipe]

[recipe]1 teaspoon vanilla[/recipe]

[recipe]1 pint ice cream, any flavor[/recipe]

[recipe]12 brandied cherries[/recipe]

[recipe]Confectioners' sugar[/recipe]

[recipe]1 tablespoon brandy[/recipe]

Spread half the jam on the bottom of a shallow 12-in. oval casserole, cover with 1/2-in.-thick slices of sponge cake, and spread balance of the jam on top of the cake slices. Beat the egg whites and salt in mixer at high speed until soft peaks are formed. Slowly add the sugar and continue to beat until a stiff meringue is formed; then add vanilla. Place ice cream in an oval mound in the center of the cake, and cover completely with the meringue, shaping evenly with a spatula. Arrange the cherries on the meringue, sprinkle lightly with confectioners' sugar, and place in preheated 475° oven for three to four minutes, or until meringue is lightly browned, turning casserole, if necessary, to brown evenly. Light brandy, spoon over Alaska, cut crosswise into portions and serve with a flaming flourish.

[recipe_title]Cherries Jubilee[/recipe_title]

[recipe]20-oz. can black pitted cherries in heavy syrup[/recipe]

[recipe]1 tablespoon cornstarch[/recipe]

[recipe]2 tablespoons sugar[/recipe]

[recipe]2 teaspoons sweet butter[/recipe]

[recipe]2 jiggers light rum[/recipe]

[recipe]2 jiggers curaçao[/recipe]

[recipe]4 large scoopfuls vanilla ice cream[/recipe]

Drain the cherries well, putting 14 cup of the syrup (saving the balance) into a small bowl with cornstarch and sugar. Mix well until there are no lumps and sugar is dissolved. Bring the balance of the juice to a boil over a low flame, gradually add cornstarch mixture, stirring constantly, simmer about two minutes, add butter, one jigger of rum, remove from heat and set aside. When ready to serve the dessert, scoop the ice cream into dessert dishes at the table, and crown with hot cherry sauce. Heat cherries, curaçao and remaining jigger of rum in a chafing dish over a direct flame until hot but not boiling. Set ablaze, let flames flicker a minute or so; spoon over the ice cream, admire, then devour.

[recipe_title]Crepes Sir Holden[/recipe_title]

[recipe]10-oz. pkg. frozen strawberries[/recipe]

[recipe]2 6-oz. jars crepes suzette[/recipe]

[recipe]2 jiggers cognac[/recipe]

[recipe]2 jiggers maraschino liqueur[/recipe]

[recipe]l/2 cup heavy sweet cream[/recipe]

[recipe]3 tablespoons confectioners' sugar[/recipe]

[recipe]4 large scoopfuls vanilla ice cream[/recipe]

[recipe]2 tablespoons toasted slivered almonds[/recipe]

(We have adapted this extravaganza from a spécialité at Horcher's renowned bistro in Madrid.) Thaw strawberries. Roll crepes, place in a saucepan or chafing dish, inundate with liquid from the jars, heat until sizzling, add cognac and maraschino liqueur, reheat, set ablaze and let flame for a minute or so. Whip cream, add sugar, whip a moment more. Spoon crepes alongside icecream on serving dishes, spoon on liqueurs and strawberries, and crown with generous helpings of whipped cream. Sprinkle with almonds, behold, besiege.

[recipe_title]Fresh Peach Mousse[/recipe_title]

[recipe]3 cups sliced ripe peaches[/recipe]

[recipe]3/4 cup sugar[/recipe]

[recipe]2 tablespoons kirsch[/recipe]

[recipe]6 egg yolks[/recipe]

[recipe]1/2 teaspoon almond extract[/recipe]

[recipe]1-1/2 cups heavy cream[/recipe]

Frozen desserts made in freezer trays are often filled with inedibly sharp ice crystals. The mousse that follows is an exquisite exception. Purée one cup sliced peaches in an electric blender. Combine remaining two cups with 1/4 cup sugar and kirsch. Chill until serving time. Beat egg yolks and remaining sugar in mixer at high speed until yolks are fluffy—about three to four minutes—and add almond extract. In a separate bowl whip the cream and fold with peach purée into the egg-yolk mixture. Turn the mixture into ice tray and freeze until semihard. Then cover with wax paper, complete freezing, and scoop mousse onto serving dishes. Spoon sliced peaches on top, and commit the creamy compote to the attentions of your sweet-toothed tablemates.

[recipe]Stuffed Jamaican Bananas[/recipe]

[recipe]4 large ripe bananas[/recipe]

[recipe]2 tablespoons frozen concentrated lime juice[/recipe]

[recipe]2 tablespoons Jamaica rum[/recipe]

[recipe]8 canned pineapple spears[/recipe]

[recipe]1-1/2 pints coffee ice cream[/recipe]

[recipe]1/4 cup coffee syrup[/recipe]

Cut about 1/4 in. off the ends of each banana and slice a lengthwise slit in each. Without tearing the skin, cut the meat of each banana crosswise into chunks about 1-in. thick. Remove and mix with lime juice and rum. Place 2 pineapple spears on each banana skin, top with small scoops of ice cream, arrange banana chunks around them, flood with lime-juice mixture and coffee syrup, serve and sumptuously savor. In Caribbean climes, that's the way the banana splits.