Author: John Fladd

Some people are remembered by History and become household names, sometimes for silly reasons. Other, more worthy men and women are washed away in the River of Time and are undeservedly forgotten.

Nobody has been cheated out of a legacy more cruelly than Antoine-Augustin Parmentier (1737-1813), one of the advisors to doomed king Louis XVI of France.Very few historians would make the case that Louis was a wise and competent king, but by the 1780s even he could see that things were going badly. France was overpopulated and underfed. The People, seeing the example set by the American colonists, were talking about overthrowing their ruler. (The irony that the American Revolution had been largely financed by Louis himself was not lost on him.)

The upshot was that the French people were as angry as they were hungry, which is to say, very.

There was actually a partial solution available, however: potatoes. The Spanish had brought potatoes back to Europe from South America a century or more previously, but most European peasants could not be enticed to eat them. Even though they would have provided a welcome boost of calories and carbohydrates, most peasants were convinced that they were deadly poisonous. (To be fair, the actual fruit of the potato is; only the tuber is edible.)

Louis asked his smartest advisor, Parmentier, to try to convince the French peasants to plant potatoes.

Parmentier had his own formal gardens dug up and planted with potatoes, then announced to the locals that nobody was to touch his potatoes under pain of terrible, unspecified punishment. Potatoes were too good for the likes of them; only aristocrats could properly appreciate them. Then, to ensure the security of his potatoes, he placed armed guards around his potato patch for 12 or more hours per day.

Within weeks all the potatoes had been stolen and planted across the French countryside.

The irony of this is that if the French peasantry had not been well-fed on potatoes, they might not have had strength enough to revolt a couple of years later.

Parmentier never got famous, but he did get to keep his head, so he was probably not too bitter about the slight.

In his honor, I have renamed a classic cocktail — The Forbidden Fruit — the Parmentier.

Parmentier
1½ ounces apple brandy – I like Laird’s Applejack
1 ounce Pimm’s No. 1
½ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice
¼ ounce simple syrup
2 dashes each of two different bitters – this recipe traditionally calls for Angostura and Peychaud’s, which is what I’ve used here
3-4 ounces ginger beer to top
Combine all ingredients except the ginger beer with ice in a cocktail shaker. Shake until bitterly cold.
Strain into a tall glass, over fresh ice, and top with ginger beer.
Stir, and drink wistfully, while listening to Maurice Chevalier sing “C’est Magnifique.”

This is a complex and slightly melancholy drink. Pimm’s is a slightly baroque-tasting base to build any drink on with its own collection of herbs and alcohol. Apple brandy brings its own sophistication with it. Throw in two competing flavors of bitters, and you have dropped yourself into a labyrinth of flavors before you even get to the ginger beer, which has a talent for throwing drinkers for a loop.

Which is not to say that this isn’t delicious, because it is. It’s just that normally, with more straightforward cocktails, you can spend the first half-minute or so making a flavor inventory. With Forbidden Fruit — as with History — you might be better off just surrendering yourself to the experience.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: Parmentier. Photo by John Fladd.

In the 1920s there seems to have been a vibrant analog online community of housewives in the Boston Globe’s cooking section. At first glance, it seems as if it was a simple exchange of recipes, but there was clearly a lot more than that going on under the surface. In this column, Winding Trails starts by thanking her virtual friend for a recipe, then offers one of her own. It seems straightforward enough. The last line is somewhat arresting, though; she doesn’t so much close out her small letter politely as plead for some form of human contact.

This was the 1920s. It had not been so many years since politicians and ministers had blasted an evil new invention, the bicycle. Without a (male) chaperone, they ranted, who knew what sorts of deviant mischief women could get up to, traveling all over the countryside? It’s easy to imagine Mrs. Trails almost trapped in an apartment in Southie or a triple-decker in Nashua, surrounded by crying children and dirty dishes, desperate for some form of adult companionship.

Some more research reveals that Skin Hincks (and wow, do I want to know the story behind her name) was a frequent, almost obsessive correspondent to the Globe’s cooking pages. It’s very easy to see her modern counterpart having a very active social media presence. There might be a very credible master’s or Ph.D. thesis comparing the two communities.

But for now, let’s look at Mrs. Trail’s Carrot Pie:

Carrot Pie
The purée of two large carrots – about 1½ cups, or 300 grams
½ teaspoon ground ginger
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon kosher salt
½ cup (99 grams) sugar 2 whole eggs
½ cups (1 can) evaporated milk
zest of 1 large orange
1 pie crust

Preheat the oven to 450º F. Whisk all ingredients together in a medium-sized bowl. Pour into the pie crust. Much as with a pumpkin pie, the crust does not need to be blind-baked. Bake at 450º for 15 minutes, then lower the temperature to 325º and bake for a further 50 to 55 minutes, or until the blade of a knife comes out more or less clean.

At first glance, this seems like a bright orange pumpkin pie, and the taste is not completely dissimilar, but the sweetness of the carrot and the brightness of the orange zest lift the flavor to something different. The spices are more subdued than in a pumpkin pie, and the custard is not so much sweeter as fruitier. Carrots and ginger are a classic pairing, and the orange zest adds a zing that makes this more of a “Yes, please, another slice would be delightful” experience.

This is a good pie to eat with a cup of tea, while hand-writing a letter to an old friend.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: Carrot Pie. Photo by John Fladd.

Yes, you’d heard rumors about mint: “Be careful, or it will take over your garden.” “No, really, it’s surprisingly aggressive.” “Mint is the Tribble of the plant world.”

So you were careful. Once you put in a couple of raised beds — that’s where you planted the mint.

But the surprise was the basil. You like basil well enough, and who doesn’t like a nice pesto? The plants you picked up at the grocery store were pretty small, so seven or eight plants seemed like a reasonable number.

Ultimately, it turns out that the reason the mint stayed under control is that it was scared of the basil. It started off slowly, and everything seemed fine but then it started growing faster and faster and there’s only so much pesto a human family can eat and oh my god it’s taken over all the raised beds and now you’re scared of the basil and what in the name of Little Green Apples are are you going to do!?

First of all, take a deep breath, and maybe eat a popsicle.

Secondly, identify the problem: You have a lot of mint and too much basil and you don’t know what to do with it.

Thirdly, you need a drink.

So, in an act of service journalism, let’s compare and contrast two classic minty cocktails, and the same recipes with basil in place of the mint.

(It will be alright. The herb police are not going to come crashing through your window if you just throw some of this away.)

Southside Cocktail

6 mint leaves (1.5 grams) or 2 large basil leaves (2 grams)
2 ounces dry gin
½ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice
½ ounce fresh squeezed lime juice
1 ounce simple syrup
more herbs for garnish
Thoroughly muddle the mint or basil in the bottom of a cocktail shaker.
No, more than that.
That’s about right. Now add the rest of the ingredients and some ice, and shake until it is blisteringly cold.
Strain into a chilled cocktail glass, and sip to Herb Alpert’s A Taste of Honey.

A classic Southside is only very slightly sweet, and I like it a little sweeter, so I’ve doubled the amount of simple syrup. (If that sounds like a lot, we’re only talking about an extra half ounce.) This is a grownup drink that lets the herb in question shine through. Winner: by a nose, the basil version. It’s refreshing and delicious, with just a hint of Italy.

Mojito

12 sprigs (3 grams) fresh mint or 4 large leaves (4 grams) fresh basil
1 lime, cut into 6 wedges
½ ounces simple syrup
lots (a technical term) of crushed ice
2 ounces white rum
3-4 ounces plain seltzer
In the bottom of a tall glass, muddle the herb of your choice, and four of the lime wedges. Be careful; the lime won’t like this and will spend its dying breath trying to squirt you in the eye.
Add the simple syrup and crushed ice. Stir.
Add the rum, and top off with seltzer. Stir again. Garnish with the two remaining lime wedges.
Sip while watching the waves from your cliffside cabaña (pending availability).

If you’ve never had a mojito, it’s a good thing you’re remedying that now. It is delicious and deceptively light. Lime and rum go well with all the ingredients and let the herbiness of your mint or basil shine through. This drink’s reputation for being dangerously drinkable is well-deserved.

Winner: the traditional mint; classics are classics for a reason. The basil version is fine, and if you weren’t drinking the two side by side, you would be perfectly happy with it, but the mint shines through in a way that makes the whole drink sparkle.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: Mojito. Photo by John Fladd.

A tale:
I work my way through the party, smiling, waving, shaking hands. I check with the bartender, who assures me that she has everything she needs.
I field a couple of compliments on my new jacket. I wanted to wear my velvet smoking jacket, but it’s still a bit too warm, so I went with a double-breasted silver lamé one that I have nicknamed “Charlie,” and he’s striking just the tone I wanted.

I pause briefly as the background music reaches the greatest improvised lyrics of all time:

“She loves that free, fine, wild, knocked-out, koo-koo … groovy wind in her hair,” Frank Sinatra assures me, and I close my eyes and stab the air with my finger as he gets to “groovy.” Man, he was good!

In an easy chair by the window, I see a pretty, sad-eyed woman sitting and staring at the peacocks on the lawn. She is a friend of a friend, who has recently moved here from Jalisco, and rumor has it that she is a bit homesick.

“Hi,” I say, and she nods politely.
“Are you Flora?” I ask, and she nods again, and she smiles, but her eyes are still sad.

“Robin,” I call to one of the caterers circulating through the party with a tray.

“Yes, Boss?” she asks, coming over.
“Did Susan make that thing we talked about?”

“I’ll bring it out.”
I thank her and make small talk with Flora until Robin returns with a dish of ice cream on her tray. She presents it to Flora with a small bow.

Looking confused, Flora takes it, then tentatively takes a very small spoonful of it.

Her smile only reaches the Mona Lisa stage, but her eyes sparkle.

Cornbread-Tres Leches Ice Cream

Small box corn muffin mix
12-ounce can evaporated milk
14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk
1 cup half and half
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Make an 8×8” pan of cornbread, according to the instructions on the box.
Let it cool, then stab it all over with a fork. If you are feeling dramatic, use a pair of forks.

Mix the dairy ingredients and cinnamon together, then pour onto your pre-stabbed cornbread.

Chill for at least three hours.

Transfer the sopping wet cornbread and any unabsorbed dairy to a blender, and blend thoroughly for about a minute.

Churn in an ice cream maker, according to the manufacturer’s instructions. (If you do not have access to an ice cream maker, freeze the pan of cornbread solid, then blend. You will get similar results.)

Transfer the soft-serve-consistency ice cream to serving containers and freeze.

If you’ve ever had proper tres leches cake, you are aware that it is the king of cake, moister than moist, and silky smooth. Eating it is like getting a kiss from a cake. This ice cream is inspired by that, but with a chewy texture and the background flavor of yellow corn. The hint of cinnamon makes it taste a bit like Biscoff cookies. This is easy enough to make and delicious enough that it will quickly become a regular part of your dessert rotation.

Featured photo: Courtesy photo by John Fladd.

I have had to face the harsh reality recently that I have aged out of some of my travel-related bucket list items. As much as I would really, really like to be able to put an alligator wrestling certification on my resumé, I’m afraid that it’s not going to happen at this point.

Likewise, my dream of meeting the eyes of a dark-eyed stranger in a smoke-filled bar in Buenos Aires and shocking the room into awed silence with the skill of my interpretive tango.

In the aggregate, I’m reluctantly resigned to shelving some of these dreams. There are other, new dreams to replace them, after all. I hear good things about the SPAM Museum in Austin, Minnesota, and just today I learned that there are specialized rat tours in New York City, which I am fully committed to going on. Age can be worked around, and I am the master of my own destiny, right?
I may be in charge of my destiny, but my wife is in charge of me. I share some of these dreams with her, and on the surface she seems supportive, but over the years I have learned to read her micro-gestures, which generally say, “It’s so cute that you think you’re going to do that,” when I propose anything more adventurous than a trip to the hardware store, and even then she has learned the hard way to keep a close eye on me.

The Steamer Trunk
1½ ounces rye – I like Bulleit; it has a spicy sourness that plays well off fruity ingredients.
¾ ounce St. Germain elderflower liqueur
½ ounce simple syrup
¾ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice
1 ounce cantaloupe juice (see below)
1 ounce sparkling wine
cantaloupe cubes for garnish

To make cantaloupe juice, slice a fresh cantaloupe into quarters. Scoop the flesh of one quarter into a small blender, or half the melon into a large one. Blend thoroughly, then strain through a fine-meshed strainer. One quarter of a medium cantaloupe will yield about half a cup of juice, the color of hibiscus blossoms in an Egyptian sunset.

Combine the rye, elderflower liqueur, simple syrup and the lemon and cantaloupe juices over ice in a cocktail shaker. Shake thoroughly, until the cold bites your hands like a rope on a tramp steamer to Macau and the ice rattles like the hooves of angry bulls in Pamplona.

Strain over fresh ice in a rocks glass, and top with sparkling wine, which will spray up a fine mist that reminds you of that semester you spent on the coast of Spain, and of the Vazquez Twins.

Stir gently, then drink while flipping through an atlas and listening to the collected works of Paolo Conte. This is a riff on a classic called a summer rye, but with a focus on fresh melon in place of the traditional apples, which brings a wistful quality to the experience. Melon and sparkling wine are a classic combination, and elderflower provides a hard-to-identify poetic element. The rye is the leader of this expedition, but this is definitely a collaborative project.
Much like a camel safari in Morocco, with a dedicated camel to carry ice and gin for the proper appreciation of a desert evening.

Pending spousal approval, of course.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: Steamer Trunk. Photo by John Fladd.