The History of Roquefort French Dressing

Published by Friday, September 14, 2018 Permalink 1

by Gary Allen

Roquefort cheese has been made in the caves of Combalou, Roquefort-sur-Soulzon, at least since Gaul was occupied by the Romans — Pliny the Elder spoke highly of it, and he was not the sort who normally gushed gourmet superlatives. By 1411, Les Causses had been granted the exclusive right to the name “Roquefort,” and all other blue-veined cheeses had to make their own reputations. Salads, of course, go back much further — they were known to the ancient Greeks — but didn’t have an entire book devoted to them until 1699, when Robert Evelyn published his Acetaria: A Discourse on Sallets.

When salad and Roquefort cheese first got together is somewhat more mysterious. Usually, recipes just “happen,” they evolve — often in several places at the same time — in response to new tastes, the availability of new ingredients, etc. Recipes, or “receipts,” have only found their way into print after a sufficient number of people found them useful. Only rarely can we provide, with any certainty, the “who, what, where, when and how” of a recipe’s creation.

Handwritten recipe for blue cheese/Roquefort dressing

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Simon Says: Daily Food Quote, October 11, 2011

Published by Tuesday, October 11, 2011 Permalink 0

by Simón de Swaan

Thank God for tea! What would the world do without tea?  How did it exist?  I am glad I was not born before tea.–Sydney Smith

Sydney Smith (3 June 1771 – 22 February 1845) was an English writer and Anglican cleric. Long after his death, his memory was to live on among homemakers in the United States, owing to his rhyming recipe for salad dressing.

Two boiled potatoes strained through a kitchen sieve,

Softness and smoothness to the salad give;

Of mordant mustard take a single spoon,

Distrust the condiment that bites too soon!

Yet deem it not, thou man of taste, a fault

To add a double quantity of salt.
Four times the spoon with oil of Lucca crown,
And twice with vinegar procured from town;
True taste requires it and your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two well-boiled eggs.
Let onion’s atoms lurk within the bowl
And, scarce suspected, animate the whole,
And lastly in the flavoured compound toss
A magic spoonful of anchovy sauce.
Oh, great and glorious! Oh, herbaceous meat!
‘Twould tempt the dying Anchorite to eat,
Back to the world he’d turn his weary soul
And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl.
 

 

 

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