Napoleon vs. Napoleons (Mille-feuille)

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As a Napoleonic scholar (not kidding), it is fitting that I have always loved Napoleons, otherwise known as mille-feuille pastries. I remember being pre-school-aged, and begging for Napoleon’s at our local grocery store—in retrospect, a Kroger’s with a fairly impressive bakery department. I have not seen a tray of Napoleon’s in a supermarket bakery case in years.

I have never referred to a Napoleon as a mille-feuille (literally a thousand leaves), because let’s face it: Napoleon is a far more entertaining and evocative name for a cream-filled pastry.

But why?

A catered event I attended over the weekend finished off with trays of pastry deliciousness, including my long-lost favorite the Napoleon, the rekindling of my love prompted the question: Why Napoleon?

To the uninitiated, a Napoleon consists of sheets of pastry alternating with [generally] two layers of pastry cream custard. This neat architectonic block is then topped with a sheet of fondant that combed with chocolate or fruit swirl.  À la the image above.

Under the name Mille-feuille, the treat was first recorded (according to Wikipedia) in mid-seventeenth century France; in the eighteenth century, Marie-Antoine Carême considered it an ancient recipe.

Carême was an early chef of French haute cuisine who served members of the upper class and aristocracy between 1798 and his death in 1833 (by which point he was living in Germany). Famous employers include Talleyrand, the Viennese Court, the British Embassy, Czar Alexander I, the Prince Regent (George IV), Princess Bagration, Lord Steward, Baron de Rothschild and Napoleon himself.

But back to the Napoleon. Apparently there was an early French association between the mille-feuille and Naples, making it a napolitain pastry. The fortuitous connection to the emperor was made later, and tended to stick.

In the bible of French cooking, Larousse Gastronomique, the Napoléon as discussed is not mentioned, although a rather monumental and out of date Napolitain Cake is listed, with a passing note that while the cake itself is not often seen today, small biscuits known as fonds napolitains are still made, decorated with butter cream or jam (page 702). According to the description and subsequent recipe for a  full-blown Napolitain Cake, the Napoleon pastry under investigation resembles certain elements of the recipe, attributed to Carême (along with several other non-dessert à la napolitain dishes).

Larousse does have a separate listing for mille-feuille (page 667), where it states that the dessert is a late nineteenth-century creation. So that is confusing. Although a clear connection is not made, there is an implicit association with the entry on Napolitain Cake. The mille-feuille description is textbook (which is good, because Larousse pretty much is the textbook).

Similarly, in other countries the dessert is generally referred to as some form of “thousand leaves,” such as mille foglie in Italy. The French Napoléon version involves almond paste. The name is also used in Canada, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, Germany, Poland, Norway and Sweden. In a less Napoleon-friendly climate, such as the United Kingdom… well, the British stick to “vanilla” or “cream slice.”

Fair enough.

It appears well-established that the Napoleon is a misnomer for Napolitain, likely popularized by the coincidence of Napoleon Bonaparte’s rise to glory in the same period that Carême was popularizing dishes à la napolitain across Europe. At the same time, it is clear that Carême and his art were engineered to feed directly into the new luxury of the Napoleonic period after the Revolution. The architectonic design of his pastries connects to the solid architectonic Empire style established by the state during this period.

Bust of Napoleon Bonaparte located at Malmaison. Photo by author.

You see, it all comes together.

Napoleon generally did not concern himself much with the finer aspects of dining, much like sleep it just did not top the list of important daily ventures. Although if you want to hear long-winded remarks on his acknowledgment of pomp, presentation, art, architecture and social practices in the wielding of power and establishment of political legitimacy, and the role of Empress Josephine in the finessing of these design matters… you know where to find me.

Savoy Cocktail of the Week: Clover Leaf Club & the Club Cocktail

First, a little history lesson.

I find myself faced with a bit of mystery regarding the Clover Club (the Clover Leaf Club is a Clover Club with mint, the Clover Club is an actual club).

According to my research, the Clover Club was formed by an elite group of Philadelphia journalists who met from the 1880s to 1920s at the Bellevue-Stratford hotel, of long and illustrious history; however, the illustration on page 49 of The Savoy Cocktail Book portrays a British gentleman, Sir Frederick Popplehaugh, Bart., of Yorkshire. To me this implies a British men’s club, like the fictional Drones Club of P.G. Wodehouse’s prolific works.

Fun fact, a baronet (abbreviated as “bart.”) is the only non-peerage hereditary title in England—meaning that a baronet is still a commoner.

The American Clover Club seems to be associated with the beverage, but I remain confused based on the clue of Sir Frederick, who does not exist according to Google.

Currently, a cocktail bar in Brooklyn has taken on the legacy of The Clover Club, serving its namesake drink alongside a menu of acclaimed libations. According to their historical information, the motto of the original club was: “Who enters here leaves care behind, leaves sorrow behind, leaves petty envies and jealousies behind.”

So, you know, ponder all that.

At any rate, the Clover Leaf Club Cocktail (gin, grenadine, egg white, lemon juice, mint) is a punchy, veranda-ready drink. The color of Hawaiian punch with a foamy egg white top, the drink was enjoyable, had a nice citrus zip to it from the lemon juice, and was overall enjoyed. As a fan of mint, I chose to make the garnished version of the drink, but either way, it’s a good party cocktail. Well received all around, although it’s connection to a men’s club was surprising to me based on the non-cigar-smoking-type contents of the glass.

The Club Cocktail on the other hand tasted just as one might expect a Pre-War men’s club beverage to taste. Gin, Italian Vermouth and Yellow Chartreuse combined to the color of a brandy-based beverage, like a Sidecar, and had a serious, spicy flavor to it. Definitely a cocktail for sipping (whereas the Clover can be merrily slung back). Keeping it cold was key to enjoyment; I recommend small servings so as not to end up with a glass of harsh, room-temperature Club.

Up next week?

Cowboy Cocktail

2/3 Whiskey
1/3 Cream
Cracked Ice

Shake well and strain into cocktail glass.

Go forth and embrace your inner gunslinger.

The New Yorker Ponders DNA & I Take Issue with the Man’s Lip

More from my The New Yorker daily calendar. For history buffs.

Either the Hapsburg inbreeding and and lip-sticking-out has finally been eradicated, or somebody is lying to impress/irritate the wife.

Because that dude is missing the quintessential Hapsburg trait.

For those of you who are not European history geeks… the Hapsburg/ Habsburg royal family of the Holy Roman Empire and other far-reaching European thrones were known for a jutting lower lip/jar situation, a trait passed on and exacerbated by generations of highly disgusting inbreeding. Nowadays, it is often referred to as Habsburg Lip or Habsburg Jaw.

One mustn’t dilute the sovereign blood.

Anyways, poor Charles II of Spain (the last of the family line to rule there) was so inbred that his deformity made chewing impossible, speaking was difficult and he was impotent in addition to other ailments (hence, the end of the line).

“The motto of the Hapsburg dynasty –’Let others wage wars, but you, happy Austria, shall marry’– extolled the tendency of family members to marry within their ranks. Charles’ father, Philip IV, was the uncle of his mother, Mariana of Austria; his great-grandfather, Philip II, was also the uncle of his great-grandmother, Anna of Austria; and his grandmother, Maria Anna of Austria, was simultaneously his aunt.” (The Independent)

Eurk.

Some of the Hapsburgs were prettier though—don’t worry. Marie Antoinette was one, and she looked good for a while, despite people mocking her lip. The French can be so judgy.

Way to focus on a person’s worst feature en route to the guillotine, Jacques-Louis David.

That’s just rubbing it in.

…

All this from a daily tear-away calendar.

The things you study in graduate school linger despite having little-to-no real-world application.