Recipes

 Recipes for food that can be served at book club meetings for Buddenbrooks.

The kitchen maid—with her exposed, red arms, a heavy striped skirt, and a little white cap on the back of her head —assisted by Mamselle Jungmann and Elisabeth Buddenbrook’s chambermaid from the third floor, had now served the hot herb soup with croutons, and they all began to spoon it cautiously.

 

A colossal smoked ham, brick red and strewn with bread crumbs, appeared, along with a brown, tart shallow sauce and mounds of vegetables so large that they all could have filled themselves from just one bowl.

Madame Kroger was monopolizing things by describing most appetizingly the best method for poaching carp in red wine. “But they must be cut into proper portions, my dears, then laid in the casserole with onions and cloves and zwieback, then placed over the fire with a pinch of sugar and a tablespoon of butter. But never wash them first, dear—the blood has to go in, too, mercy sake.”

And now came two large crystal bowls of “flat-iron pudding,” a layered mixture of macaroons, raspberries, ladyfingers, and custard; meanwhile, at the other end of the table, there was a burst of flame—the children were being served plum pudding, their favorite dessert.

Say what you like, there is something pleasant about waking of a morning in a large bedroom with lovely, cheerful wallpaper and finding that the first thing you touch is a heavy satin quilt; and it is exceptional to have an early breakfast in a room opening onto a terrace, with the fresh morning air drifting in from the front garden through an open glass door, and to be served neither coffee, nor tea, but a cup of chocolate —yes, every morning, a cup of birthday chocolate, with a thick moist piece of pound cake.

The interesting thing about him (Hermann) was that he never took a sandwich to school for his snack, but a lemon bun—a soft, oval milk pastry with raisins—and, to make matters worse, he would top it with tongue sausage or breast of goose. That was the sort of taste he had.                                                                                                             

   . . . Ida Jungmann had her hands full tidying up the various bedrooms and tending to good breakfasts of shrimps and port wine —the kitchen was busy with baking and roasting.                                                                                                    

Tony Buddenbrook was, as noted, received with a display of affection; indeed, for that evening’s dinner Therese made her “bishop’s punch,” a red, sweet libation that was drunk cold and in whose preparation she was a master. “A leetle moore beeshop?” she asked with an amiable shake of her head —and it sounded so tempting that no one turned her down.

Fraulein Weichbrodt sat atop two sofa cushions at the head of the table and reigned over the meal with vigor and discretion; she held her deformed little body rigidly erect, rapped vigilantly on the table, cried “Nally!” and “Booby!,” and with a single glance managed to shame Mademoiselle Popinet, who was about to appropriate all the aspic served with the cold veal roast.

                                                                                                         

                                                  

Except for little Clara, all the children joined the adults in the columned hall for a late supper at a table heaped with carp and turkey with dressing.

He (Herr Grunlich) ate mussels rsagout, julienne soup, baked sole, roast veal with mashed potatoes and Brussels sprouts, maraschino pudding, and pumpernickel with Roquefort cheese — and at each course he offered a new tribute to the delicacy.

If you’d like, my son can walk you there. I’m sorry I can’t spend more time with you, but I really must look after lunch. We’ll be having bratwurst. We’ll do our best to feed you.

One day, one of these visiting preachers, whose appetite was a source of general mirth, happened to be a guest in their home, and (she) maliciously ordered ‘bacon soup,’ a local specialty consisting of broth and sour herbs into which an entire dinner was then dumped: ham, potatoes, prunes, pears, cauliflower, peas, beans, beets, plus a kind of fruit sauce and other ingredients —a dish that no one in the world could enjoy unless he had grown up with it.

“Do you like it? Do you like it, pastor?” Tony kept asking. “No? Oh, heavens, who would have thought you wouldn’t.” And then she made a downright roguish face, letting the tip of her tongue play along her upper lip the way she always did when she had thought of some clever prank—or carried it out.

The fat gentleman laid his spoon down in resignation and said, all unsuspecting, “I shall wait for the next course.”

“Yes, there will be a little desert,” Elisabeth quickly said, because “a next course “ was unthinkable after bacon soup; and, despite a few fritters with apple jelly, the cheated parson had to leave the table still hungry —while Tony say there giggling to herself and, with amazing self-control, Tom lifted one eyebrow.

Pastor Tiburtius came from Riga and, after serving for several years in Germany, had stopped off in town on his way home, where a pulpit had been offered him. Furnished with recommendations from a fellow clergyman, who had once enjoyed his share of the mock-turtle soup and ham with shallot sauce on Meng Strasse, he stopped to pay Madame Buddenbrook his respects and was invited to spend the rest of his stay, which was to take a few days yet, in the spacious guest room along the corridor on the second floor.

Later, they gathered together to eat sabayon and deliberate what all had to be done in the near future.

. . . these everlasting pickles and potato salad, all washed down with beer—the sounds that come from my stomach! (from a letter Tony wrote to her mother)

Consul Hermann Hagenstrom was beginning to get quite stout, for he lived very well, and it was said that he even started his day with pate de four gras.

A christening —a christening on Breite Strasse.

All the good things that Madame Permaneder envisioned when she was expecting are ready and waiting. Without the least rattle that could disturb the ceremony in the salon, the maid is finishing off the steamy hot chocolate with whipped cream, gingerly pouring it into a great many cups crowded onto the huge round tea tray with gilded, shell-shaped handles. Meanwhile Anton the butler is slicing the towering layer cake . . 

Since they had all eaten lunch earlier than usual today, they consumed large amounts of cookies and tea. But no sooner had they finished than a large crystal bowl filled with a yellow, grainy puree was passed around: almond creme, a mixture of eggs, ground almonds, and rosewater. It tasted quite wonderful, but one spoonful too much and you ended up with the most awful stomach ache.

And now came little glasses of sabayon to refresh their palates—served with English plum cake.

As always on Christmas Eve, the table had been set in the columned hall. Madame Buddenbrook said the traditional grace with great fervor: “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest and bless what Thou hast given us.” As always on Christmas Eve, she concluded with a little admonition, the primary thrust of which was on that holy night they should remember all those who were not as fortunate as the Buddenbrook family. And once this was taken care of, they sat down with a good conscience to a lengthy meal, which began with carp in drawn butter and a vintage Rhenish wine.