Searching for the Lost Orchard

 

Orchard syrup? But of course!

I recently became aware of an unsolved culinary mystery rocking the historical mixology community. It seems that among the various ingredients from old recipe books that have since descended into obscurity, there is one that has faded so completely from view that nobody knows what it actually was. The stuff in question here was called orchard syrup, and was a key ingredient in several cocktails from the 1880s through the 1910s. No mention can be found of what was in it or what it was made from, and near the time of Prohibition, it disappeared completely from the published record.

The true identity of orchard syrup remains unconfirmed, and until an actual recipe is uncovered, the methods of its manufacture will continue to warrant speculative conjecture. The widely-held theory among the cocktail cognoscenti (Jennifer Colliau, owner of syrup bastion Small Hands Foods has an idea here, and the Underhill Lounge's Savoy Cocktail Book voyager Erik Ellestad another here) is that it was some kind of apple and/or cherry syrup, since those were the most common American orchards during the time. That's a simple and sensible explanation, but in my research, I haven't found anything conclusive to support or deny this. However, I do have a hypothesis. It's bordering on hunchdom but still, I think, worthy of consideration:

First, consider that it is not uncommon for foreign words to become mangled in both pronunciation and spelling as they're transformed into English. From Spanish alone we have alligator (from el lagarto), and cockroach (from cucaracha), both inherited in the 17th century, and the more recent buckaroo (from vaquero) and hackamore (from jáquimain) the 19th century. Investigating the possibility that 'orchard' in this case might have been derivative of a similar linguistic mishandling, we see that there is a word, in this case from Spanish, that bears both a phonological similarity and a plausible agricultural pedigree. 

That word is orchata. 

Consider a hypothetical situation, sometime in the mid 1800s, whereby a shipment of Spanish-labeled goods was being handled by an English-speaking merchant. Our merchant, through experience with international trade, could be expected to have a minimal understanding of Spanish gleaned from his dealings with azafran (saffron), olivas (olives) and various jarabes (syrups). Would it not be entirely implausible (and I fully acknowledge that I'm stretching credibility with the weight of my assumptions here, but humor me) that upon encountering jarabe de orchata, our well-meaning importer might have made an attempt at translation that resulted in 'orchard syrup'?

Of course, the believability here would depend upon exactly what jarabe de orchata is. A little research tells us that orchata is the older (and more common in the 19th century) form of the more familiar horchata, originally made from chufas, aka tigernuts. These small tubers are native to Egypt, and long ago made their way to Valencia, where it was discovered that they grow very well.  New World horchata, made in Spanish-speaking countries throughout Central and South America, can be made from rice, barley, almonds or sesame, among others, but (h)orchata de chufas is the oldest variety of the drink, and is a popular and refreshing summertime drink loved by Spaniards to this day.

But jarabe de orchata, or orchata syrup? Did this exist too? Yes, it certainly did. Nineteenth century references to 'jarabe de orchata' abound. Organic horchata de chufa concentrate is available from Spanish import grocery shops today.

 

Could this be the stuff we're talking about?

The similarity to orgeat is not coincidental. The word orchata is etymologically related, albeit distantly, to orgeat, and in fact, many English citations of orchata de chufa explain that the product made from chufas is "an orgeat". One example, from The Garden periodical published on March 11, 1876, describes chufas as follows:

The Chufa, or Earth Almond – The Chufa is a perennial, indigenous in the south of Europe, growing in the form of a Rush to the height of about 3 ft., producing small tubers about the size of an ordinary Bean, called by the French, Souchet Comestible (Rush Nut). In taste the tubers resemble a delicious Chestnut or Cocoa-nut, and may be eaten raw or cooked. After soaking in water twelve hours, they may be eaten as a sauce. Dr. C.T. Jackson, in the “Journal of the American Department of Agriculture,” states: - “When these tubers are beaten to a paste and mixed with water, a remarkable emulsion is formed, which, after straining, resembles milk in appearance. The fat at length rises to the surface and looks like cream, whilst most of the starch subsides to the bottom of the vessel; but enough still remains suspended to give the emulsion the appearance of thin or skim milk. Thus mingled with water, the most nutritive ingredients of this plant may be taken as a drink. It is much used in this manner by the Spaniards, and I have no doubt will be so employed in this country. This emulsion may be sweetened and flavoured so as to make it very agreeable to the taste.” They are chiefly used in Spain and other hot European climates for making an orgeat (orchata de Chufas), a delightful and refreshing drink.

In his 1885 novel Wanderings in Spain, Augustus John Cuthbert Hare reports on his journey to the Iberian peninsula (perhaps to escape torment for his ridiculous name) thusly:

At the gay little wooden stalls all varieties of cooling drinks - "Bebidas" - are sold, the prince of which is "Horchata de Chufas", a kind of snow-milk flavoured with the juice of a little nut which comes from Valencia.

So there it is - a few observations that may support a hypothesis about the mysterious orchard syrup. It's obviously a tenuous hypothesis, but let's put it to a test. Harry Johnson's Bartenders Manual (link to the 1888 edition here) calls for orchard syrup in the following cocktails. Until I get my hands on some orchata de chufa syrup to perform a taste test, I won't know for sure, but in my opinion, such an orchata syrup, although an unusual flavor choice, wouldn't be out of place here. What do you think? Am I crazy?

Orchard Punch

2 table-spoonfuls of Orchard syrup;

2 or 3 dashes of Lime or Lemon juice;

½ pony glass of Pineapple syrup, dissolve well with a little water;

Fill the glass with fine ice;

1 wine glass full of California Brandy;

Mix well with a spoon and ornament with grapes, oranges, pineapple and berries; top off with a little Port wine, and serve with a straw.

Whiskey Crusta

Take a nice clean lemon, the same size as your wine glass, cut off both ends and peel it the same as you would an apple, put the lemon peel in the wine glass so that it will line the entire inside of the glass, then dip the edge of the glass and lemon peel in pulverized sugar. The mixture is as follows;

½ pony glass or orchard syrup;

1 or 2 dashes of Bitters (Boker’s genuine only);

1 dash of Lemon juice;

2 dashes of Maraschino;

½ glass of fine shaved ice;

¾ wine glass of Whiskey;

Mix well with a spoon, strain it into the wine glass containing the lemon peel, ornament it with a little fruit, and serve.

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Farms Race

This weekend, I owned a farm.

Luckily for me, my ownership experience was spared the financial worries, the early mornings, or any of the formidable realities with which a real farmer has to contend. But for this recent warm Labor Day weekend in Yamhill County, Oregon, I made the farmhouse my home base, and was tangibly indulged with a rural fantasy on Abbey Road Farm. 

 

John and Judi Stuart bought the property, formerly a horse stables, in 2003, and have slowly transformed the land, in the spirit of Tuscan 'agriturismo' centers, into a functional farm, complete with goat paddock, chicken coop, llamas, sheep, and dozens of small crops. In 2008, they remodeled a portion of the goat barn to create AgriVino, a culinary center with a full commercial kitchen and event space. After building their own home on the property, John and Judi repurposed grain silos into fully-equipped living spaces, which they now operate as a bed and breakfast. 

Our group of six, half of whom were running the Oregon Wine Country Half Marathon, stayed in the farmhouse. This building predates the Stuarts' ownership, and as a result, feels more like a comfortable family home than a polished hotel.

The goats are the center of attention at Abbey Road Farm. Their milking season is over by September, but this past Saturday, the girls were still hanging around their paddock, and were eager to let us in for a visit. John let us in, and helped us to feed the six goats a half bucket of windfall apples, which they gripped individually with the teeth of their lower jaws and gnawed into submission, emptying a half bucket in a matter of minutes. John helped us to learn their names, which I've promptly forgotten, except for Sunflower, the baby of the group, shown below. Sunflower was feisty and curious, and hadn't yet learned that denim is not a food. I was more than happy to assist in her lesson.

Upon arriving, we found our kitchen stocked with goat cheese, made approximately 30 feet away, and fresh eggs, with shells ranging from blue to green to brown, from 50 feet away. (How's that for local? We're counting food feet, not food miles.) We were given full access to whatever we could pick from the farm, which luckily turned out to be a late-summer cornucopia of summer squash, tomatoes, spinach, and countless herbs. An apple tree just up the hill from the garden was heavy with fruit, useful not only for our dessert but for a midday snack for our new goat friends.

 

Apples

 

Sunflower eats an apple

 

John's bucket of apples was quickly emptied.

This place was a real treat. Just walking the grounds, I could feel my blood pressure falling. I've had countless meals in chef-driven restaurants that print farm names on their menus, and I've grown a few vegetables in my own back yard. But somehow, both of these experiences feel out of context when compared to the experience of cooking and eating within the full ecosystem of a farm. Case in point: I wanted garlic and onions on Sunday morning, and had nothing to do but put on shoes and walk to the goat barn, where a few dozen onions and wreaths of garlic had been individually tied to a fence to dry after their harvest a few weeks before. I plucked a bell pepper and some sage from the garden and retreated to the kitchen, where I cracked a few fresh eggs and made a frittata. 

 

Roasted zucchini and crookneck squash carpaccio with sage and butter. Couldn't be simpler.

It is a calming satisfaction to take a post-meal walk through through a productive garden, inspecting the plants whose produce spent only minutes between soil and cutting board. My humble 'farm to table' story was simultaneously remarkable and the most natural arrangement I could imagine. They weren't the fruits of my own labor that I was enjoying, but they were overwhelmingly fulfilling all the same.

 

Artichoke season is over, but the flowers are pretty.

 

Checking on cherry tomatoes in the dehydrator

 

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