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Thanksgiving,
1943
Norman Rockwell painted this iconic scene in 1943. Depicting a family dinner on Thanksgiving, the painting “Freedom from Want” was the third of his Four Freedoms series that was inspired by President Roosevelt’s State of the Union Address two years earlier. Unlike the freedoms of speech and worship, and the freedom from fear, the concept behind freedom from want was not commonly understood, or accepted, as a universal freedom. Perhaps for this reason, this picture was also called “The Thanksgiving Painting.” Five menus from Thanksgiving 1943 show us what was happening elsewhere, as the world remained engulfed in the largest war in history.
When I look at this menu from the late 1960s, I can’t help but imagine what it would’ve been like if the English writer Virginia Woolf, and her husband Leonard, had lived in Miami at that time...
Boston,
1892
Any document relating to an early African-American union is a rarity, such as this menu from a ball held by the Tremont House Waiters’ Association in 1892. Reflecting the traditional values of this group, the nine-page menu contains the bill of fare, concert program, and order of dances, as well as the names of the officers and management committee. Its most revealing feature is a portrait, perhaps of the association president, which expresses the calm and confident spirit of the time and place. Unbeknownst to these waiters, this joyous social gathering marked the apex of their collective lives.
Akron, Ohio
1885
This menu from a veteran’s reunion in Akron, Ohio in 1885 features an unusual dinner based solely on the basic rations of a Union soldier during the Civil War—coffee, pork, beans, and hardtack. Although hardtack was usually not served at such banquets, the hard biscuits had been the source of many jokes during the war. And while it came to be regarded as the most nostalgic of the army foods, even the coffee had a special meaning for these veterans from the Buckeye State
S.S. Liberté,
1959
The great luxury liners were never more glamorous and exciting than on the day of departure. As passengers arrived and the final provisions were loaded on board, scarlet-jacketed bellboys scurried back and forth to the cabins, delivering flowers, telegrams, and Champagne. And when the tugboats finally began to nudge the leviathan from her berth, brightly-colored streamers rained down on friends and relatives who shouted “bon voyage” from the pier. I witnessed this spectacle firsthand in the spring of 1959 when I sailed to Europe with my parents. At the time, it was not unusual to travel by ship. Half of the people who crossed the Atlantic still did so by sea, and there was perhaps no better way than to book passage on the French Line’s Liberté which was renowned for its palatial Art Deco interiors and fine cuisine.1 My week aboard this steamship provided me with many memories, such as having the meal of my dreams and catching glimpses of one of our fellow passengers, a stripper named Tempest Storm.
Neuilly-sur-Seine,
1915-1917
A hundred years ago this week, Serbian nationalists assassinated the heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary and his wife, setting off a series of events that led Europe into war. Although the United States did not enter the conflict until 1917, Americans living in Paris quickly sprang into action, establishing a military hospital for wounded French soldiers. Recalling this humanitarian effort, three menus from the hospital’s annual observance of Bastille Day unwittingly reflect this exhausting war of attrition.
New York City,
1858
In October 1857, philosopher Henry David Thoreau wrote about a chance encounter with a nearby farmer who was twice his age. “…I saw Brooks Clark, who is now about eighty and bent like a bow, hastening along the road, barefooted, as usual, with an axe in his hand; was in haste perhaps on account of the cold wind on his bare feet. When he got up to me, I saw that besides the axe in one hand, he had his shoes in the other, filled with knurly apples and a dead robin. He stopped and talked with me a few moments; said that we had had a noble autumn and might now expect some cold weather. I asked if he had found the robin dead. No, he said, he found it with its wing broken and killed it. He also added that he had found some apples in the woods, and as he hadn’t anything to carry them in, he put ’em in his shoes. They were queer-looking trays to carry fruit in. How many he got in along toward the toes, I don’t know. I noticed, too, that his pockets were stuffed with them. His old tattered frock coat was hanging in strips about the skirts, as were his pantaloons about his naked feet. He appeared to have been out on a scout this gusty afternoon, to see what he could find, as the youngest boy might. It pleased me to see this cheery old man, with such a feeble hold on life, bent almost double, thus enjoying the evening of his days.”1
New York City,
1890s
When eight-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon asked her father in 1897 whether Santa Claus really existed, he suggested she write to The Sun, one of New York’s prominent newspapers. The editorial response, which included the famous line “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus,” became part of American folklore. More conservative than The Times and The Herald Tribune, The Sun reflected the preoccupations of upper-class society, often marveling at the inner-workings and outward manifestations of wealth during the Gilded Age. For example, in October 1894, the paper interviewed Chef Charles Ranhofer at Delmonico’s, calling the luxury restaurant “a wonderful machine.” Almost every night during the social season, there was a large dinner in the third-floor banquet room of its Madison Square location, where course after course arrived promptly from the basement kitchen. The article, illustrated below with four menus from the period, describes the organizational efficiency of a fine dining establishment at the fin de siècle.1
U.S.S. Helena,
1906
The chronology of holiday menus from the U.S.S. Wilmington begs the question as to what the sailors in the Asiatic Squadron ate on normal days in the early twentieth century. For that, we turn to a menu from her sister ship, the U.S.S. Helena, on December 2, 1906, while anchored off Hankow some 602 nautical miles up the Yangzi River. This Sunday dinner for the chief petty officers features delicacies like roast venison and roast pheasant. For dessert, there is the ubiquitous peach pie, presumably made with the local fruit for which this region of China is known. Indeed, it seems that they ate very well, confirmed by a note at the bottom which reads: “This is a fair sample of our usual dinner.” (The CPO cook, J. J. Pinkerton, was reputedly the best chef on the Helena, outclassing those who prepared meals for the crew and the officers.)
U.S.S. Wilmington,
1906-1918
Caught in a storm off the coast of Luzon on the night of December 20, 1915, the U.S.S. Wilmington rolled 61 degrees, dangerously close to the point where she would capsize. Having narrowly survived the worst roll in her forty-eight years of service, the naval vessel arrived in Manila the next day, safely completing the three-day passage from Hong Kong. The light-draft gunboat was part of the U.S. Asiatic Squadron, charged with defending the Philippines and with upholding the Open Door Policy in China. Typhoons posed one of the greatest threats to the American warships as they sailed from port to port, establishing an authoritative presence in the region by “showing the flag.” Twenty-three holiday menus from the Wilmington reveal the rituals and rhythm of this naval patrol in the early twentieth century.
