This feature first appeared in December 2024 on Londonist: Time Machine, our much-praised history newsletter. To be the first to read new history features like this, sign up for free here.
Ever considered hosting a dinner party inside a dinosaur? If so, follow this Victorian precedent.
In 1853, Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins, who designed the original Crystal Palace animal statues, sent out an invitation to dinner inside a dinosaur: “Mr. B. Waterhouse Hawkins solicits the honour of Professor ____’s company at dinner, in the Iguanodon, on the 31st of December, 1853, at four p.m.”
‘The incredible request was written on the wing of a Pterodactyle, spread before a most graphic etching of the Iguanodon, with his socially-loaded stomach, so practicably and easily filled, as to tempt all to whom it was possible to accept, at such short notice, this singular invitation.’
— from The Illustrated London News, 7th January 1854: read more in this article about the event from Professor Joe Cain.
Guests sat in the hollow stomach of the 30-tonne Iguanodon, eating pigeon pie and French plums — full menu in this History Press article — and drinking port till the new year rolled in. The Iguanodon itself, with some restorations along the way, survived the centuries and still stands in Crystal Palace, now grade I listed.
In honour of the banaqueting season — and in case any of you are planning your own 7-course, 32-dish celebration in a highly niche venue this NY — I’ve picked out a handful of dishes from the menu to help you hit the holiday season as extremely hard as our Victorian forefathers.
Mock turtle soup
The 1882 book Modern Cookery for Private Families by Eliza Acton has outstandingly detailed and dense instructions for preparing a mock turtle soup.
The book’s free to read on Project Gutenberg and fantastic for dipping into just to admire the effort, technical skill and precision that went into cooking even what were considered pretty everyday dishes.
The section below covers roughly one fifth of the steps involved for this dish, and that doesn’t even involve her nonchalant asides, for example around de-boning the calf’s head, which according to Acton: ‘…is so simple and easy a process, that the cook may readily accomplish it with very little attention. Let her only work the knife close to the bone always, so as to take the flesh clean from it, instead of leaving large fragments on. The jaw-bone may first be removed, and the flesh turned back from the edge of the other…’
Mock turtle soup was a dish that, by the mid 19th century had mostly replaced actual turtle soup in British affections, as overfishing in the West Indies had driven turtles to near-extinction, and raised the price of turtle meat to be out of reach for most people. Mock turtle rose in popularity instead, a mix of meats and organs — including calf’s head, brain, beef neck, veal, beef tongue, ham — that apparently replicated a lot of the flavour and taste of turtle soup.
‘To make a single tureen of this favourite English soup in the most economical manner when there is no stock at hand, stew gently down in a gallon of water four pounds of the fleshy part of the shin of beef, or of the neck, with two or three carrots, one onion, a small head of celery, a bunch of savoury herbs, a blade of mace, a half-teaspoonful of peppercorns, and an ounce of salt. When the meat is quite in fragments, strain off the broth, and pour it when cold upon three pounds of the knuckle or of the neck of veal; simmer this until the flesh has quite fallen from the bones, but be careful to stew it as softly as possible, or the quantity of stock will be so much reduced as to be insufficient for the soup.
Next, take the half of a fine calf’s head with the skin on, remove the brains, and then bone it entirely, or let the butcher do this, and return the bones with it; these, when there is time, may be stewed with the veal to enrich the stock, or boiled afterwards with the head and tongue. Strain the soup through a hair-sieve into a clean pan, and let it drain closely from the meat. When it is nearly or quite cold, clear off all the fat from it; roll the head lightly round, leaving the tongue inside, or taking it out, as is most convenient, secure it with tape or twine, pour the soup over, and bring it gently to boil upon a moderate fire; keep it well skimmed, and simmer it from an hour to an hour and a quarter; then lift the head into a deep pan or tureen, add the soup to it…’
— from Modern Cookery for Private Families by Eliza Acton from 1882
Turbot a l’Hollandaise
I struggled to find any turbot recipes from the era specifically with hollandaise — possibly because the fish has been adopted so hard by London’s new-wave live fire restaurants that every search result’s swamped with hot takes on Tomas Parry’s whole turbot at Brat.
Thankfully Mrs Beeton’s 1865 home cookery book came prepared to do serious turbot business, with multiple turbot recipes and practical preparation advice. So here instead are her instructions for TURBOT, Boiled:
‘Three or four hours before dressing, soak the fish in salt and water to take off the slime; then thoroughly cleanse it, and with a knife make an incision down the middle of the back, to prevent the skin of the belly from cracking. Rub it over with lemon, and be particular not to cut off the fins. Lay the fish in a very clean turbot-kettle, with sufficient cold water to cover it, and salt in the above proportion. Let it gradually come to a boil, and skim very carefully; keep it gently simmering, and on no account let it boil fast, as the fish would have a very unsightly appearance.
When the meat separates easily from the bone, it is done; then take it out, let it drain well, and dish it on a hot napkin. Rub a little lobster spawn through a sieve, sprinkle it over the fish, and garnish with tufts of parsley and cut lemon. Lobster or shrimp sauce, and plain melted butter, should be sent to table with it… Average cost,—large turbot, from 10s. to 12s.; middling size, from 12s. to 15s.’
— from Mrs Beeton’s Dictionary of Every-Day Cookery from 1865
Macedoine Jelly
‘Perhaps the most singular culinary expression of the advance of the Industrial Revolution in Victorian Britain was the extraordinary popularity of mass-produced copper jelly moulds. By the middle of the nineteenth century the fashion for this kind of kitchen kit had accelerated into a gastronomic craze. This was the result of the convergence of two emerging phenomena – the availability of cheap factory made gelatine and the increasing use of powerful pneumatic presses to stamp out copper into ever more intricate shapes.’
— from Ivan Day’s Food History Jottings
If you’re remotely interested in highly elaborate jelly creations from times gone by then I recommend carrying on with the article Macedoine and other eccentric jellies, where Day — a chef and social historian of food culture — details the rise in popularity of these jelly moulds, and how you used them, along with several images from his own collection.
Filberts
‘It is supposed that, within a few miles of Maidstone, in Kent, there are more filberts grown than in all England besides; and it is from that district that the London market is supplied. The filbert is longer than the common nut, though of the same thickness, and has a larger kernel. The cob-nut is a still larger variety, and is rounder. Filberts are more esteemed for dessert than common nuts, and are generally eaten with salt.’
— from Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management by Isabella Beeton from 1861
Often served, as at the dinosaur dinner, as a dessert course with a selection of other nuts, fruits and port, filberts were a cultivated strand of hazelnut, and the more coveted cousin of the standard cobnut.
Raised pigeon pie
English Heritage have been assembling an entire video series called The Victorian Way (and a companion cookbook) celebrating recipes of the era (among them turbot with lobster velouté, if Mrs Beeton’s left you hungry for more Victorian turbot content). Below’s their take on a pigeon pie, a dish that featured in the 3rd course of Waterhouse Hawkins’s dinner inside the iguanodon.