Blanc Manger

[Magnhild Lachowicz]

Blancmangebləˈmɒnʒ/,[1] from French: blanc-manger [blɑ̃mɑ̃ʒe]) is a sweet dessert popular throughout Europe commonly made with milk or cream and sugar, thickened with rice flour, gelatin, corn starch, or Irish moss[2] (a source of carrageenan), and often flavoured with almonds.

Blancmange originated at some time during the Middle Ages from the older Middle Eastern muhallebi,[3] and usually consisted of capon or chicken, milk or almond milk, rice, and sugar; it was considered to be an ideal food for the sick.[citation needed]

The origins of the blancmange have long been believed to lie in the introduction of rice and almonds in early medieval Europe by Arab traders.[4] Recently, it has been shown that there have been similar Arab dishes from that period such as muhallebi.[5] Muhallebi or another similar dish from the medieval Islamic world, spread to Europe under closely related names and variants, including blanc-manger in France, biancomangiare in Italy and manjar blanco in Spain. Additionally, related or similar dishes have existed in other areas of Europe under other names, such as the 13th-century Danish hwit moos ("white mush"), and the Anglo-Norman blanc desirree ("white Syrian dish"); Dutch calijs (from Latin colare, "to strain") was known in English as cullis and in French as coulis, and was based on cooked and then strained poultry. The oldest recipe for blancmange is from the oldest extant Danish cookbook, written by Henrik Harpestrng, who died in 1244, which dates it to the early 13th century at the latest. The work may be a translation of a German cookbook, which is believed to have been based on a Latin or Romance vernacular manuscript from the 12th century or even earlier.[6]

The "whitedish" (from the original Old French term blanc manger) was a dish consumed by the upper-classes and common to most of Europe during the Middle Ages and early modern period. It occurs in countless variations from recipe collections from all over Europe and was one of the few truly international dishes of medieval and early modern Europe. It is mentioned in the prologue to Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales[7] and in an early 15th-century cookbook written by the chefs of Richard II.[8] The basic ingredients were milk or almond milk, sugar, and shredded chicken (usually capon) or fish, often combined with rosewater and rice flour, and mixed into a bland stew. Almond milk and fish were used as substitutes for the other animal products on fast days and Lent. It was also often flavoured with spices such as saffron or cinnamon and the chicken could be exchanged for other fowl, such as quail or partridge. Spices were often used in recipes of the later Middle Ages since they were considered prestigious.

On festive occasions and among the upper classes, whitedishes were often rendered more festive by colouring agents: the reddish-golden yellow of saffron; green with various herbs; or sandalwood for russet. In 14th-century France, parti-colouring (the use of two bright contrasting colours on the same plate) was especially popular and was described by Guillaume Tirel (also known as Taillevent), one of the primary authors of the later editions of Le Viandier. The brightly coloured whitedishes were one of the most common of the early entremets: edibles that were intended to entertain and delight through a gaudy appearance as much as through flavour.

il est plein d'une liqueur blanche, paisse & sucre : elle est entierement semblable au blanc-mang , qu'on sert aux meilleures tables de France; c'est une chose fort saine, & des plus delicates qu'on puisse manger[9]

[It is full of a white liquor, thick and sweet, which is entirely similar to blanc-mang, served at the best tables in France; it is a very healthy thing, and one of the most delicate things one can eat].

In the 17th century, the whitedish evolved into a meatless dessert pudding with cream and eggs, and later, gelatin. In the 19th century, arrowroot and cornflour were added, and the dish evolved into the modern blancmange.

The word blancmange derives from Old French blanc mangier. The name "whitedish" is a modern term used by some historians, though the name historically was either a direct translation from or a calque of the Old French term. Many different local or regional terms were used for the dish in the Middle Ages:[10]

Though it is fairly certain that the etymology is indeed "white dish", medieval sources are not always consistent as to the actual colour of the dish. Food scholar Terence Scully has proposed the alternative etymology of bland mangier, "bland dish", reflecting its often mild and "dainty" (in this context meaning refined and aristocratic) taste and popularity as a dish for the sick.[10]

Blanc Manger [blan manjay] is the best medieval dish I know. Last week I told you how they used to make blanc-manger in the 14th century, and how modern-day Turkish cookery still makes a sweet milky pudding with chicken breasts. These are fine if you need to really go medieval on your guests, but if the idea is to make them a really tasty dessert, make modern French blanc-manger.

I had asked for 2 kilograms of shelled, skinned whole almonds. When I arrived Hanne told me they had found some in Verdun. Finding almonds in Verdun is probably just tad harder than finding whiskey in Glasgow. I asked to see the almonds, just to make sure. Geez, they had transformed into peanuts, no doubt by divine intervention. As a result our Danish friends spent the entire afternooon skinning unskinned almonds we found at the local shop.

I really recommend you use whole almonds. But if you drink tea out of bags or instant coffee, maybe almond powder is the thing for you. Sure, pounding whole almonds in a mortar is hard work, but when you have such a fine Danish seaman as Dan available and willing, why bother? If Dan is not around, you might do this in a blender with a little water.

Hattonchtel is surrounded by Mirabelle orchards, the trademark fruit in the Lorraine, so we flavored our blanc-manger with a drop of moonshine mirabelle brandy instead of the traditional kirsch. If you can find bitter almond extract, please only use two tiny drops. Never pour the bottle directly in the dish but use a spoon to control how much you use. This is the one of the most concentrated and potent liquid in the kitchen. One drop too much will just kill the dish.

We got Dan to smile by telling him he could get the rest of the Mirabelle if he managed to pour all of the almond milk through the cloth without spilling any of it. He did and the bottle was never heard from again.

This will be easy if you prepare a small quantity, but we had a medieval banquet on our hands and needed more almonds. Fortunately, Popeye stepped in for some serious squeezing while his Danish friends helped measure the almond milk.

Heat up 2 cups of the almond milk while you soak the gelatin in cold water until it becomes soft. You need the cold water otherwise the gelatin just won't dissolve. If you are not one of them pork-eaters, you could use agar-agar, the algea-based gellifier instead and dissolve it directly in the hot almond milk.

Whip the cream stiff (no picture). This is where modern French pastry takes off from its medieval roots. Medieval cuisine, you see, did not use much regular milk as it did not preserve very well in those fridgeless days. Almond milk was used as a replacement. But only milk fat can give your dessert that lush velvety edge.

It is essential that you use gentle upward motions with the spoon. Why? The purpose of whipping cream is to include a zillion minuscule air bubbles. If you mix the whipped cream with the delicate movements of the drummer of AC/DC, your air bubbles will go the way of the stock market. You'll lose that extra lightness in the dessert.

The next day, we moved to the castle's original kitchen, which opens into the banquet room through a secret door. Dan's wife Hanne kindly helped us unmold the blanc-manger into individual plates.

I nearly had a heart attack when I saw the blanc-manger had split in two phases, with the water-rich almond milk predominantly at the bottom - now the top - and the cream soaked with air bubbles firmly at the bottom. We feared a disaster. With all eyeballing me, I slowly ate a blanc-manger, then another, and then yet another before passing my judgement with a grave composure: This is seriously delicious.

Blanc manger is very sweet and, without a kick, would be quite bland. It needs a touch of acidity and color contrast to work. We bought 2 kgs of red currants and rasberries which we stem ...

... and simmer for a few minutes until really soft. You can add a little sugar but it needs to be seriously tart to balance the sweet richness of the dessert. Don't make it too sweet.

Out of the 20 little blanc-manger molds we did, we forgot to unmold one (picture). We did not realize this at the time, but fortunately it did not fall on the Prfet de la Meuse but on good old Dan, who made the hypocras and squeezed the milk out of the almonds. Dan told me the glass provided a well-needed note of crunchiness.

FX Cremel, who sold the castle to its present owner, provides after-sale service by kindly lending a hand to bring the desserts to the table while I'm having a game of hide the camera with Francine, the caretaker's wife.

Some of the French big enchiladas that were sitting around the huge table next to the fireplace were already quite far gone in the appreciation of our hypocras. I managed to draw their attention with the following speech:

I began to speak and said This dessert, in his modern-day version, gives a brilliant illustration of French culinary genius. It is built around a number of contrast. Color contrast - the white blanc-manger versus the red coulis. Taste contrast - the bland, sweet blanc-manger versus the tart berry coulis. Temperature contrast - the cold blanc-manger against the warm coulis. Texture contrast - the soft dessert verus the crunchy biscuit. This simple dessert is built on this strong architecture of antinomous poles, each calling and answering the other.>You should have seen their faces when I said French culinary genius.

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