Chapter 1, Jubilee

APPETIZERS

Food for Company

Pearl Bailey once said the kitchen was her temple—a spiritual space where everything has meaning and serving others is a pleasure. The singer, actress, and entertainer reached audiences through the power of her voice and the sensitivity of her performances, but on the culinary stage, she reached a different kind of audience: “People who could join me happily in a good solid one-pot meal, a full three-course dinner, or just a plain cup of good coffee,” Bailey wrote in 1973 in Pearl’s Kitchen, An Extraordinary Cookbook. “I don’t like to say that my kitchen is actually a religious place,” she professed, “but I would say that if I were a voodoo priestess, I would conduct my rituals there.”

Inexpensive paintings, framed posters, and a calendar with a poem adorned the walls. In the corner, there was a portable radio and a small television playing music or news “once in a while.” A telephone? Yes, but sometimes she took it off the hook to keep it from ringing and disturbing her culinary groove.

Kept to a minimum were distractions that might interfere with the main business of Bailey’s sanctuary. She found peace and expressed the special warmth of the heart there. Kitchen sounds and aromas had value. For Bailey, a renowned star, “giving from the stage or the kitchen is the same impulse.”

Which is why, when it was my turn one year to host an annual Jack and Jill Christmas ornament exchange in my Austin, Texas, home, the writings of Bailey and several other cookbook authors from The Jemima Code came to mind. Cooking for others is always an act of giving, but cooking to entertain, to celebrate festive occasions, can be seen as another level. Cooking not just for sustenance, to ward off hunger, but to shower your guests with luxurious delights is a kind of performance—a performance black cooks have been in charge of since the beginnings of our country.

I remember fretting as I wondered how I could re-create the magic of my family’s intimate holiday parties for fifty business-y women. Because Jack and Jill of America is an international organization dedicated to nurturing African American leadership, I wanted the gathering to be a little Sankofa project, which meant tapping into our African and African American roots to help frame the future. Sankofa is a Ghanaian word that means, “Go back and get it.”

I came up with an ambitious plan. I would set a communal table that combined the friendliness of Sunday dinners after church with homey yet sophisticated food. It would reflect African rituals of hospitality. And the table would be set with “food for company,” a kind of entertaining and cooking practiced in our community: first in aristocratic homes by the enslaved and free chefs of color, then by black food service workers, and then by well-to-do African American hosts and hostesses, like Mamie Cook, who compiled a 1928 cookbook on behalf of the New Jersey State Federation of Colored Women’s Clubs.

Easy-peasy.

I was animated by the practices of African hospitality I read about in Bea Sandler’s The African Cookbook: a Moroccan hostess washing guests’ hands from a pitcher of water scented with cologne or a few drops of perfume, the Sudanese slaughtering a sheep for the guest of honor, Kenyans who welcome guests with tea served in small cups with tiny bananas to take the edge off hunger, followed by groundnut soup.

In America, the legacy of enslavement overshadowed notions of African sociability, when in truth, some captive and free chefs should be ranked among this country’s culinary royalty; this inheritance is validated consistently by the recipes recorded in black cookbooks over the years, and the notion carries weight.

During “slavery days,” enslaved domestic servants and free people of color achieved a kind of elite status in the kitchens of the landed gentry. “They usually ate better and wore better clothes than the field slaves because they received leftovers from the planter’s larder and hand-me-downs from his wardrobe,” historian John W. Blassingame explained in The Slave Community: Plantation Life in the Antebellum South.

Their aristocratic owners hosted elaborate dinner parties and flamboyant balls to flaunt their affluence, characterized by grand food displays, elegant table arrangements, and overflowing sideboards. Slaveholding wives set aside certain recipes from their diaries, the family journal, or cookbook to be prepared for these opulent affairs—stylish dishes “for parties” and those “well-suited to the chafing dish.” These special-occasion dishes eventually gave way to predinner nibbles like the potato chips and puffs of the 1850s and the oyster patties that became popular in the early twentieth century. Inevitably, it was black cooks who created these convivial experiences, which began with soup and didn’t end until the last crumb of sweet potato pie was eaten.

Legendary chef Sans Foix rose to prominence as the force behind John and Rebecca Couper’s merrymaking, seldom serving fewer than twenty-four guests for dinner at their Cannon’s Point Plantation on St. Simons Island off the Georgia coast; the record of his mastery is in the memoirs of the Coupers’ relative Charles Spalding Wylly.

A free man of color, Sans Foix learned and refined his craft under the tutelage of another black chef, Cupidon, who lived and worked in the home of the Marquis de Montalet, on nearby Sapelo Island.

Cupidon and his students were proficient in the French culinary tradition. Their sensibilities were influenced by Ude’s The French Cook and the works of the French gastronome Brillat-Savarin, and they cooked extravagant meals served by an army of helpers.

Following Emancipation, cooks like Sans Foix and Cupidon, who sautéed frog legs in butter, deglazed the pan with vermouth, lemon juice, parsley, garlic, and a dash of Worcestershire sauce, became domestic servants or worked in food businesses that served wealthy whites. But some also established thriving catering businesses based on the elegant menus that epitomized the previous generation’s fancy cooking, putting their own spin on festive-occasion and cocktail-party foods. These entrepreneurs mastered dishes such as eggs baked in cream or stuffed with crab, cheese wafers, vegetable fritters, crustless finger sandwiches, pâtés and meat spreads, creamed oysters served in toast baskets called vol-au-vents, and almost anything one could “devil.”

As black families gained material wealth, they developed a palate for sophisticated dishes with a European taste, influenced by the higher standard of living they experienced in other people’s homes. A handful of them memorialized this trend in their cookbooks. In 1910, Bertha Turner whetted the appetites of increasingly affluent African Americans and curious whites with delicate tidbits—such as baked fish timbales, black oyster soup, stuffed dates, and olive sandwiches—in a collection dedicated to “weary housewives.” Beatrice Hightower Cates’s 1936 collection, Eliza’s Cookbook, assembled stylish recipes from discriminating members of the Negro Culinary Art Club of Los Angeles. It included mouthwatering hors d’oeuvres, recipes of grand flair seasoned with cultural spices, plus ideas for attractive food arrangements and garnishes that set a party mood. Both authors reject the reasoning that limits black cooking to privation and making do.

I considered recipes from these books and more when I was planning the menu for the ornament exchange, our version of a white elephant gift swap. But, ultimately, I turned to Cooking with Jack and Jill, published by the Greensboro, North Carolina, chapter of the organization as my muse when it was time to put the food on the table.

My home was already decked out for the occasion—black Santas in the family room; nutcrackers in the foyer; the fireplace mantel dressed with pine boughs, holly, candles, and tall vases filled with cranberries; a Christmas tree trimmed with African American ornaments.

Channeling the old African American cooks helped me create a stunning buffet of assorted nibbles—a just-right mix of then and now to both educate and allure. The food was delicious, inspired in part by cultural tradition, and also by flavors that reflect the good life: glazed pecans, baked Brie, onion dip with homemade potato chips, marinated and roasted vegetables, honey-glazed chicken wings, Creole jambalaya, Southwest cornbread, chocolate and lemon pound cakes, and Christmas party punch. Not even a sisterly squabble over who would take home the Santa ornament adorned in African kente cloth or the porcelain angel with brown skin dressed in white chiffon could get in the way of our good cheer.

Pearl Bailey would have been proud.

Crackers, Chips, Spreads

At the turn of the twentieth century, the predinner nibbles African American hostesses served were most often bread-based—simple sandwiches made from thin-sliced bread cut into shapes and spread with butter, a cheese-nut mixture, or peppers or olives mixed with mayonnaise. By midcentury, the sandwiches gave way to canapés: basic spreads made by stirring together butter or cream cheese with chicken livers, clams, oysters, ham, or avocado; and puffs—airy, buttered bread rounds topped with crab salad, cheese, and fluffy egg whites, then broiled. Today, assorted chips and crackers fill the bread tray.

Freda DeKnight’s 1948 A Date with a Dish presented “cosmopolitan” recipes, including dozens for hors d’oeuvres, plus serving suggestions and menu advice from middle-class readers of Ebony magazine. Successful cocktail parties, she explained, involved attractive arrangements of “tasty sauces,” tiny cheese balls on toothpicks, strips of meat, cooked or marinated vegetables in bowls or trays surrounded by potato chips, rye bread strips, assorted crackers, melba toast, or white bread squares. Her spreads included a basic mix of butter and ketchup, mayonnaise spiked with horseradish, oysters simmered in an herb-based chili sauce, Cheddar cheese mixed with rum, or Roquefort with brandy.

I captured DeKnight’s spirit of elegant simplicity in the following recipes adapted for modern tastes. For a welcoming yet hassle-free buffet, I serve a mix of homemade and prepared foods. Among the homemade recipes that follow, benne wafers add a diasporic flair to the cracker basket while homemade chips with avocado dip bring a little African American culinary trivia to the party (see this page). And among the store-bought, I like to serve an assortment of hard and soft cheeses and bowls of hummus or an onion or spinach dip. Pickled okra, olives, and brightly colored fresh vegetables sit pretty on a relish tray, and warm roasted nuts finish off the display.

BENNE WAFERS

MAKES ABOUT 50 CRACKERS

Before the advent of baking powder and soda, beating biscuit dough with a wooden stick, hammer, or heavy rolling pin with up to one thousand whacks—a minimum of half an hour—to tenderize the dense paste was a common pathway to small, crisp “beaten biscuits.” Remembered in the Slave Narratives as “the grandfather of all afternoon tea refreshments,” beaten biscuits held a place of honor in black cookbooks for generations, presumably because white families in the Old South always considered beaten biscuits a luxury, and a hostess’s pride. The historian Arturo Schomburg’s list of party dishes included them. Street vendors in New Orleans sold them, and beaten biscuits are the very first recipe in Abby Fisher’s dignified collection from 1881, What Mrs. Fisher Knows about Old Southern Cooking.

These crackers, perfect for dips and spreads, became easier to make with the introduction of baking soda and baking powder, and took on an African character when cooks stirred in sesame seeds—called benne by African slaves—which arrived in the Sea Islands in the early eighteenth century and were cultivated in their hidden gardens for nearly a century. By the time the authors of Charleston Receipts published the recipe for the ethereal, seed-studded crackers in the mid-1950s, to which they gave the title Benne (Sesame) Seed “Cocktailers,” the New York Times assured readers that this cocktail biscuit would “revolutionize cocktail parties.”

I serve benne wafers in a sweetgrass basket I purchased from a basket weaver near Boone Hall plantation in Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina. Weaving the baskets is a craft handed down through generations of Gullah/Geechee women that enabled their African ancestors to winnow rice or carry water from a brook, stream, or well to the kitchen house. It’s my way of reconciling our artisanal past with its burdens.

½ cup white sesame seeds

2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for the work surface

1 teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon salt, plus more for finishing

½ cup shortening or lard, cut into ½-inch dice and chilled, plus more for greasing the baking sheet

6 tablespoons cold whole milk, plus more if necessary

Preheat the oven to 425°F. Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper.
Spread the sesame seeds in an even layer in the pan and toast until lightly browned and fragrant, about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally to prevent scorching. Watch carefully as the seeds burn easily. (The seeds also smoke as they toast.) Remove from the oven to cool completely, but leave the oven on and reduce the temperature to 350°F.
When the baking sheet has cooled to room temperature, lightly grease it or line with a clean sheet of parchment paper. Grease or line a second sheet for quick baking.
In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, and salt. Sprinkle the shortening pieces over the dry ingredients. Using your fingertips, a pastry blender, or two knives, cut the shortening into the dry ingredients, blending until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Sprinkle the toasted seeds over the mixture. Stir with a fork to distribute evenly. Make a well in the center, add the milk, and use a fork to blend the dry ingredients and milk, sprinkling over more milk as needed to make a stiff, rough dough.
Scrape the dough onto a lightly floured board. With floured hands, knead the dough 15 to 20 seconds, until smooth. Divide the dough in half. Using a floured rolling pin, roll it out to slightly thinner than a dime. Cut the dough with a 1-inch biscuit cutter and transfer the rounds to the prepared baking sheets with a spatula. Re-roll the scraps, handling as lightly as possible, and cut out more rounds. Prick each round 2 times with a fork and sprinkle with additional salt, if desired.
Bake 10 minutes, until the dough rises slightly. Rotate the pans and continue to bake until light brown, 5 to 10 minutes longer. Immediately remove to wire racks to cool. Store the wafers in a tightly covered container for 2 to 3 weeks. Before serving, reheat the wafers 2 to 3 minutes in a 250°F oven.

NOTE: To freeze benne wafer dough, shape it into a log and wrap it in parchment paper. To bake it, thaw slightly, slice it into ⅛-inch rounds and bake as directed.

AVOCADO DIP WITH SPICED CHIPS

MAKES ABOUT 3 CUPS

Velvety dips made from cooked meat, fish, cheese, and vegetables appear often in our cookbooks, ranging from simple to complex—creamed ham or chicken, chicken liver pâté, cream cheese balls rolled in nuts, a wacky mushroom-collard greens concoction one old cook called “soul food dip,” and a West African mashed alligator pear salad similar to guacamole, but chunkier.

I composed this dip to accompany a colorful mix of fresh vegetable crudités; a relish tray of marinated veggies, pickles, and olives; and a basket of Creole-spiced chips. The dip should be seasoned to taste with salt, depending upon whether you’ll serve it with veggies or salty chips.

2 large avocados

2 tablespoons fresh lime juice (1 lime)

½ cup minced red onion

½ cup minced tomato (1 medium)

¼ cup minced red bell pepper

1 teaspoon minced garlic

1 teaspoon minced Scotch bonnet pepper or other hot chile, or to taste

2 tablespoons minced fresh cilantro

2 teaspoons minced fresh parsley

½ teaspoon dried oregano

¾ to 1 teaspoon salt, or to taste

1 tablespoon crumbled Cotija or feta cheese (optional)

Spiced Potato and Plantain Chips (this page), for serving

Halve and pit the avocados and scoop the flesh into a bowl (you should have about 2½ cups). With a fork or potato masher, mash the avocado until smooth. Stir in the lime juice to thoroughly mix. Blend in the onion, tomato, bell pepper, garlic, chile pepper, cilantro, parsley, oregano, and salt. Refrigerate until chilled. Taste and adjust seasonings.
Sprinkle with the cheese before serving with Spiced Potato and Plantain Chips.

SPICED POTATO AND PLANTAIN CHIPS

MAKES ABOUT 3 QUARTS

I serve these russet potato chips seasoned with a southwestern spice blend as a tribute to a fabled African American chef, along with a favorite diasporic snack, fried plantains.

According to legend, George Crum was head chef at Moon’s Lake House in Saratoga Springs, New York, in 1853. One evening, a guest complained that Crum’s French-fried potatoes were cut too thick, so Crum very thinly sliced another batch, fried them very crisp, and seasoned them with salt: the first potato chips. After that, he served the crunchy snack as an hors d’oeuvre in baskets in his own restaurant for thirty years.

Plantains are an important food in East and West Africa and throughout the Caribbean. They are a member of the banana family but are never eaten raw. In Ghana, vendors sell fried plantains from wooden trays on street corners every evening. “It is one of the very favorite snacks after the cinema,” Dinah Ameley Ayensu wrote in 1972 in The Art of West African Cooking. At home both firm-ripe and unripe (green) plantains may be fried as chips and served as an appetizer. The riper the plantain, the sweeter and softer the chip.

Peanut oil is mild tasting and has a high smoking point. Use it for deep-frying foods of all kinds.

1 pound russet potatoes, scrubbed

1 pound sweet potatoes, peeled

1 teaspoon salt, or to taste

⅛ teaspoon cayenne pepper, or to taste

½ teaspoon smoked paprika

½ teaspoon chipotle chile powder

½ teaspoon brown sugar

¼ teaspoon onion powder

¼ teaspoon garlic powder

2 ripe but firm plantains

2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

2 teaspoons ground ginger

Peanut oil, for deep-frying

Using a mandoline, a vegetable peeler, or a sharp knife, slice the potatoes into ⅛-inch-thick rounds. Place in a large bowl. Rinse with cold water until the water is clear. Cover the potatoes with ice water and refrigerate for 1 hour. Repeat with the sweet potatoes, placing them in a separate bowl of ice water.
Meanwhile, in a small bowl, combine the salt, cayenne, smoked paprika, chipotle powder, brown sugar, onion powder, and garlic powder. Set aside.
Place the plantains on a board. Trim the ends and make 4 shallow cuts lengthwise to score the skin of the plantains, then peel. (Scoring makes peeling easier.) Using a mandoline or a sharp knife, slice the plantains into ⅛-inch-thick rounds. In a medium bowl, combine the lemon juice and ground ginger. Add the plantains to the bowl and toss with a rubber spatula to thoroughly coat with the juice mixture.
Pour about 2 inches of the oil into a large Dutch oven or deep skillet and heat to 350°F over medium-high heat. (Use a thermometer or flick in a few bread crumbs; if they sizzle almost immediately but don’t burn, the oil is ready.) Adjust the heat to maintain this temperature.
Working in batches (do not crowd the pan), fry the plantains until golden, 2 to 3 minutes per batch. Use a slotted spoon to remove to paper towels and then transfer to a serving bowl. Toss with one-third of the reserved spice mixture.
Return the oil to 350°F. Drain the russet potatoes in a colander. Thoroughly pat dry with paper towels. Fry in batches until golden, 4 to 5 minutes per batch. Use a slotted spoon to remove to paper towels. Season with one-third of the spice mixture while hot. Transfer the potatoes to the bowl with the plantains.
Return the oil to 350°F. Drain the sweet potatoes in a colander. Thoroughly pat dry with paper towels. Fry in batches until golden, 3 to 4 minutes per batch. Use a slotted spoon to remove to paper towels. Season with the remaining spice mixture while hot. Let stand at least 10 minutes to allow the chips to firm up. Transfer to the bowl with the plantains and russet potatoes.

For the Chafing Dish

Oklahoma caterer Cleora Butler chronicled the evolution of savory chafing dish hors d’oeuvres in her 1985 cookbook, Cleora’s Kitchens: The Memoir of a Cook & Eight Decades of Great American Food. The recipes she gave that represented the early 1920s and 1930s were for warm first courses such as thin buckwheat pancakes topped with chicken livers in cream sauce, Mexican Rarebit (a chile-spiced warm cheese dip served with melba toast), oysters or prunes wrapped with bacon, and dried beef and artichoke dip.

By the 1960s and 1970s, she added ideas for warm dishes that reflected the financial security for some at the time—exotic and ethnic flavors took the place of simple ketchup-based or barbecue sauces, duck pâté replaced inexpensive meat spreads, and sophisticated Camembert en Croûte (cheese wrapped in a pastry crust and baked) appeared in place of cheese balls and crackers.

Among the treasures in my mother’s vintage cookware collection is a stoneware bean pot that sits on a electric hot plate, which allowed families to serve dishes designed for the elegant chafing dish more casually. (The company that made it, West Bend, did give it the name of “Buffet Patio Server,” after all.) It was perfect for saucy recipes like meatballs in a sticky-sweet sauce, which Mom served with decorative cocktail picks for skewering. The crock pot also kept creamy dips made with tuna or mushrooms and chicken dishes hot.

Today, a small slow cooker does the trick.

ORANGE-GLAZED CHICKEN WINGS

SERVES 4 TO 8

The chefs Alexander Smalls and J. J. Johnson take much inspiration from the combination of Asian and African flavors, as they showed us in their James Beard Award–winning cookbook, Between Harlem and Heaven: Afro-Asian-American Cooking for Big Nights, Weeknights, and Every Day. This recipe, though, for orange-spiked barbecue wings, is a cousin to a dish they served at Minton’s in Harlem, where the talented chefs fried their wings until golden crisp before tossing them in homemade jam. In this case, the wings are roasted with a sweet-savory orange marmalade glaze.

4 pounds chicken wings

3 tablespoons orange marmalade

1 tablespoon light brown sugar

1 tablespoon soy sauce

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

1½ teaspoons salt, or to taste

1 teaspoon black pepper

½ teaspoon smoked paprika

¼ teaspoon ground cumin

¼ teaspoon dried oregano

½ teaspoon garlic powder

Cola Barbecue Sauce (optional; this page), for serving

With a sharp knife, separate the wings into 3 pieces by inserting the knife between the drumette and the “flat,” and then in between the flat and the tip. Discard the tips, or save them for stock.
In a large bowl or plastic zip-top bag, combine the marmalade, brown sugar, soy sauce, lemon juice, salt, pepper, smoked paprika, cumin, oregano, and garlic powder. Add the wings to the marinade. Let stand at least 30 minutes, or ideally refrigerate, covered, up to 8 hours.
Preheat the oven to 375°F. Line two 15 × 9-inch rimmed baking sheets with foil. Place a wire rack in each pan.
Reserving the marinade, use tongs to place the wings on the racks with a little space between them. Brush them with the marinade and roast until lightly browned, about 30 minutes. Turn and roast for 30 minutes more, then turn again. Roast until the wings are well glazed, 10 to 15 minutes longer. Serve immediately. If desired, pass barbecue sauce on the side.

HONEY-SOY GLAZED CHICKEN WINGS

SERVES 4 TO 8

I found the earliest printed mention of chicken wings as a standalone dish in Freda DeKnight’s 1948 collection of the “choicest Negro recipes,” A Date with a Dish, stewing them in a chile-spiked tomato gravy. Legendary New York chef Princess Pamela revised DeKnight’s dish as part of her soul food repertoire, serving the sauced wings over hot rice. And soul cook Kathy Starr combined the best of the old and new worlds, creating a sweet-hot dunking sauce for fried wings with ribbon cane syrup, butter, and hot pepper sauce in The Soul of Southern Cooking. These treatments remind me of the Nigerian practice of roasting tough birds with high spice and pepper—a dish called bendel chicken.

When wings come on the restaurant and home entertaining scene in full force, it is Oklahoma caterer extraordinaire Cleora Butler who gives the bony parts a cosmopolitan flair, picking up on the interest in international cuisines dominating the food world during the 1950s. Her Chinese chicken wings infused the sweet-and-sour taste from the ribs at the legendary Los Angeles Polynesian destination, Trader Vic’s, with the red peppers and onions that were all the rage.

Taking its cues from Cleora Butler’s Afro-Asian pairings, this recipe blends the savory flavors of soy sauce, ginger, and garlic with sweet honey, a classic Chinese combination. Choose dark brown sugar over light to imbue the dish with the subtly rich taste of molasses.

4 pounds chicken wings

¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons soy sauce

2 tablespoons honey

3 tablespoons dark brown sugar

3 tablespoons cider or rice vinegar

1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger or 1½ teaspoons ground ginger

1 tablespoon minced garlic (3 to 4 cloves) or 2 teaspoons garlic powder

4 green onions, thinly sliced

½ teaspoon minced Scotch bonnet or habanero pepper

1 teaspoon black pepper

1 teaspoon salt, or to taste

Sesame seeds, for garnish

With a sharp knife, separate the wings into 3 pieces by inserting the knife between the drumette and the “flat,” and then in between the flat and the tip. Discard the tips, or save them for stock.
In a large bowl or large plastic zip-top bag, combine the soy sauce, honey, brown sugar, vinegar, ginger, garlic, half of the green onions, the Scotch bonnet, black pepper, and salt. Add the wings to the marinade, cover (or close the bag), and refrigerate at least 8 hours.
Preheat the oven to 375°F. Line two rimmed baking sheets with foil. Set wire racks in the baking sheets.
Reserving the marinade, use tongs to place the chicken pieces on the racks, with some space between each. Roast until lightly browned, about 30 minutes.
Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, heat the marinade over medium heat to bring to a simmer.
Brush the wings with the marinade, flip and brush again. Roast for 30 minutes more. Brush again and bake until tender, 15 minutes longer. Sprinkle lightly with sesame seeds and remaining green onions before serving.

MEATBALLS IN BARBECUE SAUCE

MAKES ABOUT 50 BITE-SIZE MEATBALLS; SERVES 4 TO 8

Meatballs are the quintessential party food and the variations are endless—from smothered Swedish style in a cream gravy or simmered in sweet-and-sour or barbecue sauce. They were considered important elements of a black caterer’s special-occasion repertoire as far back as the late nineteenth century.

A dish called “forced steak” appears in the first recipe collection published by free woman of color Malinda Russell in 1866, A Domestic Cook Book. And “beef cakes” are among more than six hundred sophisticated dishes published by S. Thomas Bivins in his 1912 collection, The Southern Cookbook: A Manual of Cooking and List of Menus, Including Recipes Used by Noted Colored Cooks and Prominent Caterers.

An Ebony magazine reader’s recipe for pork balls in 1948 reflected Creole roots, relying upon rice instead of bread and milk as the binding that held together a batch of ground pork balls simmered in tomato soup. And, as African cooking experienced a renaissance in the late 1970s, authors like Dinah Ayensu reminded revelers that the dish (seasoned ground meat, bound with bread and milk) is pure North African fare—known as kofta.

After trying all of these and so many more, I present the classic mix of ground beef and pork, rolled into balls and baked in barbecue sauce, typifying party perfection.

½ pound ground beef

½ pound ground pork

1 cup minced onion

1½ teaspoons minced garlic (about 2 cloves)

1 teaspoon salt, or to taste

½ teaspoon smoked paprika

½ teaspoon black pepper

⅓ cup panko bread crumbs

1 large egg, beaten

1 cup Molasses Barbecue Sauce (this page) or Cola Barbecue Sauce (this page), plus more as needed for serving

1 tablespoon honey

Preheat the oven to 350°F.
In a large bowl, use your hands or a wooden spoon to thoroughly combine the beef, pork, onion, garlic, salt, smoked paprika, pepper, panko, and egg. Quickly pan-cook or microwave a small bit of the mixture to taste for seasoning, and add more salt as desired. Use a tablespoon to divide the mixture into equal portions.
Roll the mixture into balls and place them on a rimmed baking sheet. Bake until cooked through, about 15 minutes. Drain any liquid.
To serve immediately: Increase the oven temperature to 375°F. Toss the meatballs with 1 cup of desired barbecue sauce and the honey. Bake for 10 minutes more until barbecue sauce glaze is set. Serve hot.
To serve on a buffet: Place the partially cooked balls in a slow cooker with the honey and enough barbecue sauce to partially cover the meatballs. (The amount will depend upon the size of the slow cooker.) Simmer on low for up to 3 hours, covered, adding barbecue sauce and honey as needed to keep meatballs moist.

SWEET POTATO BISCUITS WITH HAM

MAKES 12 BISCUITS

Two recipes for sweet potato biscuits and three for sweet potato bread appear in the fourth edition of How the Farmer Can Save His Sweet Potatoes: And Ways of Preparing Them for the Table—one of eight booklets written by George Washington Carver that revealed his experiments with sweet potatoes and the possibilities for their use at table.

Starting in 1898, the innovative scientist educated readers about sweet potato botany, taught the importance of land preparation, explained compost use, offered instruction in home pesticides and remedies for destructive diseases, and shared tips about harvesting, storing, and curing, including the practical uses of the “potato bank.” (A potato bank was a hole dug in the ground below slave cabins where root vegetables were stored.)

By 1921, recipes for sweet potato biscuits had become legion throughout the South, and also among African Americans throughout the country. They are the second recipe you’ll see in Caroline Pickett’s Aunt Caroline’s Dixieland Recipes (transcribed by Emma and William McKinney), made with fresh-churned butter, tangy buttermilk, and leftover mashed sweet potatoes. Stephanie L. Tyson, the chef, restaurateur, and author of Well, Shut My Mouth!: The Sweet Potatoes Restaurant Cookbook, bakes tender sweet potato–buttermilk biscuits in her Winston-Salem restaurant that are fragrant with cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves and perfect stuffed with sliced ham. Slivers of country ham also bring biscuit sandwiches into the front room of cookbook author, journalist, and editor Eric V. Copage, who served them with honey-mustard as part of a buffet.

All of these recipes descend from the old slave combination of sliced salt pork in biscuits and foreshadowed the salty-sweet formula I have adapted here.

2½ cups all-purpose flour, plus more for the work surface

2 tablespoons light brown sugar

4 teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

¾ teaspoon salt, or to taste

½ cup (8 tablespoons) butter, shortening, or lard, cut into ½-inch dice and chilled

1 cup cold cooked mashed sweet potatoes

1 cup cold whole milk, or as needed

12 thin slices country ham, as desired

Preheat the oven to 400°F.
In a bowl, whisk together the flour, brown sugar, baking powder, cinnamon, and salt. Sprinkle the chilled butter over the dry ingredients. Using a pastry blender or two knives, cut the butter into the dry ingredients until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. In a small bowl, stir together the sweet potatoes and ½ cup of the milk. Add this to the flour mixture and stir lightly with a fork, just until moistened. Add the remaining ½ cup milk, as needed, until the mixture forms a soft dough.
Flour a work surface, turn the dough out, and knead lightly for 30 seconds or until the dough is smooth. Roll the dough out ½ inch thick. Cut biscuits with a 2-inch biscuit cutter and place each 1 inch apart on an ungreased baking sheet. Gather the scraps into a ball. Knead 1 to 2 times, re-roll, and cut more biscuits, handling very lightly. Bake until golden brown, 15 to 20 minutes. Split the biscuits open and fill with slivers of country ham. Serve warm.

CURRIED MEAT PIES

MAKES 30 SMALL PIES

Cooked meat or fish enclosed in a thin pastry crust is an adaptation of a colonial dish—British pasties—turned into everyday food that is served throughout the African diaspora. In some regions, stuffed pastries are sold as a snack at street stands. The people of Cape Verde fry a peppery tuna mixture in pockets of coarse pastry dough made from sweet potato and corn flour—“pastry with the devil inside.” In Jamaica, the “patty” is a rich, turmeric-laced crust leavened with baking powder, and it cradles a mixture of ground meat and vegetables. Latin Americans trace their love of fillings made of beef, raisins, and olives to a combination that originated with the Moors, as Sandra A. Gutierrez explained in Empanadas: The Hand-Held Pies of Latin America. To heighten the island experience, I have also slipped in a little jerk chicken or pork.

During the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, enslaved and free pastry chefs mastered the art of baking with dough, David S. Shields explained in Southern Provisions: The Creation and Revival of a Cuisine, especially the puff pastry that cradled savory mixtures such as creamed oysters, sweetbreads, or crab (called patties), and hot meat pies of all kinds.

When the soul cooks of the 1960s adopted hand-held meat pies into their repertoires, the names became Americanized. Inez Yeargan Kaiser called them hamburger turnovers in Soul Food Cookery, a collection of “well-seasoned, savory dishes” she believed would “bridge the gap in our society,” enable readers to “understand the cultural backgrounds of all people,” and provide a “channel for better communication.” The year was 1968, and she was using her education in home economics to heal racial disturbances by developing appreciation for “Negro” cooking.

Serving these tender little packets rekindles that hope. Today, recipes for samosas, samusas, empanadas, meat pies, and zamboosies turn up frequently in black cookbooks, a casual reminder of our international heritage. I adapted this recipe from Eric Copage’s curried lamb samosas. He enveloped the spicy filling in wonton wrappers (another nod toward the global pantry). My version maintains the ancestral character of the African diaspora and the Caribbean, cradling a spicy beef filling in curry-scented homemade pastry. I omitted the baking powder some cooks call for, which yields a somewhat sturdier crust, and added more fat to make my pockets flaky. Or, you may opt to use the wonton wrappers (see the Variation, this page) and fry them until crisp.

1 pound ground beef

1 cup minced onion

¼ cup minced red bell pepper

½ to 1 teaspoon minced chile pepper, such as Scotch bonnet or habanero

1½ teaspoons minced garlic (about 2 cloves)

½ teaspoon salt, or to taste

¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper

2 teaspoons curry powder, preferably Jamaican

½ teaspoon dried thyme

2 tablespoons tomato paste

Oil, for greasing the baking sheet

1 egg

Curried Pastry Crust (this page)

All-purpose flour, for the work surface

Paprika (optional)

Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat until very hot. Add the ground beef and cook, stirring occasionally, until browned, about 5 minutes. Drain all but 1 tablespoon of the drippings from the pan. Add the onion, bell pepper, chile pepper, and garlic to the skillet and sauté over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until lightly browned on the edges, about 5 minutes. Stir in the salt, cayenne, curry powder, thyme, tomato paste, and ¼ cup water. Bring to a low simmer and cook, stirring occasionally, for 7 to 10 minutes to thicken the mixture. Taste and add salt as desired. Set the filling aside to cool completely.
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Lightly grease a baking sheet or line with parchment paper.
In a small bowl, stir together the egg and 1 tablespoon water. Set the egg wash aside.
Divide the pastry into quarters. On a lightly floured board, working with one piece of pastry at a time, roll the pastry ⅛ inch thick. Cut out rounds with a 3-inch cutter. Stack the pastry rounds on a plate and cover with a damp cloth. You should have 30 rounds total. Spoon 1 tablespoon filling onto one side of each round, leaving a ½-inch border around the filling. Brush the edges with a small amount of water to just moisten. Fold the other half of the dough over the filling to create a half-moon shape. Press the edges together with a fork or fingers to seal in filling.
Place the meat pies on the baking sheet and brush with the egg wash. Bake until golden, 25 to 30 minutes. Sprinkle with paprika, if desired. Serve warm.

VARIATION

EASY CURRIED MEAT PIES
Make the filling as directed. Have ready thirty 3½-inch round or square wonton wrappers. Place the wrappers on a lightly floured surface and cover them with a damp towel to prevent drying out. Working with 1 wrapper at a time, spoon 1 tablespoon filling just above the center of the wrapper, leaving some room for a border around the filling. Brush the edges with enough water to just moisten. Fold the wrapper over the filling to create a half-moon or triangle shape. Press the edges together with fingers to seal in the filling. Instead of baking, deep-fry the wontons a few at a time in 350°F oil until golden. Drain.

CURRIED PASTRY CRUST

MAKES ENOUGH FOR 30 (3-INCH) PIES

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon curry powder

⅛ teaspoon cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon salt

¾ cup shortening, cut into ½-inch dice, chilled

⅓ cup ice-cold water, or as needed

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, curry powder, cayenne, and salt. Sprinkle the shortening pieces over the dry ingredients. Using your fingertips, a pastry blender, or two knives, cut in the shortening until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Sprinkle half of the water over the dough and stir with a fork to mix. Stir in enough additional water, 1 tablespoon at a time, to form a shaggy dough. Scrape the dough onto a floured board. Knead 5 to 10 seconds, until the dough is smooth. Wrap the dough in a large sheet of wax paper or plastic, folding the edges over to completely cover the dough. Press the dough into a flat disc and refrigerate until ready to use.

NOTE: For a sturdier crust, reduce the shortening to ½ cup and increase the water to ⅔ cup.

Seafood Hors d’Oeuvres

I confess that trying to understand the difference between all the fish fritters, patties, croquettes, cutlets, cakes, and balls in African American heritage cooking nearly drove me crazy. It is fascinating, though, to follow the evolution of small fried salt cod batter balls from the African diaspora to its rebirth as a breakfast staple—salmon croquettes—to the plump Maryland crab cakes that grace menus in fine-dining restaurants today.

In her Caribbean and African Cooking, Rosamund Grant offered her spin on the linguistic drama: “Cakes are potato-based, whereas fritters are flour-based. The shape and size of saltfish cake may vary from oval rissoles, served as part of a meal, to small round balls for cocktails.”

But what about croquettes that are roux based or bread based? Layer onto that the African American tradition of serving these creations made with dried salt cod, fresh poached cod, or any leftover white fish. And then there’s Abby Fisher. In 1881, Fisher, a formerly enslaved woman, moved to Northern California with her husband, won awards for her cooking, and published a far-reaching recipe collection, What Mrs. Fisher Knows About Old Southern Cooking. She pushed notions about black cooking as an art beyond survival. Her book incorporated an entire section of croquettes, made with lamb, chicken, crab, veal, liver, oysters, and fish.

Regardless of what we call these novelties and what goes in them, though, as the historian Karen Hess explained in the reprint of Fisher’s book, “It has generally been accepted that black women were particularly adept at their confection and frying.”

What follows are three of my favorite versions: salmon croquettes, tender potato-based codfish balls, and crab cakes. Any of these cakes would be fabulously delicious as hors d’oeuvres. Make them ahead of time, store them covered in the refrigerator, then reheat them gently in a hot oven to recrisp just before your guests arrive.

SALMON CROQUETTES

SERVES 4 TO 8

When I read Beatrice Hightower Cates’s 1936 Eliza’s Cook Book, I was surprised to find a recipe for salmon croquettes that refused to conform to a “heritage” mixture—that is, it didn’t have a roux-based white sauce to hold the croquettes together. In her book of recipes, collected from the ladies of the Los Angeles Negro Culinary Art Club, a luxurious combination of eggs and cream kept the fish mixture bound together during cooking. She rolled her flat cakes in crushed cornflakes for extra crunch, called them “salmon patties,” and served them perched on a slice of hot toast. Today, salmon croquettes are a staple on soul food breakfast menus.

But Cates wasn’t the only cook to take a detour with this beloved dish. Many black cooks who had migrated out of the South learned myriad makeshift ways to hold the canned fish mixture together. Some soaked bread in the salmon liquor from the can; some added mashed boiled potatoes or cheese, or cornmeal, or dried bread or cracker crumbs. The most common method was to simply add enough all-purpose flour to “tighten up” the mixture, as Sheila Ferguson explained in Soul Food: Classic Cuisine from the Deep South, “until Dad says, ‘it’s no longer juicy.’”

I owe inspiration for this modern interpretation to Stephanie L. Tyson, who, along with her partner Vivian Joiner, honored Stephanie’s grandmother’s memory in two Winston-Salem, North Carolina, restaurants and in the cookbook Soul Food Odyssey. The recipe comes together fast, and works well with leftover cooked salmon, poached fresh salmon, or canned salmon. Make the recipe as directed to serve as a first course, or make smaller croquettes and serve them in a chafing dish on the buffet.

1 (14.75-ounce) can pink salmon, or 1 pound cooked salmon

¼ cup finely minced celery

½ cup finely minced onion

1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

1 teaspoon salt, or to taste

½ teaspoon black pepper

¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional)

2 large eggs, beaten

1½ cups fine dried bread crumbs (preferably homemade, see Note, this page) or cracker crumbs

Flour, for your hands

Oil, for pan-frying

Tartar sauce or Rémoulade Sauce (recipe follows)

In a medium bowl, break up the salmon. If using canned, mix with a fork until the bones and skin are well blended. Stir in the celery, onion, lemon juice, salt, black pepper, cayenne (if using), the eggs, and crumbs.
With a ¼-cup measure and lightly floured hands, scoop the salmon mixture, then shape into 8 flat discs. (Or, for bite-size hors d’oeuvres, scoop 2 tablespoons of the mixture and shape into 16 discs.)
Pour ½ inch oil into a large skillet and heat to 350°F over medium-high heat. (Use a thermometer, or flick in a few bread crumbs; if they sizzle almost immediately but don’t burn, the oil is ready.) Adjust the heat to maintain this temperature.
Working in batches (do not crowd the pan), fry the croquettes until golden brown, turning over once, about 3 minutes per side (less if making them small). Using a fork and spatula will help make turning easier and prevent croquettes from breaking. Drain on paper towels. Serve hot with sauce of your choice.

RÉMOULADE SAUCE

MAKES ABOUT 1½ CUPS

¾ cup mayonnaise

½ cup Creole mustard

1 teaspoon minced garlic

¼ cup minced green onion

¼ cup minced celery

¼ cup minced fresh parsley

1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

¼ teaspoon sugar (optional)

Salt and black pepper

In a bowl, combine the mayonnaise, mustard, garlic, green onion, celery, parsley, Worcestershire sauce, lemon juice, sugar (if using), and salt and pepper to taste and mix well. Cover and refrigerate for at least 1 hour before serving.

CODFISH BALLS

MAKES 12 BALLS

These versatile codfish balls call for a cup of flaked white fish, whether you take the authentic route (soaking salt cod in water over a day or two to remove its saltiness) or simply cook up fresh fish of your own. Catfish is a tasty option. If you choose to soak the salt cod, the texture will be a little meatier and chewier, and the flavor more complex. It’s up to you how long you’d want to soak the cod—some prefer to soak it for 24 hours, leaving a bit of the salt in the fish, and some like to soak it for 2 or 3 days. Soak it in the refrigerator, changing the water every 6 to 12 hours. Taste the fish for salt before you make the mixture and adjust the seasoning of the mixture accordingly.

2 cups diced (¾-inch) peeled potatoes

Salt

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

¼ teaspoon black pepper

¼ cup minced onion

1 teaspoon minced garlic (about 1 clove)

1 large egg, separated

1 cup cooked and flaked cod or soaked and drained salt cod

1 cup fine dried bread crumbs (preferably homemade, see Note, this page) or cracker crumbs

Oil, for deep-frying

In a medium saucepan, cook the potatoes in boiling salted water to cover, until fork-tender, about 15 minutes. Drain well and mash until smooth. Stir in the mustard, 1 teaspoon salt (or to taste), the pepper, onion, and garlic and let cool to warm. Beat in the egg yolk, then carefully fold in the cod. Shape the mixture into golf ball–size balls.
In a shallow dish, beat together the egg white and 1 tablespoon water. In a second shallow dish, spread out the bread crumbs. Dip the codfish balls in the egg wash, then roll in the crumbs to coat.
Pour about 3 inches oil into a large Dutch oven or other wide deep pot and heat to 350°F over medium-high heat. (Use a thermometer or flick in a few bread crumbs; if they sizzle almost immediately but don’t burn, the oil is ready.) Adjust the heat to maintain this temperature.
Working in small batches (do not crowd the pan), fry the balls, turning occasionally, until golden brown, 4 to 5 minutes per side. Drain on paper towels and serve hot.

CRAB CAKES

SERVES 8

Throughout his career and private life, photographer and author John Pinderhughes, a Baltimore native, dedicated himself to preserving the resilient African American spirit. His advertising images encouraged spontaneity in baking cakes for Pillsbury, emphasized the Thanksgiving communal table for Kraft, captured the good life with model, restaurateur, and author B. Smith for Essence magazine, and celebrated chef Leah Chase’s “recipe for living” in a Publix supermarket campaign.

I turned to Pinderhughes and his paternal grandmother, Gum Gum, for these crab cakes. In Gum Gum’s kitchen, Pinderhughes learned old-fashioned values of love, caring, family, and hard work, along with passion for “a little higher grade of cooking.”

Grandpa “would never eat crabs the way most people would.…He would sit down with a bowl, a napkin, and a knife and fork, and just pick all the meat out into that bowl. He would season it with a dash of salt, pepper, and mayonnaise, almost like we did the crab cakes,” Pinderhughes remembered in the Family of the Spirit Cookbook (1990).

Unlike crab croquettes, patties, or cutlets, Gum Gum’s crab cakes are not held together with a sturdy cream sauce or mashed potatoes, so you will want to handle them as gently as possible; they are light and delicate and aromatic with the perfume of the sea. I learned from trying out dozens of crab cake recipes that half as much mayonnaise-egg binding and more than double the bread crumbs Gum Gum called for in her classic Maryland-styled crab cakes makes handling easier without compromising taste. But try to buy the best-quality crabmeat you can; the deliciousness of these cakes is all about the quality of the crabmeat you use.

2 tablespoons mayonnaise

2 teaspoons Dijon mustard

1 teaspoon minced fresh parsley

¼ cup finely chopped green onions (optional)

¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper

½ teaspoon salt

2 large eggs, lightly beaten

½ cup fine dried bread crumbs (preferably homemade, see Note) or cracker crumbs

1 pound lump crabmeat

Oil, for frying

Coarse sea salt, for finishing

Lemon wedges, for serving

Tartar sauce, for serving (optional)

In a medium bowl, stir together the mayonnaise, mustard, parsley, green onions (if using), cayenne, salt, and eggs. Mix well. Add ¼ cup of the bread crumbs and stir until the crumbs are moistened. Gently stir in the crab, tossing lightly to just mix. Divide the mixture evenly into 16 golf ball-size portions. Flatten the portions into patties, dredge them in the remaining bread crumbs, and place on a platter. Refrigerate 1 hour.
Pour 1 inch of the oil into a large skillet and heat to 350°F over medium-high heat. (Use a thermometer, or flick in a few bread crumbs; if they sizzle almost immediately but don’t burn, the oil is ready.) Adjust the heat to maintain this temperature.
Working in batches (do not crowd the pan), pan-fry the crab cakes until golden brown, about 2 minutes per side. Drain on paper towels. Repeat with the remaining crab cakes. Serve immediately, sprinkled lightly with coarse salt and garnished with lemon wedges and tartar sauce, if desired.

NOTE: Once you make your own bread crumbs, you will never go back to the inferior variety sold at the supermarket. And it’s easy. Simply trim the crusts from a couple of stale slices of bread and process them in the food processor or blender into crumbs. Toast in a 325°F oven until browned and dry. Watch the crumbs closely. They toast quickly.

DEVILED CRAB

SERVES 4 TO 8

Deviled crab is popular in Maryland, the Gulf states, and the Lowcountry, where crabs are plentiful. It has been the star attraction on party menus recorded in early black cookbooks, but the dish also helped enslaved and free cooks in Colonial America earn extra money and gain their independence. Howard Paige recorded a traveler’s observation in his 1995 cookbook, African American Family Cookery: “Years ago, in Tidewater, Virginia, one could buy the most deliciously cooked deviled crabs from the shellfish vendors. The crabs were carried in wicker baskets slung over the shoulders of an amiable old Southern darky whose melodious voice would sing out his wares: ‘Hey, ye! Devilly cra-a-abs, cra-a-abs, cra-a-abs! Hey, ye! Devilly cra-a-abs!’”

Recipes for the dish show up in print sporadically during the early twentieth century in cookbooks from coastal regions. Once we get to the 1950s, caterers, educators, and domestic servants published recipes that are not what you’d expect from a dish named “deviled.” While the name may suggest some piquant thing, cooks named their creamy crab recipes—crabmeat stirred into a cream sauce with parsley and minced boiled eggs, topped with buttered bread crumbs, baked in buttered crab shells—“deviled” just the same.

I think I know why.

A creamed crab formula spiked with hot pepper sauce (Tabasco), a staple in African American kitchens, appeared in a volume of Time-Life’s Foods of the World series, American Cooking: Southern Style, in 1971, attributed to a black woman from Coden, Alabama (see recipe, this page). My guess is that some black cookbook authors presumed the addition of hot sauce in their upscale recipes would seem a bit too “ethnic,” so they left it out of their deviled crab recipes.

Despite all this name-calling, deviled crab is a spectacular first course. When the guest list is short, serve the creamy dip in scallop shells, ramekins, or well-scrubbed crab shells with toasted baguette. For crowd-size dining, I keep the dip warm in a slow cooker set on low and let guests serve themselves. And of course, either way, serve it with a bottle of hot pepper sauce.

4 tablespoons (½ stick) butter

2 teaspoons minced onion

1 teaspoon minced garlic (1 clove)

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

1 cup whole milk or half-and-half

2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce

½ teaspoon salt, or to taste

¼ teaspoon black pepper

¼ teaspoon paprika

1 pound lump crabmeat, flaked

½ cup fine dried bread crumbs (preferably homemade, see Note, this page)

Fresh dill sprigs, for garnish (optional)

Sliced baguette, toasted, for serving

Hot pepper sauce, for serving

Preheat the oven to 400°F.
In a medium saucepan, heat 2 tablespoons of the butter over medium heat until foaming. Add the onion and garlic and sauté until softened, about 1 minute. Whisk the flour and mustard in well. Cook and stir 1 minute longer. Whisk in ½ cup of the milk. Cook and stir until thick, about 4 minutes. Whisk in the remaining ½ cup milk, the Worcestershire sauce, salt, pepper, and paprika. Gently stir in the crab. Taste and adjust salt, if desired.
Pour the mixture into a shallow baking dish or divide among ramekins or scallop shells (or crab shells if you have them). Melt the remaining 2 tablespoons butter and stir it together with the bread crumbs. Sprinkle this over the crab mixture and bake until heated through and the crumbs are golden, 10 to 20 minutes, depending on the size of the baking dishes. Garnish with dill, if desired, and serve with toasted bread and hot pepper sauce.

SAVANNAH PICKLED SHRIMP

SERVES 6 TO 8

Escovitch fish is a delicious dish of Spanish origin that is beloved by Jamaicans. Known throughout the Caribbean as escovitch or caveach fish, it is made by cooking any variety of whole, small, or sliced fish, then pickling it in a vinegar sauce and garnishing with julienned vegetables, sliced onion, and lemon. I saw strains of escovitch in recipes for pickled shrimp recipes throughout my research for The Jemima Code.

Daisy Redman catered extravagant parties in some of the finest homes in Savannah, Georgia. In 1980, she and three other renowned black caterers and restaurateurs shared favorite party and home-style dishes in Four Great Southern Cooks, a romantic collection of traditional and regional recipes from the grand houses of the Lowcountry South.

Redman’s pickled shrimp is classic Savannah, marinating shrimp in vinegar overnight with onions, chile peppers, and pickling spices. Texans add cilantro and lime to the dish for Southwestern flair, while Scotch bonnet or habanero peppers make Jamaican “pepper shrimp” fiery.

I asked another celebrated Savannah chef how she adapted her pickled shrimp for guests today.

Mashama Bailey is the creative force behind Savannah’s award-winning restaurant The Grey. Located in a formerly segregated Greyhound bus station, the fine-dining eatery built its reputation on Bailey’s sophisticated nods to the foods of her childhood, fine foods introduced to her by her grandmother: trout, collard greens, chicken liver mousse, pimento cheese, chicken schnitzel with white barbecue sauce, and pickled shrimp.

“My grandmother became a nurse and a caretaker who worked for rich families too,” Bailey explained in a Garden & Gun feature story. “And so she always had this elitism about food. It was a sign of success to her. It gave her great pleasure to have the best ingredients she could afford.”

For her restaurant, Bailey wanted to turn a spotlight on Georgia shrimp by incorporating “warm spices, like cinnamon, clove, allspice, star anise and nutmeg. We do toast them to bring out the essential oils. And for vinegar, my favorite is white wine, but a nice apple cider also works.”

I experimented with multiple recipes from across the diaspora, including Bailey’s, to come up with my own version. This spicy specialty is also delicious served on a bed of salad greens for a first course. Be sure to use a fork to remove the shrimp and a few onion slices from the marinade so you and your guests don’t get a mouthful of spice.

1 teaspoon salt, plus more for cooking shrimp

3 celery stalks, diced

1 cup sliced yellow or white onion

2 bay leaves

1 large lemon, sliced

2 pounds shell-on large or jumbo shrimp

¼ cup fresh lemon juice

¾ cup white wine vinegar or apple cider vinegar

1 teaspoon pickling spice, toasted in a pan until fragrant

1 teaspoon dried or 1 tablespoon fresh dill

1 Scotch bonnet pepper, minced, or ½ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

1 teaspoon minced garlic (1 clove)

3 sprigs fresh tarragon

¾ cup extra-virgin olive oil

½ cup sliced red onion

In a large saucepan, combine 2 quarts well-salted water, the celery, onion, bay leaves, and lemon slices and bring to a boil. Add the shrimp and cook until just pink, 2 to 3 minutes. Drain the shrimp in a colander and rinse under cool running water to stop the cooking. (If you’d like, reserve the liquid and use it as a seafood stock; you can further flavor the stock by simmering the shells from the next step in it for another 20 minutes.)
When cool enough to handle, peel the shrimp, devein, and set aside to cool completely.
In a glass bowl or a wide-mouthed jar with a tight-fitting lid, whisk or shake together the lemon juice, vinegar, pickling spice, dill, 1 teaspoon salt (or to taste), chile pepper, garlic, tarragon, and oil until well blended. Add the red onion and shrimp. Refrigerate, covered, overnight. Use a slotted spoon or fork to serve.