Tropic of Cancer-inspired Russian Mushroom Broth

In Tropic of Cancer we are told that Henry was treated to a bowl of mushroom soup by the Russian émigrés. But I would argue that it was most likely a mushroom broth, probably made with dried ceps.

Russians do not really do pureed soups or veloutés. It’s all about the clear broth with lovely chunky bits in it. I guess it's because Slavic (especially Russian cuisine) has Eastern influences.

Clear broths and dumplings would have all travelled from China to Russia, and probably Italy too with Marco Polo...Anyway, another imperative is it must be served with lots of fresh dill and parsley on top…(never mind the piece of thyme on the lovely pic I've stolen off someone's Flikr page).

And do not forget about fresh crusty bread or lightly toasted rye bread croutons on top. (My mouth is watering). Check out my mum’s recipe and pretend you are in Paris (unless you actually are in Paris) in the 1930s, it’s winter, you are starving, and then some crazy Russian treats you to this in exchange for a couple of English lessons or you know…read Tropic of Cancer or my previous post.

Dried Mushrooms (Ceps or Mixed Forest) - 50 gr
Potato - 1
Carrot - 1
Onion - 2
Orzo (rice shaped pasta) - 30 gr
Bay leaf - 2
Butter - 10 gr
Water - 1 litre
Salt, pepper Fresh dill and parsley

If you've dried the mushrooms yourselves, soak them in cold water for 10 mins and drain the liquid in case there are little insects or grit in there. If they are bought, I usually do not bother with this step.

Simply cover your mushrooms with a litre of cold water and bring to a simmer. Add your bay leaves. After 15 minutes, peel one of the onions and add it (whole) into the broth. Then, cut your potato into small cubes and add it to the broth. Season well with salt and pepper.

Meanwhile, finely chop your 2nd onion and grate the carrot. Heat the butter in a frying pan, add the onion and sweat gently for 2 minutes, allowing to colour slightly. Then add the grated carrot and sweat for another 2 minutes. Then add all this (called zazharka in Russian) to the broth. Finally, add orzo and cook until it's ready.

Serve it with plenty of dill and parsley on top, and rye bread croutons or a big slice of lovely sourdough.

Enjoy! P.S. If you have fresh mushrooms, add those to the broth along with the potatoes. You can also add a bit of crunchy bacon (just dry in the oven and cut into small cubes) and/or celery, and sour cream (smetana). I usually don't, as I just love the aroma and taste of the dried mushroom broth, especially if it's made with the darker ceps, Tête de nègre (Boletus Aereus).

The broth gets almost black and has the richest, earthiest smell, almost like truffles...Sometimes, if I feel I need a "pick-me-up", I add a few flakes of pepperoncino at the very end. Delicious.

A Man Cut in Slices: food and personal decay in Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer"

"For the lessons he says he will give me a meal every day, a big Russian meal, or if for any reason the meal is lacking then five francs. It sounds wonderful to me - wonderful" (Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer, Panther, 1971, p.77).

English lessons is the least "Endree" would do for a meal. In fact the whole novel, full of descriptions of raunchy (verging on repulsive) sex scenes adorned by the subtlest of poetics and humour, is also a tale of perpetual hunger. Food becomes the means of temporary physical and spiritual regeneration through (inevitably) further personal degradation.

There are meals to pursue and Henry is willing to do whatever and whoever, provided a feast (in the best case scenario) will follow. The Russian meals in particular must have been especially memorable. The protagonist is even willing to please a deranged Russian baroness to get some more...He comes across a lot of women throughout this novel, but this one is a special case.

Full of snippets of gastronomic descriptions, one paragraph is particularly mouth-watering. The protagonist sees a book in a bookstore window called A Man Cut in Slices! and really likes the title, annoyed he did not think of it himself:

"I wish to Christ I had had brains enough to think of a title like that - instead of Crazy Cock and the other fool things I invented. Well, fuck a duck! I congratulate him just the same. I wish him luck with this fine title. Here's another slice for you - for your next book! Ring me up some day. I'm living at the Villa Borghese. We're all dead, or dying, or about to die. We need good titles. We need meat- slices and slices of meat - juicy tenderloins, porterhouse steaks, kidneys, mountain oysters, sweetbreads. Some day, when I'm standing at the corner of 42nd Street and Broadway, I'm going to remember this title and I'm going to put down everything that goes on in my noodle - caviar, rain drops, axle grease, vermicelli, liverwurst - slices and slices of it. And I'll tell you why, after I had put everything down, I suddenly went home and chopped the baby to pieces. Un acte gratuit pour vous, cher monsieur si bien coupe em tranches! How a man can wander about all day on an empty belly and even get an erection once in awhile, is one of those mysteries which are too easily explained be 'anatomists of the soul'" (p.47).

Drink, sex and food. What more could possibly be better suited to the framework of 30s decadent Paris. The sheets are stained with Calvados, meals of 'grease cakes' made with stale milk and rancid butter are varied with feasts kindly offered by Russian aristocrat emigrés:

"There are eight of us at the table - and three dogs. The dogs eat first. They eat oatmeal. Then we commence. We eat oatmeal too - as an hors d’œuvre. "Chez nou," says Serge, with a twinkle in his eye, "c'est pour les chiens, les Quaker Oats. Ici pour le gentlman. Ca va." After the oatmeal, mushroom soup and vegetables; after that bacon omelet, fruit, red wine, vodka, coffee, cigarettes. Not bad the Russian meal. Everyone talks with his mouth full" (p.77).

[Oatmeal is for dogs in Russia, here it is for the gentlemen, observes one of the Russians. It might well have been the case prior to 1918; in the Soviet Union however, oatmeal became one of the most popular foods. There was just one major brand (quelle surprise) called Hercules with a muscular horse pictured on the box. It was so ubiquitous that even now, 17 years since the break up, people make fun of my newly acquired surname in Ukraine. Yes, oatmeal outdid the demigod in popularity. "So what's your surname?", "Hercules", "Like the oatmeal?" mmmm maybe the next generation will forget the burly horse and rediscover ancient mythology.]

Anyway, back to Tropic of Cancer. Although the descriptions of delicacies and exquisite wines are varied with graphic portrayal of female genitals and tapeworms, do not let it discourage you. Miller's style is so beautiful, that whether he gives a verbal vignette of delicious mushroom soup or describes a disease ridden prostitute, you will come back for more. Literary genius is rarely fed and bred with the help of caviar and chocolate éclairs, there are slices of rancid "grease cake" one must experience to come up with a magnum opus of this kind.