Baked alaska

I dined at Delmonico's hard by the Fifth-avenue Hotel, a few nights ago; and among the dainties which that consummate caterer favoured us with, was an entremet called an "Alaska." The "Alaska" is a baked ice. A beau mentir qui vient de loin; but this is no traveller's tale. The nucleus or core of the entremet is an ice cream. This is surrounded by an envelope of carefully whipped cream, which, just before the dainty dish is served, is popped into the oven, or is brought under the scorching influence of a red hot salamander; so that its surface is covered with a light brown crust. So you go on discussing the warm cream soufflé till you come, with somewhat painful suddenness, on the row of ice.

Baked Alaska. […] Make meringue of eggs and sugar as in Meringue I., cover a board with white paper, lay on sponge cake, turn ice cream on cake (which should extend one-half inch beyond cream), cover with meringue, and spread smoothly. Place on oven grate and brown quickly in hot oven. The board, paper, cake, and méringue are poor conductors of heat, and prevent the cream from melting. Slip from paper on ice cream platter.

Looking very regal indeed is this view of Baked Alaska being temptingly dished up for serving during the holidays. The dessert was developed from recipes used to serve rulers of the Principality of Monaco.

What could be more whimsical than Baked Alaska, the flamboyant assemblage of hot meringue and cold ice cream?

It was the I-give woman serving up her breasts like two baked Alaskas on a platter that took all the kick out of looking into the boy's eyes. Gigi watched him battle his stare and lose every time. He said his name was K.D. and tried hard to enjoy her face as much as her cleavage while he talked.

Preparing the dessert, Dunlap pours a shallow pool of crème anglaise into a dish and adds an Alaska. Next he pours half Bacardi 151 rum ("this one's not for drinking," he warns) and half root beer schnapps into a sauceboat. It's show time! […] We dip the spoon into the Bacardi/schnapps mixture, and heat the spoon's base with a mini torch. When the spoon goes back into the sauceboat, its contents ignite immediately. Yikes! Next, with our left hand, we pick up a long knife and place the tip firmly into the meringue-covered Alaska. Then, with our right, we pick up the flaming rum- and schnapps-filled sauceboat and pour it down the side of the knife. We gape as flaming liquid hits the dessert and encases it in flames. Oooh! Ahhh!

The baked Alaska, also known as the Norwegian omelet, is a confection that lives up to its name. (Pre-global warming, that is.) You take a slab of frozen ice cream, heap on a cloud of meringue, and cook it. When it's ready, the ice cream is still frozen, and the topping is touched with the golden caramel of melted sugar. Food historians believe this paradoxical treat began pleasing its adoring public sometime around the 19th century. The baked Alaska prototype is believed to be French in origin. Food historians agree that a dish similar to the baked Alaska appeared in France around the mid-1800s.

Unfortunately, this is not a Bette Midler concert, we will not be serving Cosmopolitans and Baked Alaska, so just play faster than you give fucking hand jobs, will you please?