The History and Etymology of Sugar

The History of Sugar: A Sweet Diffusion

Sugar was first cultivated in India in the 3rd century B.C.E. and eventually spread to Europe by way of Persia circa 600 C.E. In the western world, Italy was the first to capitalize on sugar production, to the extent that between 700 and 1600 C.E., Venice was known as the sugar capital. Because of its rarity, however, sugar was only available to the rich and royal. When Christopher Columbus brought sugar to the Americas in 1493, production exploded in what came to be known as the “sugar colonies” or “sugar islands”. In the 1800s sugar brought forth the “triangle trade” in which sugar, tobacco, slaves and other goods were exchanged between Africa, the West Indies and Europe. The growing popularity of bitter drinks such as tea, coffee and chocolate created this demand for sugar. When the cultivation of sugar began in South America— where the climate was ideal— the crop boom drove down prices. Sugar was now available to everyone. In contrast to its old reputation, sugar can be found in abundance in cheap unhealthy foods such as soda and candy bars today.

The Etymology of Sugar: From Grit to the Gritty

The word for “sugar” is phonologically similar in almost all Indo-European languages and can be traced back to the Sanskrit “shakara,” which meant “ground or candied sugar” and originally “pebble and grit.” The English word “sugar” is phonologically most similar to the modern French “sucre” which evolved over time from the Old French “chucre”, “sukere”, “zuchre”, “çuquere” and “çucre” in turn. The ‘g’ that makes the English “sugar” unique is attributed to the middle Latin “zugurum”, the Anglo-French “segerstein” and the Norman French “segrestein”. On its way to its current employment of the letter “u,” it morphed between spellings such as “suigur,” “sewger,” “sewkere” and “suggur”. It can be seen in a form similar to the present-day in 1334 BCE in Abingdon Rolls, where it is written “The myreth is swete to the soule, no sugre is sweitre.”
Its first definition is “A sweet crystalline substance, white, when pure, obtained from a great variety of plant juices, but chiefly from those of the sugarcane and sugar-beet, and forming an important article of human food.”
The word “sugar” is often paired with words indicating its color (brown sugar); its stage of boiling, purification or crystallization (raw sugar); its use (table sugar), or its plant of origin (palm sugar, maple sugar). As a noun it can also refer to the plant from which the “sweet, crystalline” substance arises, especially sugar cane.
“Sugar” can also be used in the figurative sense, as in “Shirley’s all sugar” to imply the temperamental sweetness of a person. The colloquialism, “He is neither sugar nor salt” implies an impermeability to the elements, especially to rainy weather. This saying may transfer to a person’s emotional wear-all as well. Finally, “sugar” appears in slang in three grittier senses. Sugar can be money, a narcotic drug (especially heroine) or when used in “sugar daddy,” it connotes an older wealthier man who offers moneys or gifts for companionship or sexual favors.
The word “sugar” is part of a chemist’s lexicon. Its archaic usage probably harked back to its original Sanskrit meaning “pebble, grit,” that is, the textural properties of sugar. It could be used to refer to any elements or compounds that resembled sugar in texture or taste (as in sugar lead… I certainly hope they did not taste the lead, though maybe that is why the sense of this word is also dead and buried…) Today, “sugar” is a common reference to any member of the saccherose or glucose families.
“Sugar” can be used in combination with other words to mean those things are pertaining to, made from or derived of sugar. Some interesting word pairings—that perhaps stand on their own in other parts of the OED— are “sugar mouse” (simply, a sugar lump in the shape of a mouse), “sugar nippers” (to nip pieces from loaves of sugar), a “sugar trough” (where maple syrup collects) and “sugar weather” (a Canadian saying for spring weather). Animals that eat sweet things have the word sugar in their names (such as the Australian honey-eating “sugar squirrel”), as do certain fruits and vegetables that are exceptionally sweet.
Finally, “sugar” can be used as a transitive verb. One can sugar something by mixing, covering, sprinkling or sweetening it with sugar. The verb “to sugar” can be used in a figurative context as well, as a form of flattery, as in “to sugar someone up.” When used in trade, to sugar something means to doctor it, as one would do by cutting cornstarch into cocaine and then selling it as 100% pure. And any oarsman would know that if his fellow was shirking while pretending to row hard, he could excuse him of “sugaring.”

Food and its Conceptual Metaphors

In language, people seem to be prone to many of the same processes and evaluations as food. Adjectives most commonly used for foods are easily understood when applied to humans

Personality as Flavor

He's been bitter ever since she left.

Ellen is all sugar.

I don't know, I think she's a bit too spicy for me.

There's a sour spinster haunting my attic.

Mrs. Ferment's children are rotten brats.

He has an unsavory character.

Olivier is the sweetest guy I've ever met.

He has a biting sense of humor.

Flavors are a fitting metaphorical concept for personalities in that they connote nuance and involve the preferences of the speaker in their selection. Just as everyone evaluates tastes differently, so too do people judge other people and their characters.

The Body as Food

She's a peach.

He's got a lot of meat on his bones.

I could just eat him up.

Look at the melons on that beauty queen.

She's a tall drink-of-water blonde.

They devoured each other in the bedroom.

Oh, that model is just-arm candy.

My teacher is an old prune.

Stanford students are the cream of the crop.

That waitress is a real dish.

That bugle boy is ripe for the picking.

In these metaphorical concepts we see how our perception of the body and the language we use to describe it reinforce each other and our evaluation of the body as a commodity. The body can be consumed. It can be an accessory. It can be broken down into parts. We can rank bodies in terms of their appeal, whether or not their in their prime. We can desire another body, veritably "hunger after it."

Interrogation as Cooking

Sebastian was grilled by the district attorney.

Finals really burnt me out.

Let's put the heat on this subject.

After spending hours on the Sunday crossward, Elise was fried.

He stewed over the problem before answering.

Liza mulled over the possibilities.

There are two parts to this conceptual metaphor. In one, people are the food, or objects of the interrogator, who is the cook. This implies that the interrogator has the power in the relationship and controls the destiny of the person answering. Perhaps this metaphor also comes from the physical overheating and sweating that comes from anxiety. In the other, the answers are being processed and prepared as food by the responder. The person answering has more control and has the time to carefully deliberate his answers.

I consider myself to have a spicy persona, I'd like to think I'm a tart in the 19th-century sense, and personally, I think the worst way to be interrogated would be by sous vide. 

The Semantics of Tea

Peet's Pumphrey's Blend is an extraordinary mix of black, green and jasmine scented teas. This unusual combination gives a complex, brisk cup with a fresh, flowery aroma. Pumphrey's Blend was created especially for a relaxing afternoon tea. It is also a popular tea for serving iced.

While Assam teas form the backbone of many of the world's popular blends, an exceptional cup of pure Assam is a rare find. This high-grade tea has a distinctly malty fragrance, the distinguishing characteristic of teas from the Assam region. It makes a sturdy, pungent, yet slightly sweet cup of lingering depth.

The preceding descriptions come from tins of Peet's Tea, a branch of Peet's Coffee and Tea, originated in Berkeley and has since catered to Bay Area clientele, especially those considered with locality, authenticity, small businesses and gastronomic ethics. It is, therefore, unsurprising that Peet's product design comfortably incorporates wine vocabulary into its descriptions of its teas. Many of the words fit quite nicely into Adrienne Lehrer's extended viticultural lexicon, and some of them also convey the even greater breadth of the realm in which the semantics of taste operate.

As evaluative words we have complex, extraordinary, unusual, exceptional, rare and high-grade. These generally allude to quality and virtues of the tea, especially to its being unique and above average. The word complex suggests that there multiple flavors dancing upon the palette, providing more than a one-note taste sensation. In the "taste-feel" category, we have pungent, which suggests an assertiveness (as in, the pungent odor of camembert). For "strength" we have sturdy, which suggests a resilience. Perhaps the see can stand up to milk or sugar or lemon, or could be drunk alongside a savory food. For "age" fresh implies youth and clarity. Perhaps the leaves have not been oxidized as long, or perhaps the freshness is derived from the uncrushed leaves of green tea that are a part of the blens. For the "interaction of balance, acidity and sweetness" we have sweet, a familiar enough taste adjective, but one which here would not imply a saccharin sweetness, but rather, a lack of bitterness. The "nose" is described as flowery, as in reminiscent of flower, and the "body" as having a lingering depth, which to me, relates to its complexity and it sturdiness. Finally, the teas' "resemblance" to known objects or olfactory sensations include their being malty and flowery.

The quality of the tea is also promoted through descriptions of its versatility, its composition and its origins.  Serving suggestions place it in a social context, transforming what could be a just hot caffeinated beverage into a cultural commodity: created especially for a relaxing afternoon tea... A popular tea for serving iced. I have never seen serving suggestions on a wine bottle (that would probably be insulting to most consumers), but it works for the tea label because tea is very much something related to ritual and to time (the time of day, the length of steeping etc.) These labels do imitate wine connoisseurs' obsession with le terroir, that is the origin of the raw materials of the beverage, a concern exemplified by Peet's noting the tea's distinguishing characteristic of teas from the Assam region. 

 

Snacké vs. Planché

There is what I perceive to be a new word in French cuisine: snacké. It usually appears in a menu or recipe title as an adjective describing the way a meat or fish has been cooked, such as "Filet de bouef snacké et son condiment cranberry, herbed olives" or "Filet de thon "snacké" au poivre, haricots coco de Paimpol au basilic, jus réduit." It appears gramatically in the place where we would see the words "steamed", "grilled" or "roasted"; it is describing a process of cooking. I have no direct translations of "snacker" or its adjectives "snacké", but I will attempt to piece together its meaning from experience, hearsay and suggested synonyms.

In one recipe, "poêler dans une poêle anti-adhésive" appeared paranthetically after the reader was imperatively directed to "snacker" the beef. The suggests to me that snacker means "to panfry in a non-stick pan," and also suggests to me that it is a word not yet familiar to the general public. Why not just say "poêlé" or even a la plancha, a Spanish term embraced by the Frenching meaning grilled (but not necessarily over an open flame inthe French use of the word)? One reader of the recipe responded to the use of the word by saying, " 'snacké', du verbe sacker? je snacke, nous snackons, etc??? Pourquoi pas "planché" de plancha? alors qu'il s'agit de saisir sur une plaque de cuisson. Merci d'écrire Français." In effect, this Frenchman is questioning the validity of this word, especially in that it is taking the liberty to turn a noun into a verb and then an adjective.

Finally, I have eaten "St. Jacques snackés" and they were cooked to the extent of being what I would consider, "seared," that is lightly browned or crisped but not fully cooked. I associate searing with things like scallops, tuna, and filet mignon, things that are especially tasty when not overcooked. I don't think you would "snacké" a chicken breast. The direct translation of "to sear" in my dictionary is "dessécher." I then looked up "dessécher," which didn't give me "sear," but rather, "to dry or harden." That doesn't sound very appetizing, but in English, "sear" does. Maybe the French are trying to fill a gap in their culinary vocabulary, creating a word that also references not just the cooking vessel and the amount of heat, but also the length of cooking, lending a temporal dimension. Using the English word "snack" is perhaps apropos, as it implies a quick bite something.

I will discuss this further with some of my fellow cuisinéres, but for now I will define snacké as follows: cooked quickly in a frying pan on high heat with or without a small amount of fat so as to brown the exterior but not cook through. syn: seared.

The Caesar Salad as a Prototype: Variations on a Theme

In Jean Aitchison's Words in the Mind she writes "To me a retriever or a German shepherd is a very doggy dog while a Pekinese is a less doggy dog. Notice that this kind of judgment has nothing to do with how well you like the thing; you can like a purple red better than a true red but still recognize that the color you like is not a true red." The prototype is distinct from its variations in our minds, even if we prefer the variation.

How do these preferences and recognitions apply to food? Let us take a Caesar salad. A basic Caesar consists of romaine lettuce, a creamy anchovy-garlic dressing, parmesan and croutons. I have eaten quite a few Caesar salads in my life for the following reasons: 1) If I want something healthy or light but am at a diner, theme park, airport kind of place, I can usually find a Caesar. 2) It's harder than most salads to mess up, especially considering that Romaine is hearty lettuce that stands up to a longer storage better than most. 3) I love its saltiness, the cool crunchiness of the romaine and the assertiveness of the garlic and anchovy. 

Growing up in California, I've seen my share of Mexican or more aptly, Tex-Mex, revamps, which means basically that the croutons and any meat added to it have a vague Spice Islands "chili powder" flavor, and everything has a slightly orangey hue. In tight travel situations, I've picked at salads that only used the bitter, leathery dark green exterior leaves, have had waxy, pre-grated, fraudulent parm, disturbingly sweet dressing and those spineless, chalky, onion-powdery, Pepperidge Farm-esque croutons.

In Paris I ate my only Caesar at the "Louisiana," where cherry tomatoes and avocados also made it into the bowl. I like these additions, probably because, hell, who doesn't like those two vegetable tucked into their salads? (mmmmmm... I'm having an avocado moment...) At Boulette's Larder, some Caesary salads I made included a salad of julienned puntarella and dandelion greens with an anchovy-garlic dressing, reggiano and breadcrumbs. I also made a salad with baby romaine, watermelon radish, lemon confit, breadcrumbs and an anchovy-garlic vinaigrette. Both of these made me think of the spirit of the Caesar, but would probably get little play in a Labovian experiment. I thought they were delicious.

A trend in haute cuisine is the refinement of the prototype. Two chefs who exhibit this are Gordon Ramsay and Thomas Keller. Ramsay makes tarts with digestive biscuits and currently has a British breakfast (mashers, bangers, kippers, beans etc.) on their way to a 3-mac and $50-per-plate presentation. Keller serves "Coffee and Donuts" (espresso granita and litte cinnamon sugar donuts) and "Peanut Butter and Jelly" (peanut butter truffles and concord grape pate a fruits) as mignardise. They both have Caesar salads. Keller has a cheese course of Parmagianno Reggiano: a custard of the cheese served with julienned hearts of romaine in a creamy anchovy dressing. Ramsay has a Casear with lobster and parmesan crisps studded with white truffle.

I wonder what the consistency profile would be for different Caesar salads. Does food linguistically follow the same pattern a cup would? I would propose that the authenticity of a food is highly personal, far more subjective than color or animal identification per se. Opinions and ideas about food are linked to memory, experience, senses, culture, religion, family and aesthetics. The prototype for a food will probably be the first a person has ever tasted or the best. Varying degrees of experience will determine a model prototype, and preference and a concept of truth will be one and the same.

Menu Lyracism

Brandade puffs with piperade and nicoise olives

Smoked salmon with korozott on rye

Vichyssoise with fois gras, lardons and white truffle

Tai snapper with romanesco puree, bagna cauda, puntarella and tapenade

Rabbit paprikas with savoy cabbage dumplings, spaetle and winter vegetables

Lamb chops with marcona almond romesco, papas bravas and long cooked romanos

Toasted almond panna cotta with saba and adriatic figs

Tarte au chocolate with bosc pear and poire williams caramel

These are some of the menu items I present to clients. They are the items that warrant the most questions, due to the abundance of foreign words and obscure produce varietals in their titles. Spell check doesn't like 20 of the words. Despite the fact that none of my customers-- most of whom are savvy diners-- have known what korozott or bagna cauda are, I still refuse to translate them within the context of my menu. A "Hungarian dip of chevre, farmer's cheese, cream cheese, paprika, caraway and shallot" it too long to write out, but korozott is what it is because of all these things together. I will not write cheese-paprika dip, because even my mind wanders off into plebeian locales with that one (made with velveeta... served on wonderbread... I just don't know...) In fact, it takes everything in me to not write that it is served on not just any rye bread, but on Anna's Daughter's Rye Bread. 

And bagna cauda, an Italian dipping sauce, is made of anchovies and garlic slow-cooked in extra virgin olive oil. If I wrote "anchovy-garlic sauce," I don't think most of my clients would even bring it up, due to the fact that most people in the U.S. need to be coddled and convinced into eating the little fish. But the name bagna cauda has promise, perhaps because it originates from the boot's revered gastronomy or because the translation means "hot bath" (for crudite) or because when they ask me, I get to insert my disclaimer, "But really, the anchovy is very subtle, lending just a savory quality... In truth, I don't love the taste of anchovy myself.

Part of the reason I write my menus the way I do is to show that I am knowledgeable. My clients are enlisting "an expert". The languages I employ convey my culinary palette and palate, and the fact that I use heirloom vegetable names or include the names of farmers conveys how important the quality and ethics of my ingredients are to me. Finally, I love the conversations that these menus initiate. I get so excited talking about food and sharing a little bit of what I do and love. And I love making other people more knowledgeable about what they're eating through what they initially read. I put as much time into the linguistics structure of a menu item as I do into the structure of a line of poetry.

The State of the Recipe Union

Judy Roger's The Zuni Cafe Cookbook came out when I was about 16, and it couldn't have come at a better time in the evolution of my relationship with recipes. I had recently begun to use cookbooks and recipes for inspiration and guidance rather than explicit directions, and Zuni, which I read cover-to-cover twice, empowered me to look at the title, basic ingredients and picture of almost any recipe and to let my senses guide me from there. Rogers wrote chapters devoted to braising and butchering, odes to vinaigrettes, extensive discussions of frittos and page upon page describing the virtues of each oyster varietal. I also pursue the spirit of her "cuisine genereuse," cook pan-Mediterranean food, and am guided by a uniquely San Francico palate. Her book spoke to me, and her voice still often guides me. It is possibly my Joy of Cooking.

Alice Waters recently came out with a book with a similar structure in that it organizes and prefaces simple recipes with long descriptions of basic techniques. Unlike Zuni, The Art of Simple Food does not presume that its readers are passionate foodies. It is more basic and approachable, and less local in its appeal. I see it as having the potential to be found in far more kitchens than Zuni. It is advising its readers how to assemble their culinary tool boxes, in everything from the knife selection, pantry staples and a canon of basic sauces.

Unfortunately, I do not have Zuni in my dorm room. I do, however, have Simple Food and a French Laundry recipe for lemon-curd based desserts. Alice Water's recipe for lemon curd is very sparce, but it does follow a description of fruit curdery. I have added my comments as to where I think more specifics would result in a better curd, because I'm sorry, cutting corners with egg-based desserts is a recipe for disaster. I can't tell if she's leaving out important instructions because she thinks people know what to do or because she thinks they don't wat to be bothered. She suggests that it be used in tart shells, the recipe for which she offer elsewhere in the book (under "Tarts, Sweet and Savory"... this appears under "Custards"). I have not tried this recipe, but I imagine it is lovely (though at first glance I find it a bit eggy... I like Tartine's recipe, which calls for a pound of butter to be whisked in at the end, and in which I only uses Meyer lemons from my garden). 

The French Laundry recipe is as poetic and as anal in its execution as the man behind it is. Lemon Sabayon-Pine Nut Tart with Honeyed-Mascarpone Cream, is apparently inspired by a cup of tea with honey and lemon. Sabayon sounds much sexier than the Anglically turdish "curd," doesn't it? I have made this recipe several times, often in tartlet rather than tart form. The broiling of the tart is a pitiful attempt at allowing home cooks to brulee the tarts. I didn't like the result. I say buy a torch or just serve as is. The lemon, honey, pine nut is lovely.

Lemon Curd

Makes 2 cups

Wash and dry:

4 lemons

Grate the zest of one of the lemons on the small holes of a grater (preferably a microplane). Juice the lemons (strain the juice); there should be about 1/2 cup juice.

Beat until just mixed:

2 eggs

3 egg yolks

2 tablespoons milk

1/3 cup sugar

1/4 teaspoon salt (omit if using salted butter) (ummm... salted butter varies greatly in saltiness)

Stir in the lemon juice and zest and add:

6 tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces

Cook the mixture on a small nonreactive heavy saucepan, stirring constantly (with a whisk), over medium heat until it is thick enough to coat a spoon (what is that?). Do not boil or the eggs will curdle. When thick, pour (through a strainer!!!) into a bowl or glass jars to cool. Cover (so as not to form a skin) and refrigerate.

Here is a link to the French Laundry Recipe:

http://www.frenchlaundry.com/tfl/lemontart.pdf