Blossom: VICTORY CUISINE part three: ersatz coffee

In the VICTORY CUISINE (CUISINE! Cuisine! cuisine!) series I will explore a range of Extraordinary New (and old) Foods that nowadays, we would think of as weird and wonderful - or incredibly dated - but that played their role in nutrition during the forties.

I do hope you will enjoy VICTORY CUISINE (CUISINE! Cuisine! cuisine!) however, and perhaps you will even hop into the comments and suggest a few things yourself.

If you do want to see me try out something a bit special - won't you consider sponsoring me to do so? If your donation is generous enough, I might be persuaded to try many things. Once.


Recently at work I mentioned that I was taking VICTORY CUISINE (CUISINE! Cuisine! cuisine!) requests, and called for suggestions.

A colleague - somebody I like very much (lucky) - suggested dandelion coffee.

(I do still like her, but I will like her even more if I can persuade her to drink a cup of it too. If she's reading this - you have been warned.)

During the war, in many parts of Europe, coffee became very difficult to find. Not a lot of people drank coffee in the UK at that stage anyway - but if you did want a cup after tea, you'd have been lucky to get any.

Being the courageous, inventive creatures they were back then, people instead drank a concoction of roasted dandelion and chicory roots. It was known as 'Ersatz Coffee' - ersatz is a delightful German word meaning 'substitute'.

When American GIs came to the UK, they were welcomed with open arms, and many English people, knowing that Americans were coffee fans, would go to a great deal of trouble to obtain ersatz coffee when they entertained friendly GIs to tea. It was a thoughtful gesture, as Americans were not big tea drinkers. The idea was to welcome the visitors and show how much their presence was appreciated.

Okay, I thought. Why not give it a try? Anything considered a treat for Johnny Doughboy, surely will be tolerable at least?

Ersatz coffee, like many Victory foods, is still available at health food shops and some supermarkets.So off I went and bought myself a jar.

I'm not showing you the brand, because I'm a nice person really.

No caffeine? Huh. Surely that's a good thing, right? If it's nice, I could drink it in the afternoons without fear of sleepless nights. Okay.

I opened it tentatively and took a sniff.

It did not smell of coffee ...

Hmm. But it did smell quite nice.

It smelled cereal-like, and had a nice roasted rice sort of aroma. Good start.

The jar said to make it like ordinary non-instant coffee, in a plunger or pot. Okay then.

Into the pot.

And onto the stove.

While it percolated, I'm sorry to say that a sort of burned smell started to drift through my nice fragrant kitchen. Not so nice. I got slightly worried at this point.

Nevertheless, I poured myself a cup.

Looks like coffee ...

The first reaction

My first taste ...

Ew.

... was disappointing.

It had a strong charcoal-y burned flavour. Like a bush campfire.

My second taste ...

Ew.

... was acrid. Like a bush campfire but three days after it has gone out.

My third taste ...

... ew.

... Was kind of, of ... fungal. Like a bush campfire that, three days ago, went out because it rained all over it, and it has been damp ever since, and now the burned logs have gone all, all, all mildewy and they're all spongey and white on the undersides and it smells disgusting and there's something about the whole scenario that's somehow just a little bit sad ...

And then the second effect took hold.

What? What's happening!?

The second reaction

 

I started to feel ...

Artist's impression.

I mean, I don't know. It was just as though something ... something vital had been drained out of me.

You know what I mean? It was like ... it was like what's the point of it all? You go through this whole war and you have to do your hair and, like, really really really bad things are happening everywhere and you're wearing lipstick and you're trying to do your best, you really are, but when it all comes down to it, I mean, I can't even I just can't ...

Whoa. I pulled myself together. It's just a drink, just a cup of coffee-substitute. It's not caffeinated, and it's actually supposed to be quite good for you. Just one more sip.

And it wasn't that bad, really it wasn't. Okay, it tasted like a mildewed log. A mildewed log, abandoned and alone, forever alone in a huge uncaring forest, wet and uncared for ...

Artist's impression.

Ahem. Sorry, friends.

All in all, ersatz coffee is not something I would want to add to my daily diet. I already confront Mr Churchill's Black Dog from time to time, and I don't really see why I would want to add the extra burden of this fearful, terrible beverage of burned, mildewy despair to my life. Not in a world with Horlicks in it.

So - my worst VICTORY CUISINE (CUISINE! Cuisine! cuisine!) adventure so far. Surely we can only go up from here.

This episode is in honour of all those brave GIs, far from home, who all innocent, went to tea with their British hosts, only to be served this stuff. In the best cups, in the good sitting room, surrounded by eager, hopeful Brits saying clueless things like 'Our Tommie loves the Lone Ranger, he's seen all the flicks so far' and 'You're from New York? Is that anywhere near to Hollywood?' and 'I suppose you think these are cookies, but we call then bis-cuits.'

Those poor, brave GIs, nodding and smiling while their half-starved war-wracked hosts entreat them to take another slice of cake, muttering heartbreaking things like 'It's not much, we're afraid, it's the last of our sugar ration, we saved it for the occasion'. Courageously accepting another cup of evil, soul-destroying black bitter beverage that tastes of sorrow and hopelessness, then generously pressing on their hollow-eyed hosts the tiniest gifts that yet bring a ray of sunshine into the war-torn world like ... like tins ... of ... pine ... appl

Artist's impression.

I'm sorry, friends, I think I just need to, need to, um *shaky breath* go and drink some Horlicks.

Ersatz coffee: 0/10.

Frock you *sob* later,
Blossom