How the Hot Dog Found Its Bun (16 page)

When the war finally ended, Edmund and Mary made the arduous trip back to their plantation and just like Vivien Leigh’s character on the big screen found nothing but devastation. The family mansion had been sacked and the crops plundered. But there was at least one edible that survived. During the Mexican-American war a business associate had supposedly given McIlhenny some capsicum peppers, an herb that is indigenous to Mexico. McIlhenny had planted a small crop on the plantation and given it little thought. Now it was one of the only things left to the family’s name.

McIlhenny took the juicy peppers and seized the other commodity primarily at his disposal: the deposits of salt that still remained on the island. He threw in a little vinegar, poured the mixture into an old small cologne bottle and liked what he tasted. He initially wanted to call his stuff “Petite Anse Sauce,” after Avery Island, which was also known as Petite Anse. When Mary’s father balked at using the family property’s name for such a venture, McIlhenny went for something a little more arbitrary: He dubbed it “E. McIlhenny Tabasco Pepper Sauce.” Though there are conflicting reports on why he used
Tabasco
, it was likely taken from the title of a region in Mexico. Whatever the case, he simply liked the word.

McIlhenny, who undoubtedly never saw himself entering the condiments game before the war, started slowly with his new invention, initially putting together 350 two-ounce bottles. From the start, McIlhenny was a savvy marketer. So much so that at least one author claims some of his widely accepted story of success was borrowed from another New Orleans businessman to bolster his narrative. According to Jeffrey Rothfeder’s Tabasco history,
McIlhenny’s Gold
, an epicure named Maunsel White (who died the same year that the McIlhennys fled from Avery Island) actually received the original pepper seeds from a Mexican-American veteran, producing a pepper sauce that gave McIlhenny his inspiration to plant seeds following his return from Texas. Rothfeder also claims McIlhenny never used discarded cologne bottles for his original product.

Either way, Tabasco was undoubtedly an unintended product of Civil War looting and today enjoys sales of fifty million two-ounce units annually in America alone. All of which ensured that McIlhenny (and generations of his relatives to come) would never go hungry again.

Whipped Cream: Student’s failed hypothesis

Have you ever tried to whip cream by hand? It’s slow, arduous work. So there’s little doubt that when Charles Getz invented an aerosol can that could instantly dispense sweet, fluffy, light cream, it put a smile on lots of faces (and not just dazed ones from wayward teens looking for a hit of the nitrous oxide used in the dispensers).

Although Getz had worked as a soda jerk and knew what a drag it was to manually whip cream, he never intended to save ice-cream sundae makers some hassles. It was the Depression and such an endeavor would have seemed frivolous. In 1931 Getz was a student at the University of Illinois, and like most college folk of the era (or any era for that matter) he needed to work to stay in school.

As a chemistry major, Getz was able to line up a part-time job at the college’s Dairy Bacteriology Department. His goal in the gig was to come up with better ways to sterilize milk. Getz’s best idea was to store milk using high gas pressure, which he believed would repel bacteria. He began running experiments and while his hypothesis proved a loser, it did offer an interesting by-product—nicely whipped milk.

Getz figured that whipped cream could be an excellent application for his discovery and, luckily, he had just the right professor to help encourage further development. Along with teaching analytic chemistry at the University of Illinois, G. Frederick Smith had established a small chemical company in 1928. Smith saw the practical applications for Getz’s find and also had the infrastructure to nurture it.

A big early hurdle was coming up with the right gas to create the whipped cream. Most options left an unpleasant taste. After trial and error, Getz happened upon nitrous oxide—the odorless and (more important) tasteless gas used by dentists.

In April 1935 at the American Chemical Society, the pair unveiled their findings to much fanfare. Using a siphon bottle put under pressure, they were able to force carbon dioxide into cream, transforming it into the whipped variety in about a minute. The gadget also produced three times the volume compared with what hand-whipped efforts could offer. Wrote one enthralled journalist: “Yes, the chemists, who figure out the problems of war and industry and medicine . . . have even invaded the kitchen to solve the housewives’ cares.”

Named “Instantwhip,” the new product was advertised as “Economical. Inexpensive. Convenient.” Over time other brands would flood the market, leading to a slew of patent lawsuits. In a missed marketing opportunity, Instantwhip required users to refill their containers when empty. This opened the door for Reddi-wip, which gained a competitive advantage by offering disposable cans. Still, Getz’s inadvertent discovery ushered in the aerosol age—leading to sprays for everything from hair products to cleaning solution. Not a bad resumé filler for a college kid just trying to pay his way through school.

Worcestershire Sauce: Forgotten barrel

John Lea and William Perrins knew how to keep a secret. In the mid-1800s, these chemists (British-speak for pharmacists) created one of the Victorian Era’s most enduring condiments: Worcestershire (pronounced woos-TER-sheer) sauce. Beginning in 1837, Lea and Perrins convinced ship stewards to pack bottles on long voyages. The argument: Their sauce kept incredibly well and its strong, tangy flavor was particularly adept at covering up the taste of meats that spoiled during extensive journeys.

The sales pitch was a winner as the sauce sailed around the globe. It was used by gold miners in Northern California and sheep herders in New Zealand. The condiment even popped up in the forbidden city of Lhasa in Tibet. True to Lea and Perrins’s word, the sauce did possess amazing resilience. Case in point: A Worcestershire bottle found on a boat shipwrecked in 1918 was still edible when discovered in 1989.

With such success, the inventors seriously safeguarded their formula. For years, Lea and Perrins were the only two who knew all the details necessary to manufacture the sauce. Even about 150 years after the condiment’s invention only four people at the company’s main plant in Worcester, England (about 125 miles northwest of London), knew the full roster of ingredients.

When it came to the origins of their sauce, the chemists also worked on a need-to-know basis. The bottles simply stated that it came from the “recipe of a nobleman in the county” of Worcestershire. From that, stories have been built. For years, executives who took over Lea and Perrins’s company after their deaths embraced one anecdote starring a local military man named Lord Sandys. According to the tale, Lord Sandys had served as the governor of Bengal and upon returning to England wanted a curry similar to the kind he found in India. He approached the two plucky chemists, who strove diligently to do the lord’s bidding. But much to their dismay, the men failed and placed a bin of their botched work in their cellar. Sometime later, looking to clean house, the pair planned to discard their woebegotten experiment when one of them (or a clerk) took a taste and found it very pleasing. The time spent fermenting in the cellar had turned the inedible into an indelible sauce.

It’s a great story but one that’s lacked the staying power of the actual product. In 1997 a company employee named Brian Keogh wrote
The Secret Sauce—A History of Lea & Perrins
. In the book, he pointed out that a Lord Sandys was never governor of Bengal and “as far as available records show, ever in India.” This led one Lea & Perrins manager to concede, “We have had to say that the saga of Lord Sandys may not be God’s own truth.”

An 1884 edition of New Zealand paper the
Star
offered a plausible alternative. One day Elizabeth Caroline Grey, who was a prominent Worcestershire author, visited the lord’s wife, Lady Sandys. The noblewoman commented that she longed for some good curry powder. Mrs. Grey said she had a recipe, which her uncle, the former chief justice of India, had relayed to her. She recommended Lea and Perrins as excellent chemists who could produce a sauce from her uncle’s instructions. Whether the chemists struggled is unclear. It is said that they originally made the sauce in 1835—some two years before selling it publicly. So the accidental element could have occurred. Still, as the tight-lipped Lea and Perrins are long gone, this is a secret that may never be revealed.

Drinks

Champagne: Devil’s bubbly and a timely pilgrimage

If you’ve ever enjoyed a good bottle of champagne, you may believe it’s more an act of nature than a drink. Just ask eighteenth-century nobles in Europe’s royal courts. For them, the bubbly liquid was the tonic that propelled many an amorous tryst. France’s Philippe II d’Orléans was a huge fan. “The orgies never started until everyone was in a state of joy that champagne brings,” said one regular at the French palace when Philippe was in charge. Russia’s Catherine the Great was also known to use the beverage to get her sexual conquests in the mood as well.

With the drink’s ability to put people into an otherworldly state of mind, it probably makes sense that original sparkling wine was not invented by any human. But considering its properties, it may be surprising that it was initially uncovered as an unwanted by-product.

Originally known as the “devil’s wine” (and not because of the fun it caused), the drink’s carbonation sent vintners into mad fits—or worse. You see, the bubbles in sparkling wine were the product of fluctuations in the weather. Though winemakers didn’t know it at the time, vino begins to ferment during mild weather and then stops if the weather gets too cold during the winter months. In those situations a second fermentation occurs when warm days return. This double fermentation creates a build-up of carbonation.

The results were both physically and economically dangerous. Many winemakers wouldn’t go down into their cellars unless they were wearing an iron mask as the fear of bottles suddenly bursting was legitimate. (At one winery, three men lost eyes thanks to glass explosions.) Financially, the situation wasn’t any better. One firm started a season with 6,000 bottles only to end it with 120. In the northern Champagne region, where only their sparkling wine can be called by the famed name today, particularly cold winters followed by a second fermentation in the spring led to a great number of these bubbly explosions.

It was so bad that most were flabbergasted by these occurrences. “These phenomena are so strange . . . that no one will ever be able to explain them,” one scientist said. “All these accidents are so varied and extraordinary that even the most experienced professional cannot foresee them or prevent them from happening.”

A monk helped prove that man of science wrong. Pierre Pérignon came from a well-to-do family and could have followed his father into the civil service. Instead, he felt a religious calling and became a Benedictine monk. In 1668, at the age of thirty, Dom Pérignon (as he became known) took responsibility for business affairs at the Abbey of Hautvillers. Located in Champagne, Hautvillers made wine, which had once been the toast of France. But because of poorly maintained grounds, competition from elsewhere in the country, and exploding bottles, the business was in serious financial jeopardy.

Pérignon, who would oversee the cellar until 1715, turned the venture around by applying exacting standards for all its wines—sparkling or otherwise. Many incorrectly credit Pérignon with inventing champagne. In reality he fought to keep bubbles out of his wine. Claude Möet probably deserves the most credit for creating a broad champagne market and others also played key roles in corralling the bubbles. But one essential innovation that Pérignon did bring to the area’s famed bubbly was the cork.

One day, two Spanish monks came to stay at Hautvillers on their way to Sweden. Pérignon noticed the unique stoppers in their water jugs and asked about them. They were from the bark of trees that grew in Catalonia and proved a great way to seal bottles. Before then Pérignon was using wood pegs covered in hemp soaked in olive oil. While many historians point out that cork stoppers had been around before, Pérignon’s cork introduction to champagne—along with the creation of thicker bottles innovated in Great Britain—proved essential in holding back the carbonation, keeping not only royals but us regular people effervescent ever since.