A Few Tips from Culinary School

I don't know why, but I'm a sucker for lists of kitchen tips, like this recent version from Esquire, "13 Things You Could Have Learned from Cooking School."

Of the thirteen, the last two are my favorites:

If you want to brown or caramelize something, don't move it. People want to stir things, but the worst enemies of browning are movement and moisture.

Use the correct size pan. If it's too large, the butter or oil you're using may burn. If it's too small, you won't get any color or browning — think chicken with soggy skin — and that's where a lot of the flavor comes from.

Lately I've been really focusing on these two in trying to get a good brown sear on pork chops, scallops, etc., and those two tips really are key.

Pimento Cheese & Gravy

So, the same day I posted my long bit on the history of pimento cheese, I opened the edition of Gravy, the Southern Foodways Alliance's Newsletter, which had just arrived in the mail.  And there inside was an excellent piece by Emily Wallace on the history of pimento cheese in the North Carolina Piedmont.

She has some great material about her family's growing up with Ruth's and Star's, two regional brands of pimento cheese made in North Carolina.  As it turns out, pimento cheese sandwiches were a staple of the cotton mill commissaries, and Wallace connects the rise of the local brands with their contracts with the textile mills.  It dovetails nicely with the end of my piece, taking the story forward and providing good details about how pimento cheese became a favorite food of the Southern working class.

You can download Gravy from the SFA website here and read the whole piece for yourself.

Creating a (New) Southern Icon: the Curious History of Pimento Cheese

Pimento Cheese and Heritage Pork Bangers from Tom Condron
at Liberty Gastropub, Charlotte, NC

Pimento cheese has a dirty little secret.  It's not really Southern at all.

I know, I know.  What could be more southern than pimento cheese?  It's “the pâté of the South” and “Carolina caviar.”  The green paper-wrapped pimento cheese sandwiches served every year at Augusta National during the Masters are legendary. In The Place Setting: Timeless Tastes of the Mountain South, Fred Sauceman writes that pimento cheese “lines up alongside barbecue, grits, and cornbread as one of the foods that define the South.”  Larry T. McGehee called it, “one of those major southern distinguishing institutions, right up there as a subject of debate with religion, politics, barbecue, biscuits, gravy, mint juleps, and the proper age for curing of country hams.”  And, as everyone writing about pimento cheese seems compelled to note, it's a delicacy almost completely unknown outside the bounds of the Southern states.

That may be true today, but it hasn't already been that way.  In fact, pimento cheese's Southern identity is really just a few decades old.

The origin of pimento cheese consistently stymies food historians.  Everyone has assumed that it was a Southern invention.  Some speculate it must have originated back around the beginning of the 20th Century, when big rounds of hoop cheese first became widely available in Southern country stores.  Most, however, quickly admit a lack of evidence and chalk it up as a story lost to history.

The truth of the matter is that everyone has been looking in the wrong place.  To find the origins of pimento cheese, you have to turn your sights up north of the Mason-Dixon Line.  Curious as it may seem, the “pâté of the South” was created through the combined efforts of Northern food manufacturers and cookbook writers from the “Domestic Science” movement, who together invented a brand new product and then made it popular throughout the country.

My version of pimento cheese, served gussied-up style

Almost all pimento cheese recipes today call for blending grated cheddar or a similar firm cheese with diced pimento peppers, mayonnaise, and various seasonings.  The original version was quite different.  It started as a way to combine two newly-available products of industrial food manufacturing: cream cheese and canned pimentos.

Cream cheese was first made after the Civil War in New York State, where farmers in a growing dairy industry needed new ways to market their products.  According to one legend, a farmer named Charles Green invited a European cheesemaker to the town of Chester, New York, in the 1870s to teach Green how to make Neufchatel cheese.  The European's instructions were overheard by William Lawrence, who for some unexplained reason, was lurking outside under an open window.  Lawrence raced off to try the recipe, but got the measurements wrong and ended up using twice as much cream as the French formula.  The results of this fortuitous accident was the soft, unripened product we know as cream cheese today.

The dramatic details of this story are, in all likelihood, complete bunk, but the actors themselves seem to be correct.  Federal District Court records identify William A. Lawrence as the first person to make Neufchatel cheese in the United States, and the only manufacturer until 1875.  In 1883, the New York State Inspector of Milk investigated the manufacture of Neufchatel and found two factories in Chester, that of Lawrence and Durland and that of Charles H. Green.  Green used milk alone in making his cheese, which he wrapped in paper and tin-foil and packed in boxes marked “Neufchatel.”  He turned out some 3,000 five-ounce boxes of cheeses per day, but the factory of Lawrence and Durland sold even more--5,000 cheeses per day.  The inspector also discovered that Lawrence and Durland skimmed their milk and ran it through an emulsifier, where it was mixed with one and a half pounds of lard for every hundred pounds of milk.  For this, he pronounced the cheese to be adulterated.  The finding didn't seem to hurt the company's business, for they renewed the registration of their product’s trademark in 1904 and 1906 and brought an infringement suit against a rival firm in 1913.

"Philadelphia Brand" Cream Cheese
Advertisement, 1924

By 1900, at least five companies were making Neufchatel in New York state, and they introduced several variations, including cream cheese, which soon eclipsed the popularity of the original.  Cream cheese was made by mixing cream with Neufchatel curd, and it was typically molded in rectangular forms in the same 1-1/2 by 2-1/2 by 2-3/4 inch size that is still commonly used for the product today.  Though produced primarily in New York, the variety somehow became linked with the city of Philadelphia, and “Philadelphia Brand Cream Cheese” became one of the market leaders.  In 1903, the Phenix Cheese company of New York City bought the trademark for Philadelphia Brand Cream Cheese, and after the company merged with the Kraft Cheese Company in 1928 it became the country's top-selling brand.

Cream cheese is just one half of the story.  The other is pimento peppers.

Through most of the 19th century, the word pimento meant allspice, the unripe berries of the Eugenia Pimenta evergreen from Jamaica and the West Indies.  It was not used as a term for sweet red peppers until the 1880s, when recipes calling for “sweet Spanish peppers” began appearing in print.  In the 1887 edition of Miss Parloa's Kitchen Companion, Maria Parloa noted that such a pepper, when green, “is much milder than the common bell-pepper, although they look so much alike it is often difficult to distinguish them.”  She recommended that they be stuffed and baked.  Thomas Jefferson Murrey, one of the most popular cookbook authors of the era, was a proponent of the sweet pepper, too, incorporating it into recipes for salmon a la Creole, boiled beef salad, and omelet with Spanish pepper.  In the late 1890s, imported Spanish sweet peppers started being canned and sold by large food manufacturers, which not only boosted their popularity but also introduced the Spanish name pimiento.  Soon the “i” was dropped from common usage, and by the turn of the century most print accounts of the peppers call them “pimentos”.

Cream cheese and red pimento peppers hit the market just as a powerful new force was rising in American culinary life: Domestic Science.  Also called “home economics”, this woman-led reform movement sought to bring order and scientific precision to all aspects of the home, most particularly the kitchen.  Centered at institutions like the Boston Cooking School and led by personalities like Ellen Richards, the first woman admitted to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and Fannie Farmer, the “Mother of Level Measurements,” the domestic scientists were both instructors and evangelists, and their recipes and ideas about cooking forever changed the way Americans ate.  And that included bringing pimento cheese to the South.

Cream cheese and Neufchatel embodied the ideals of “scientific cookery”.  They were soft and mildly flavored, and their clean white color connoted purity.  That they were something new and sold by modern food manufacturers only added appeal, for the Domestic Scientists were passionate advocates for modern industrial canning and food packaging.  Cookbook writers and journalists folded the soft white cheese into all sorts of those innovative new recipes for salads and hors d'oeuvres that today make our stomachs churn.  They rolled it into balls to serve in lettuce cups, wrapped it in slices of dried beef, and combined it with nuts or herbs for stuffing into celery sticks and hollowed out radishes.

Canned pimentos were ideal for the scientific kitchen, too.  Their mild, sweet flavor was inoffensive and unlikely to stir the baser appetites and, since the presentation of food mattered as much or more to the Domestic Scientists as taste, their flashy red color was perfect for brightening up a plate.  Canned vegetables were still expensive luxuries at the time, connoting elegance and sophistication, so tins of imported Spanish peppers held a particular cachet.  In 1899, the editors of the Boston Cooking-School Magazine included a cauliflower and pimento salad on their Monday dinner menu for August, noting that, “on account of their brilliant color, pimentos are a pleasing addition to many a salad, and when used sparingly their sweet, mild flavor is usually relished.”  In 1908, Jane Hegner advocated in Good Housekeeping that housewives adopt pimentos because “these are more juicy and richer than the ordinary sweet green peppers, while their vivid color lends an attractiveness to any dish.”  She recommended them in pimento timbales, pimento omelets, and pimento patties.

The Up-to-Date Sandwich Book (1909)

It seems almost inevitable that these two favorites of domestic scientists would be brought together. Janet McKenzie Hill, the editor of the Boston Cooking School Magazine, published the following salad suggestion in her 1899 cookbook Salads, Sandwiches, and Chafing-dish Dainties: “Lettuce, Neufchatel cheese in slices, and shredded pimentos.”  It's not quite pimento cheese, but it's close.  A decade later, Jane Hegner's 1908 Good Housekeeping article described sandwiches made with a spread of soft cream cheese with mustard, chives, and minced pimento mixed in.  The following year, Eva Green Fuller's Up-to-Date Sandwich Book presented a more basic version of the pimento cheese sandwich: “Grind two small cans of pimentos with two cakes of Neufchatel cheese, and season with a little salt.  Spread on thin slices of lightly buttered white bread.”  Dozens of similar recipes appeared in magazines and cookbooks in the 1910s and 1920s.

It wasn't long before dairy manufacturers discovered that pimento cheese was a great way to extend their product lines.  They experimented with plenty of other additions to Neufchatel curd, like olives and chopped nuts, but none took hold as firmly as pimento cheese.  To make it, they ran pimentos through a mechanical chopper and mixed them into Neufchatel curd along with a pinch of red pepper just before the cheese was molded.  Producers initially sold pimento cheese wrapped in parchment and tinfoil, just as they did plain Neufchatel or cream cheese.  But, the product didn't stay fresh very long, and they soon switched to packing the cheese in three- or four-ounce glass jars with screw tops, which both extended the shelf life and let purchasers leave the jars out on their tables as serving containers.

Commercially-made pimento cheese hit the market around the beginning of 1910 and was distributed to grocery stores across the country, starting in the Midwest.  In March 1910, grocer E. A. Dalager of Austin, Minnesota, advertised “Pimiento Cheese—Something New.”  A month later the Colton-Wilder Grocery Company of Grand Forks, North Dakota, ran a similar ad, offering “Pimento cheese, something new, per jar . . . 20¢.”  Within a year, pimento cheese was being advertised by grocers as far west as Portland, Oregon and Albuquerque, New Mexico.  Who manufactured most of this early product is unknown, since grocery ads from this period commonly just listed “pimento cheese” without specifying a brand or manufacturer.  W. N. Burgess of Colorado Springs, though, specified in his January, 1911, ads, “Pimiento Cheese: it's put up in Wisconsin—and you know what that means to cheese. . . . There's nothing quite so tasty for sandwiches and salads.  There should be a few jars of this fresh shipment on YOUR pantry shelves.”

Packaged pimento cheese was sold widely in the South, too.  Devinney and Sons Grocery of Montgomery, Alabama, was carrying it by May, 1910, and in June, C. H. Baldwin and Son of Columbia, South Carolina, advertised that they had just received a shipment of “'Clover Hill' Pimento cheese.  15¢ jar.  Very delicious and new.”  A month later, the J. L. Janes and Co. of Augusta, Georgia, was advertising, “Pimiento Cheese, you know how fine it is.  This is good.  2 for 25¢.”

The South can't claim pimento cheese as its own invention, but the state of Georgia was actually the center of the nation's pimento growing and canning industry.  (This is a topic I delved into in more detail in a prior post.)  Some commentators have advanced the theory that because Georgia produced most of the pimentos in the United States, the peppers were more easily availability in the South and, therefore, foods like pimento cheese became more popular in that region than elsewhere in the country.  It's a good theory, but the peak period of Georgia pimento production—the 1920s through the 1940s—corresponds directly with the nationwide pimento cheese boom.  Georgia pimentos were canned and shipped throughout the country, and their availability seems to have increased the popularity of pimento cheese nationally and not just in the South.

In the 1920s and 1930s, hundred of cookbooks, newspaper cooking columns, and advertisements featured pimento cheese, and none of them describe it as being in any way a Southern thing.  Instead, it is presented as an example of modern, up-to-date eating something associated in particular with soda fountains and sandwich shops.  A 1921 article in Popular Science Monthly profiled automated sandwich-making machines and included a photograph of “an expert” operating a pimento cheese mixer, noting “the soda-fountain lunch has caused this increase in the demand for these concentrated meals.”  A writer for the Atlantic Monthly cited the concoction as an example of modern “individual malbreakfasting”, noting a man he knows who “suffers from chronic indigestion because, on his way to the factory where he is employed, he disposes of a pimento-cheese sandwich and a cup of tea.”

Kraft Pimento Cheese Ad (1933)

Pimento cheese started out as a relatively anonymous commodity, but before long the big dairy manufacturers cranked up their marketing machines for the creamy spread.  Kraft and Borden were both major producers and advertised their brands widely from the 1920s through the 1960s. Bluhill, a Denver, Colorado dairy, had the leading Western brand in the 1920s, ‘30s, and ‘40s.   It was a hot commercial product, and there was nothing Southern at all about it.

So how did this once “up-to-date”, nationally-popular food become so closely identified with Southern cooking while fading from culinary memory everywhere else?  How is it that Judy Gellman could write in 2006, “pimento cheese is held sacred by Southerners, in spite of being largely unknown outside the South”?  Or, that Wright Bryan of NPR could comment, “Pimento cheese is so ingrained in the lives of many Southerners that we don't realize our passion for the stuff doesn't exist outside the region. Call me provincial, but I was shocked (shocked!) when I learned that everyday people from Boston to San Diego don't slap pimento cheese on bread for a quick lunch, or slather it across their burgers for a decadent treat.”

I'll try to answer that question in a future post.

Handicapping Best Chef Southeast

The James Beard Award Semifinalist List just came out, and here's the roster for Best Chef Southeast, with boldface for our two local entrants (and, yes, I shamelessly stole the list from the City Paper website)

Hugh Acheson, Five and Ten, Athens, GA
Billy Allin, Cakes & Ale, Decatur, GA
Ashley Christensen, Poole’s, Raleigh, NC
Scott Crawford, Herons at the Umstead Hotel and Spa, Cary, NC
Craig Deihl, Cypress, Charleston, SC
John Fleer, Canyon Kitchen at Lonesome Valley, Cashiers, NC
Damian Heath, Lot 12 Public House, Berkeley Springs, WV
Linton Hopkins, Restaurant Eugene, Atlanta
Scott Howell, Nana’s, Durham, NC
Shane Ingram, Four Square, Durham, NC
Anthony Lamas, Seviche, Louisville, KY
Edward Lee, 610 Magnolia, Louisville, KY
Ouita Michel, Holly Hill Inn, Midway, KY
Andrea Reusing, Lantern, Chapel Hill, NC
Keith Rhodes, Catch, Wilmington, NC
Hector Santiago, Pura Vida, Atlanta
Chip Smith, Bonne Soirée, Chapel Hill, NC
Aaron Vandemark, Panciuto, Hillsborough, NC
Ken Vedrinski, Trattoria Lucca, Charleston, SC
Tandy Wilson, City House, Nashville, TN

I, of course, being a fierce Charleston partisan, am biased toward Deihl and Vedrinski.  But, if I had to put some money on the contest, I would probably put it on Linton Hopkins of Restaurant Eugene in Atlanta.  He's been doing his thing for quite a while, but this year his combination of intense, local, heirloom Southern cuisine with fine-dining flair seems to be right in the whole general zeitgeist thingamajig. 

I've gotta admit, however, that even though Sean Brock's Husk made it onto the long list for best new restaurant nationwide, I'm a little surprised he didn't make semifinalist for the national outstanding chef award.  Maybe next year.

I'm rooting for the home team! 

Political Barbecue, 2011 Style

Whoever said Social Security is the third rail of politics clearly wasn't thinking about barbecue.  Michelle Obama stepped into the middle of a hornet's nest recently because of a single line in an email announcing the selection of Charlotte, North Carolina, as the site of the 2012 Democratic National Convention:

Charlotte is a city marked by its Southern charm, warm hospitality and an "up by the bootstraps" mentality that has propelled the city forward as one of the fastest-growing in the South. Vibrant, diverse and full of opportunity, the Queen City is home to innovative, hardworking folks with big hearts and open minds. And of course, great barbecue. [emphasis added]

This has brought snorts of derision from barbecue fans, including my friend John Shelton Reed, who always seems to come off with a great zinger for situations like these.  "Complete the sentence," he told an Associated Press reporter.  "As a barbecue town, Charlotte is one, not what it used to be; two, like Minneapolis for gumbo; three, good enough for Yankees; four, not far from Shelby."

The answer, of course, is number four.  And, the owners of two of Shelby's classic barbecue joints--Red Bridges Barbecue Lodge and Alston Bridges Barbecue--quickly extended invitations for the first lady to come in and find out what great North Carolina barbecue really tastes like.

In the spirit of fairness to Mrs. Obama, I do feel compelled to point out that the other contenders for hosting the convention were St. Louis, Minneapolis, and Cleveland.  While partisans of St. Louis and their eponymous ribs might lodge an objection (one that would be summarily overruled), surely no one would dispute that when choosing among Minneapolis, Cleveland, and Charlotte, if "quality of barbecue to be obtained therein" is one of your criteria Charlotte is going to come out far and away the winner.  Bill Spoon's Barbecue on South Boulevard alone is enough to clinch the victory.

 It does make you wonder, though, whether Lexington, N.C., was ever seriously considered for the convention.  They do have a Holiday Inn Express with a 700-square foot meeting room, including a built-in LCD projector and screen, that might just do the trick.   And no one would argue with you about the quality of the barbecue.

Except people in eastern North Carolina, of course.

No, I Am Not Making This Up

I visited Amazon.com today to look for books.  And here's what I was displayed as recommendations, "Inspired by Your Browsing History."

That recommendation engine is scarily accurate.

Burning with Guilt

As if we all didn't have enough things to get bunged up with guilt about, now, the New York Times reports, we're going to have to worry about our wood-burning fireplaces. I would have assumed this is just a northeastern urban and West Coast phenomena, especially since it's the first I've heard of "fireplace guilt", but the article quotes a woman from Boone, North Carolina (admittedly, a "public relations executive"), so it seems to be heading our way, too.

The fireplace I can certainly do without, considering that at my previous house I never once built a fire the whole time I was there and in my current one we have gas logs that haven't been lit in over a year because the propane ran out and it's not really worth the expense of refilling the big tank.

But, don't you dare come gunning after this baby:

It burns logs.  Real ones.  And for twelve hours or more at a time.

Barbecue: Woeful Lapses Addresed

I received an email from Barry Foy recently taking me to task for some "embarrassing gaps" in my knowledge of barbecue.  The esteemed Mr. Foy, it seems, admits that I turned up some good material in my research for Barbecue: the History of an American Institution, but that when it came to the meaning and derivation of the word itself my scholarship was grievously lacking.  And he should know, being the author of The Devil's Food Dictionary: A Pioneering Culinary Reference Work Consisting Entirely of Lies.

Mr. Foy was kind enough to set me straight with a few definitive definitions, which I will be sure to work into the revised and expanded edition that my publisher will no doubt ask me to just as soon as I get those movie rights sold. (Note to Hollywood agents: when you do come knocking at my door demanding to handle the disposition of said rights, please form an ordely line out on my stoop and sidewalk and, please, no shoving.)

Here's the straight dope from The Devil's Food Dictionary:

BARBECUE: An extremely vague term for one or another of several approaches to cooking one or another type of food, usually meat except when it is something else, which make use of one or another cooking technique that most often involves smoke, though not always, and in which a sauce of one sort or another plays either an essential, a prominent, or a negligible role. Barbecue has a nearly fanatical following in North America, particularly in the southern United States, where it carries a lore rich in history, culture, and the sort of factionalism that often leads to gunplay. History documents some legendary feuds over what constituted 'authentic' barbecue, most of which ended with the victors roasting their vanquished enemies on spits over hickory, cherry, or mesquite embers (depending on where the conflict took place), then basting or dipping them in a sauce that was either sweet, vinegary, or spicy (also depending on location), and serving them with sliced white bread at stock-car races."

Now while this might seem to be the last word on the subject, if you check out the “I” chapter you’ll find the following:

I HADN’T FINISHED TALKING ABOUT BARBECUE YET: In conclusion, every American forms a specific mental image at the mention of the word 'barbecue,' but research shows that no two such images are alike. Nonetheless, expert opinion is unanimous on at least the following points: 1) the word 'barbecue' derives from the Spanish barbacoa, which comes from a Taino Indian word…unless it comes from the French de la barbe à queue or barbaque; 2) real barbecue is made only with pork, only with beef, only with mutton, or only with chicken, except when it is made with armadillos, rattlesnakes, tofu, etc.; 3) only one type of wood produces the right smoke for barbecue, except for certain other types of wood; 4) only Americans cook proper barbecue, except for citizens of countries on every other continent except Antarctica; 5) sauce is merely an optional garnish for real barbecue, except when it is an integral, indispensable component of it; 6) barbecue can be cooked only over hot coals on a spit, except when it is cooked on a grill over gas flames with the addition of wood chips, or in an oven or pressure cooker after a basting with liquid smoke; 7) producing good barbecue is a complicated and time-consuming process, except when it is so simple that an eight-year-old could do it in less than forty-five minutes.

And I think that pretty much clears everything up.  If you've not read The Devil's Food Dictionary (which I've been a fan of since its blog days back before it was published in book form),  you're missing out.  Where else will you find definitions like these: "Pear: Perhaps the only fruit famous enough to be shaped like itself." Or, "Aspic: . . . once a common technique in French cuisine; regrettably, everyone who remembered why has now passed away."

I stand corrected!

A Shrinking South?

The Washington Post reports that D.C. is rapidly losing its Southernness.  And it's not just the District of Columbia alone but a large portion of northeastern Virginian.  Some noted Virginians seem ready to throw in the Southern towel altogether.  "I do think we've reached a critical mass of some kind," the Post quotes 72-year old former state senator Russell Potts as saying.  "We're not a real Southern state anymore."

Historians and linguists agree that the northern boundary of the South has moved somewhere down around Richmond which, perhaps not coincidentally, is where researchers have also drawn the "sweet tea line", a demarcation of where restaurants stop offering sweet tea to customers.  (Though, it seems, McDonald's is now doing what it can to break down this barrier by offering sweet tea nationwide.)

It is a curious evolution, for though Virginia still maintains its long, rich tradition of Southern country hams, its once-famed barbecue culture  (as I've discussed before) has long since faded into obscurity.

I, however, am not one to despair, for I contend whole heartedly that the state of Florida--which most commentators routinely write off as not Southern at all--is in fact one of the most Southern states we have.  Anyone who doubts that fact should try barbecue at Shorty's in Miami or Bono's in Jacksonville, Florida, or spend a football weekend in Tallahassee.  Or, pick up Diane Roberts's splendid book Dream State: Eight Generations of Swamp Lawyers, Conquistadors, Confederate Daughters, Banana Republicans, and Other Florida Wildlife, which I am about midway through reading and recommend highly for anyone who wants to get a feel for both the history and contemporary reality of the state of Florida.  Or, for that matter, just to have a rip-roaring good laugh, for she is wickedly funny.

If everyone out there would just agree with my contention, then we'd pick up Florida right off the bat and that would more than offset any geography lost by the defection of northern Virginia.

And, anyway, the rumors of the demise of the Southernness of Virginia may be greatly exaggerated to begin with.  What better to trust than the food we eat?  Safeway grocery stores, the Post reports, says that the group of its stores located between Culpeper, Virginia, and Frederick, Maryland, "posts the company's biggest sales of such regional offerings as fried chicken, ham hocks and other 'country meats,' collard greens and sweet potatoes."

So I say the jury is still out.

Planter's Punch: the History--In Verse

The Charleston City Paper just ran a piece I did on the history of Planter's Punch, for which I turned up some new historical material that I've never seen anyone else discuss.

It is often claimed that Planter's Punch was created right here in Charleston. The potent concoction of rum, sugar, and citrus was the specialty of the house at the Planters Hotel in the 19th century, and it went on from there to gain national fame. Or so the story goes. Unfortunately, it's not true.

The Planters Hotel was indeed a famous antebellum establishment. It opened in 1809, when Alexander Calder converted the old Dock Street Theatre into a hotel, and it became the favorite resort for rice planters when they came into the city for the winter. The hotel was well known for its imbibing clientèle: a British visitor who stayed there in the 1830s noted that during dinner "very little wine is drank, and rather too much brandy." But there's not a shred of evidence that its bar ever served a beverage called Planter's Punch. That association seems to have been made in recent years based solely on the name of the hotel itself. 

See the City Paper for the whole story. 

I managed to turn up not just a couple of old Planter's Punch recipes but old recipes in verse!