The EconomistJune 27th 2020 Books & arts 71I
n the shtetlsof eastern Europe,Jewish
cooks faced a weekly dilemma. TheTorah
forbade them to prepare meals, orlightan
oven, between sundown on Fridayevening
and nightfall on Saturday night. Yetthey
were commanded to feast on the Sabbath.
They needed something that could be
made in advance but improved through
steady heating (permitted if the
heat was already on). The sol-
ution was cholent, as Ashke-
nazi families call the thick
brown stew that sustained
them through centuries of Sat-
urday lunches. Today, for nos-
talgic Jews and curious gentiles
alike, cholent is the perfect
lockdown dish.
Back in der heim, most
homes were poor, and had at
best a small wood-burning
stove. The cholent pot would be
filled with whatever lay to
hand—typically potatoes, bar-
ley, beans, onion and a bit of
fatty meat if the household
could afford it—and taken by
one of the children to the neighbourhood
bakery. For a small payment, it wouldbe
placed in the oven for an initialblastof
heat. Then it was hurried back hometothe
stove for a longer sojourn, duringwhich
the contents melded into a dark,stodgy
gravy. (Sephardis call their versionofthis
concoction hamin.)
Cholent takes at least 24 hourstomake
properly. But then, what else are youdoing
at the moment? And it won’t requireyouto
stand in a socially distanced queueatsome
chichi delicatessen: you will havemostof
the ingredients already. Layer theminthe
pot, add salt and pepper, cover withboiling
water—and that’s it. Left in a slow-cooker,
on a hotplate or in the depths of anovenat
minimum heat, the cholent criesoutfor
regular inspection. Every time thelidis
raised, the aroma permeates thehouse.
After it simmers overnight, you willwaketoa delightfullyfragrantkitchen.
Ultra-orthodox Jewsneverkicked the
cholenthabit.Amongthemoresecular,the
traditionfadedoverthegenerations.Inre-
centyears,though,ithasbeguntomakea
comebackamonghipstersinTelAvivand
Brooklyn,whogatheratweekendsforcho-
lentparties.Traditionispartoftheappeal,
butsoistheprospectofexperimentation.
Manyothernationalandregionalcuisines
have rustic, long-cooked stews of their
own,butcholentisdifferentbecauseofits
inherentflexibility.Thebasicconceptis
mentionedintheTalmud,butJewsacross
thediasporahavecookedandadaptedit
wherevertheysettled.
InIran,crackedwheatreplacedbarley.
InAlsace,goosewaspreferredtobrisket.In
theEast End of London,atin of baked
beanswassometimestippedin;sweetpo-
tatoes and ketchup were introduced in
America.It isamenabletoinnovationwith
spicesandcondiments(yourcorrespon-
dent’spersonaltwistisa spoonfulofdate
molasses).TheGermanpoetHeinrichHei-
newrotethatGodhimselfhadinstructed
Mosesinthesecretofpreparingcholent.
Butmortalsmaytinkerwiththerecipe. 7A traditional Jewish recipe makesa
perfect lockdown dishDiaspora cuisineKeep it holy
home
entertainmentI
t is atruth universally acknowledged, at
least among the hip, that British costume
dramas are as naff as pastiches of Jane Aus-
ten’s opening lines. As twee as they are nu-
merous, they truss reactionary class poli-
tics in sentimental plots to flog to
suggestible foreigners. But at least one
landmark of the genre should be spared the
scorn. The bbc’s “Pride and Prejudice” re-
mains as delirious a delight as when it was
first broadcast in 1995. Or more so.True, the production feels dated, and
not only as the high-waisted Regency
gowns are meant to. It now seems quaint
that Colin Firth, playing Mr Darcy, became
an instant heart-throb by emerging from a
pond in a clingy shirt. Darcy’s approach to
courtship is outmoded in a less endearing
way. The art of the glance is beyond him: in
a habit that these days would border on ha-
rassment, for much of the series he stalks
and glowers at Elizabeth Bennet (Jennifer
Ehle), torn between desire (for her sass and
cheekbones) and snobbery (some of her
relatives are in trade). “Can you tell me why
Mr Darcy keeps staring at me?” she eventu-
ally asks a bystander.
Yet the wheels on the Barouche box
have come full circle, and today the drama
is more apposite than it was 25 years ago.
The five Bennet sisters, including “three of
the silliest girls in England”, spend much of
their time sitting at home, reading, sewing
and driving each other nuts—much like
families in lockdown. Just as deliverymen
are now welcomed like celebrities, the ar-
rival of the post is a seismic event. Occa-
sionally the sisters go into town to flirt
with the militia, but mostly they find stim-
ulation in socially distanced
walks around their garden or
down a muddy lane, on which
they discuss their parlous fi-
nances or the health of relatives
and receive offers of marriage.
As in Austen’s novel, the
characters are enchantingly
vivid, if in exaggerated form.
Some are so ghastly that when-
ever they are off-screen you
long for them to reappear—
above all Mrs Bennet (Alison
Steadman), a hyperventilating
social climber, and Mr Collins
(David Bamber), a slimy clergy-
man. Those two combine with
Mr Bennet (Benjamin Whi-
trow), the girls’ laconic father,
to hilarious effect. When Elizabeth de-
clines Mr Collins’s proposal, Mrs Bennet
begs her husband to change their daugh-
ter’s mind. “Your mother will never see you
again if you do not marry Mr Collins,” he
deadpans, “and I will never see you again if
you do.” Look out for Mr Hurst (Rupert Van-
sittart), a doltish toff who is drunk or asleep
in every scene.
Amid an orgy of sideburns and double
staircases, Andrew Davies’s screenplay
zooms in on the story’s essential, timeless
themes, namely lust and money. And on
the grubby relationship between them: de-
spite its cloistered, comforting innocence,
Austen’s world is ultrapractical about love.
Even admirable Elizabeth traces her regard
for Darcy to her first glimpse of his grand
estate. All the same, when at last she ac-
cepts him (on a muddy walk), you would be
a monster not to smile. 7A delicious costume drama that has
stood the test of timeLust and moneyThe silliest girls in
England