***Part of a semiregular series about my findings at the Margaret Husted Culinary Collection—a remarkable, undersung cookbook archive, curated by the ever-helpful Steven Fisher, whose 1000s of specimens run the gamut from serious historical finds to freakouts like this.***

Well, it was the sixties, after all. Given how delusional Wall Street is now, can’t you just imagine what it was like in the hallucinogenic era of Vietnam? Only instead of shoving subprime derivatives down our throats, they were trying to shove…let’s see…jellied vegetable salad made with lemon-flavored Jello & mustard.

And by “they,” I mean economist C. M. Flumiani, according to Google a very real person, & so-called “cuisine master” Christopher Alexander—judging by his absence from Google & the similarity in “their” writing styles very likely Flumiani’s alterego—who, “together,” penned The Wall Street Cookbook, a highlarious compendium of grandiose self-congratulation, the incomprehensible juxtaposition of recipes & stock-market jargon, & grotesque stick-figure illustrations. Oh, & typos.

To get a taste of what is “unquestionably the best, most palatable cookbook [then] available”—screw that Julia Child on the cover of Time in its year of publication—just click on the image (as with any above or below) to read the foreword in its entirety. Do it.

Think Flumiani exaggerates? Then just ask Alexander, whose intro assures us that we can’t put a price on prandial perfection—or a muzzle on high-falutin’ rhetoric. Let them eat cake, indeed!




Or at least The Syndicate’s Cabbage Soup—you see, each dish is named for a stock market term, belabored incongruity be damned—with spareribs, “carrotts” & “aregano.” Note the stunningly accurate portrait of investment bankers.


Or Venetian Zuppa di Pesce à la Unlisted Trading Privileges. Can I get a side of insider tips with that?

Or Suckling Pig à la Spanish Wall Street, because “all streets in Spain have meaningful walls.” WTF? At least “truss pig in kneeling position” makes sense, because if there’s one order Wall Streeters can take, it surely involves hamstringing.


Or Stuffed Pepper Treat à la Direct Tax,

which unfortunately omits the illustrated part where you saw through somebody’s guts. Therein lies the secret ingredient, perhaps? Wall Streeters should know.