baked Alaska

I dined at Delmonico's hard by the Fifth-avenue Hotel, a few nights ago; and among the dainties which that consummate caterer favoured us with, was an entremet called an "Alaska." The "Alaska" is a baked ice. A beau mentir qui vient de loin; but this is no traveller's tale. The nucleus or core of the entremet is an ice cream. This is surrounded by an envelope of carefully whipped cream, which, just before the dainty dish is served, is popped into the oven, or is brought under the scorching influence of a red hot salamander; so that its surface is covered with a light brown crust. So you go on discussing the warm cream soufflé till you come, with somewhat painful suddenness, on the row of ice.

It was the I-give woman serving up her breasts like two baked Alaskas on a platter that took all the kick out of looking into the boy's eyes. Gigi watched him battle his stare and lose every time. He said his name was K.D. and tried hard to enjoy her face as much as her cleavage while he talked.