Good Luck Trying To Find These Foods From The 1970s

There exists such a thing as an evolutionary dead end when it comes to the culinary arts. There have always been moments when brief flashes of inspiration settle into the zeitgeist with consummate ease, viral flashes of questionable inspiration that bask in their 15 minutes of fame before vanishing without trace, explanation, or apology. Few eras were as awash with such trends as the 1970s.

It was a time of pineapple hedgehogs, rainbow-hued trifles, and prawn cocktails. It was an age of dinner parties primed with delicate slices of duck a l'orange, hostess trolleys stacked with questionable slices of meringue-topped pies, and trays laden with enough vol-au-vents to stun a heifer. The food was vibrant, soirées endless, and as the decade rolled to its inevitable conclusion, some were left wondering what all the fuss had been about, because some of the wares on offer had definitely been out there. Not all of it was an invention of the 70s itself – fondue was a singular obsession in the disco decade, but was initially invented in 17th century Zurich — but much of it faded from the limelight as eating habits changed and people turned to the convenience of a fast food industry that offered incredible value for money.

Such items still showed up at occasional family gatherings as elderly relatives refused to let go of their formative years, but, for the most part, they remained locked behind the paywall of the past. Here, then, are some foods from the 1970s that you'd have a tough time ordering today.

The humble TV dinner waited upon the fortunes of two major inventions. Firstly, there was a need to learn how to freeze packaged food; the heat-and-eat concept was part of the appeal. Secondly, television sets had to become inexpensive enough that every family was able to afford one; eating the dinner in front of the set was an essential component of the experience.

Clarence Birdseye took care of the first hurdle in the late 1920s after figuring out how to preserve food without ruining the taste. Television had a much more convoluted path to ubiquity, yet by 1955, half of all Americans had one in their home. The TV dinner had begun full-scale production just one year earlier.

Meals were presented on partitioned aluminum trays and consisted of some kind of meat with accompanying vegetables such as peas, sweetcorn, or mashed potatoes. At times, other staples, such as a square of cornbread were thrown into the mix; portion control was a definite selling point. As was convenience. All that was required was to heat the frozen tray of food in the oven, wait, and then settle down to watch your favorite show.

As anyone who has tried to make sense of the abomination that is the frozen French fry will tell you, not all foods freeze all that well. The popularity of these meals extended well into the 1970s but the more eclectic tastes of the 1980s saw consumers drift away from the full-tray meal toward individual frozen options.

Ambrosia was said to be the food of the gods, a honey-scented meal said to grant immortality to those who dined on it. The ambrosia salad of the 1970s took its name from such mythical fair but was, thankfully, a little more down-to-earth. 

The classic recipe consists of mandarin segments, slices of pineapple, shredded coconut, and marshmallows mixed together with copious quantities of whipped cream. Although the salad had existed in some form since the 1800s, its vibrant colors combined with the ease of construction made it irresistible to the dinner-party-obsessed denizens of 1970s America. 

As people moved toward a more health-conscious way of living, the popularity of the ambrosia salad waned; crisp, dressed vegetables or elegant pasta salads were in — fruit drenched in cream was out. Still, ambrosia still crops up at Thanksgiving and Christmas time as a nostalgic treat born of simpler times. 

In 1953, there was much to do in the UK surrounding the impending Coronation of the nation's new reigning monarch, Queen Elizabeth II. The event was set to be seen as a healing moment for a nation still suffering from the privations of World War II. Up and down the country, local groups organized street parties, as people looked toward the big day itself. In typical British fashion, the planned luncheons were to be both jovial and  formalized affairs. It was decided that an entrée that reflected the changing demographic of post-war Britain should be served nationwide.

London's famed culinary school, Le Cordon Bleu, was tasked with creating the signature dish, eventually settling on a simple plate of boned chicken served with a curry cream sauce bookended by a dressed salad of rice, peas, and pimentos. Out in the real world, the pimentos were often substituted for more easily obtainable raisins or sultanas. Still, the core concept not only held firm, it was a huge success with the general public.

Indeed, the dish remained popular well into the 1970s, although its popularity faded as consumers began to cook at home less often. Today, the festive dish's descendants (such as curried chicken with rice) are as plentiful as they are delicious.

Steak is one of those food items capable of sparking fierce debate. There are favored temperatures to discuss, counterintuitive steak rubs to promote, accompaniments to experiment with, and an endless whirlwind of preferred cuts to enjoy. In the 1970s, however, little of this mattered because one dish reigned supreme: the less-than-humble steak Diane, a simple dish of well-seared steak smothered in a rich, creamy sauce.

The sauce itself can trace its origins back to the 19th-century when a Sauce a la Diane made from cream, truffles, and black pepper was often used as an accompaniment to venison. Many variations proliferated over the years, but by the time the 1970s rolled around, a definitive version of the dish had been established. Ever-expensive truffles were conspicuously absent from the contemporary recipe, and the sauce instead consisted of shallots, garlic, cream, brandy, and a dash of Worcestershire sauce. Oh, and black pepper. Lots and lots of black pepper. Steak Diane began to fall out of fashion as menus began to favor other, newer steak specials. 

Many factors play into the creation of an iconic food item. At times, celebrities kickstart trends; at others, it's more about an item being in the right place at the right time. Hamburger Helper hit the U.S. market during a time of economic hardship. The economy was stalling, prices were rising, and Americans were looking for something to help stretch their budget.

The concept of Hamburger helper was a genius of economic design; combine 1 pound of hamburger meat and one packet of Helper to make a meal capable of feeding an entire family. It launched in 1971 with an initial offering of five different flavors — Beef Noodle, Potato Stroganoff, Hash, Rice Oriental, and Chili Tomato.

It was an instant success managing as it did to both invent and then dominate the dry dinner mix market throughout the decade. The Hamburger Helper mascot arrived in 1977 just as sales began to decline, but the product never quite regained the popularity of its formative years.

Believe it or not, there was a time when pineapples were so expensive that people living in non-tropical regions rented them rather than ate them. The tropical fruit often saw use as something of a centerpiece where its principal role was to act as a display of excessive wealth. Actually, sitting down to eat a pineapple was unheard of outside the circles of the mega-rich.

By the 1970s, such tales of egregious prices were all but forgotten, and the imported delicacy became a near-ubiquitous focal point of the burgeoning dinner party scene. Indeed, few uses of the tropical treat were more iconically seventies than the upside-down cake.

A simple cake at its heart it features a layer of pineapple placed beneath a sponge that is baked until the cake rises. During the process, the pineapple caramelizes, intensifying the flavor and turning the bottom layer into a morass of sticky goodness. Prior to serving, the whole thing is flipped over, revealing the gooey topping and giving the cake its rather unusual name in one fell swoop. Pineapple upside down cakes have also faded out of the mainstream since the '70s, perhaps as pineapples became an increasingly mundane product at the grocery store and the hype around them settled. 

Black Forest cake — or Black Forest Gateaux as it's known in Europe — is another one of those items that rose to prominence in the 1970s and then seemed to fade from the culinary zeitgeist with little or no warning. The cake's origins lie in Germany, specifically in the forested southwest region that gave the gateau its name. It was invented in 1915 by a pastry chef known as Josef Keller. Unless, that is, it was in fact created in 1930 by Erwin Hildenbran, another pastry chef from the same region. Food history is, after all, awash with disputed claims.Regardless, the rich cake made of chocolate sponge, cherries, shaved chocolate, and whipped cream was most assuredly something of a fan favorite.

Once again, part of its appeal stemmed from the relative simplicity of construction compared to how impressive the finished product looked — the no-stress baking process mixed with the cake's visual superbness made it a perfect dish to serve at a 1970s dinner party! Multiple sponge layers could be employed to create a towering edifice of a cake that was certain to delight guests.

It has often been said that an army marches on its stomach. If so, it's easy to see why this simple dish of dried, salted beef served with a simple béchamel sauce and toast withstood the test of time.

The recipe predates WWI but enjoyed something of a revival during the 1940s, a time of hardship, rationing, and, of course, war. The meal was a common enough occurrence during campaigning that soldiers often referred to it as SOS or Same Old Slop; other more colorful acronyms were in use, but despite the grumbling, the dish survived wartime privation and became a comfort food of sorts for returning soldiers.

As WWII vets aged out of the population — and as the military began searching for healthier options for its personnel — the popularity of the SOS waned. The 1970s was something of a peak decade for the dish, although the introduction of ground over dried beef no doubt increased its appeal at the expense of a little authenticity.

In the 1970s, Oscar Mayer released a successful ad campaign that resulted in a massive increase in America's bologna consumption — and this included the olive loaf. To the uninitiated, olive loaf conjures up images of freshly baked bread of Mediterranean origin, gnarled homemade loaves infused with herbs, and delicate slices of slightly charred olives. The truth is — depending on your perspective — perhaps less inviting. Olive loaf usually takes the form of a square, cylinder, or rectangle of processed meat infused with sliced olives and pimentos. Traditionally, the meat in question is bologna, a type of spiced pork sausage that practically drips with Americana essence.As with many processed deli meats there is a focus on affordability here. Olive loaf is not made from the finest of cuts but strives to make up for that with its uniformity of purpose.

Once again, its ubiquity during the 1970s stemmed at least in part from the harsh economic realities of the decade. As time passed — and the economy improved — people began looking for more select cuts of meats to grace their lunchboxes and although the cold cut industry never really went away, olive loaf became less of a go-to choice and more of a fondly remembered novelty.

If there is one culinary obsession that perfectly illustrates the idiosyncrasies of 1970s cuisine, surely it must be the obsession with taking everyday food items and encasing them in Jello. Shrimps, pimento, cubes of cheese, deviled eggs: Few things were off limits, and regardless of what was placed inside the dish was almost always referred to as a salad.

Chefs had been using gelatin to make jelly molds for centuries, but Jell-o as a product began life in the 19th century and rose in popularity over the decades as a fruit-flavored dessert. Clever marketing pushes collided with the dinner party culture of the 1970s, inspiring an explosion of creativity. Jello salads provided an opportunity to showcase the ingredients within: the gelatin itself was cheap, easy to make, and made for an elaborate presentation.

Cookbooks of the day offered near-endless examples of Jell-o salads. In some, a dressed salad was merely suspended in an incongruously flavored mixture. In others, cream or Cool Whip was blended with shredded meat, cubes of cheese, tuna, or other salad staples that may have been better served sans synthetic fruit flavor. Regardless, the craze that had begun in the 1960s and stuck around into the '70s began to wane. Consumers became more aware of their sugar intake, and today Jell-O is more closely associated with racks of alcohol-infused shots.

Baked Alaska is a perfect example of why cooking is often thought of as an art form, and baking is considered a science. Consisting of three principal ingredients, sponge cake, ice cream, and meringue, it offers a near-miraculous experience for those lucky enough to partake in a slice.

The idea of a cake baked in an oven with a still-frozen center of ice cream may well have been the brainchild of one Charles Ranhofer. While working as the head chef at Delmonico's Restaurant in New York, he discovered a way of insulating ice cream to the extent that a thick layer of meringue could caramelize in an oven without melting the chilled center. The Baked Alaska was born.

Such an origin story is, of course, contested – a similar dish known as a Norwegian Omelette also lays claim to the baked Alaska heritage — but, regardless, by the 1970s, its popularity as a dinner party show stopper had been cemented. As with much of the food trends of the decade, a combination of flamboyance and novelty played a part in its success. Still, as said novelty wore off and eating out became preferable to large endless soirées, baked Alaska — an item of confectionery that is both hard to scale and must be made to order — ultimately waned in popularity.

South Carolina offers its tourists visions of natural beauty, shrimp and grits, Grenville Mayo, and flaky biscuits. However, a particular curried dish laced with currants are reserved for those truly in the know. The origins of Country Captain are as convoluted as they are mired in controversy: Some claim that a British sea captain introduced the residents of Charleston to the dish, while others insist that the name refers to the so-called country ships that brought exotic spices all the way from India during the 1800s.

Irrespective of the truth, at some point, South Carolinians adopted an Indian dish of spiced chicken and rice and gave it their own distinctive, southern twist. Recipes vary from location to location, but most agree that the dish begins with a sofrito of bell pepper, onions, and garlic combined with tomatoes, curry powder, chicken breast, and currants.

Country Captain was blessed with a mention in the 1975 edition of Irma S. Rombauer's hugely successful "Joy of Cooking." It was great exposure, and the old-time southern dish enjoyed a brief renaissance before retreating to relative obscurity. Today, it remains a South Carolina staple of sorts and a fondly remembered one at that.

Julie Child began the process of introducing French cuisine to a skeptical public back in 1961 when she released her seminal work, "Mastering the Art of French Cooking." The New York Times bestseller included instructions on how to make her favorite soup – the cold-served Vichyssoise — as well as many other recipes ranging from poached fish to coq au vin and other classics of French cuisine.

The quiche Lorraine was also featured, and in 1962, she dedicated an episode of "The French Chef" to what she described as a "French cheese tart." By the 1970s, quiche had become a firm favorite at dinner parties across the nation. The specific combination of smoked bacon, cheese, and egg that Quiche Lorraine offered matched the American palate. 

Once again, as the seventies blended into the eighties, the idea of a pie made from cream, cheese, and pastry gave way to more health-conscious dietary decisions. Still, while the quiche Lorraine might not be the showstopper it once was, it has not entirely vanished from view.

Ask the average person what borscht is, and they will probably tell you that it is a Russian soup made from beetroot, often served with soured cream. In fact, the soup hails from Ukraine and was originally made from cow parsnip blended with chicken or beef, egg yolks, and millet to make a delicious broth.

The more familiar ruby red soup took a long time to develop but by the time it had become a staple of both Ukrainian and Russian diets, it was ready to be exported to the United States via the waves of immigration that followed the industrial revolution. No two recipes were ever alike, but the basic concept of beetroot cooked in a broth with assorted vegetables made for a hearty and predictably nourishing meal.

Other forms of borscht — including a green version made with sorrel and a chilled version for summer days — never seemed to catch on quite as well outside its native territory. Still, why it was so popular during the 1970s is one of those mysteries that might never be solved.