Digging Into the History of a Classic Comfort Food: Beef Stroganoff

Serve this hearty, sour cream-enriched dish over egg noodles or rice, or the old-school Russian way, with potato straws. Brent Hofacker/shutterstock

Considering its ubiquitous nature at restaurants and in homes throughout North America, it may come as a surprise (or not) that original recipes for this 19th-century Russian dish didn’t include mushrooms or egg noodles. Or even Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup. I know, right? Ground beef? Not exactly.

While beef stroganoff and its manifestations have taken on a life of their own, the origins of this hearty meal are interesting—if a bit murky.

Today, beef stroganoff and its manifestations have taken on a life of their own. Kari Ahlers/shutterstock

To Russia With Love, From France?

In the 17th century, Russian society, high and low, often ate some common traditional Russian dishes—though differing in quantity, quality, and availability, surely. But Peter the Great— who from 1682 to 1725 ruled first as tsar and then emperor—was enamored of Western Europe, and sought to Westernize his empire, even ordering his court and military to shave their long beards and lose the long robes. (He levied a tax on both in 1698.)

Among the nobility, French cuisine quickly became popular, and wealthy families hired so many French chefs that they actually became scarce. So it’s not an unreasonable theory that this dish came out of the kitchen of the Stroganoffs, one of the wealthiest families dating back to salt mining fortunes and land acquisitions in the 16th century.

It is said that a French cook of Count Pavel Aleksandrovich Stroganoff, a general and statesman who passed in 1817 during the reign of Alexander I, created it. But details of a recipe, a particular chef, or whether this was made for the count during his lifetime or named in honor of him (or the noble family) later are hard to come by.

Actual historical evidence does show that in 1891, a French chef named Charles Briere won a St. Petersburg cooking contest with a dish he called Beef Stroganoff. But the recipe for such a dish was already in a book.

First published in 1861, Elena Molokhovets’ cookbook “A Gift to Young Housewives” became the standard for aspiring home cooks. Govjadina po-strogonovski, s gorchitseju, that is, Beef à la Stroganoff, with mustard, wasn’t in that first edition, but appeared a decade later, well before Briere’s. In the introduction to her 1992 translation of the cookbook, author Joyce Toomre points out that 50 years later, the original author was still editing the newer editions. By 1914, the book, often referred to simply as “Molokhovets,” had sold over a quarter of a million copies and continued to sell after Molokhovets’ death in 1918.

According to Elena, “Beef à la Stroganoff with mustard” called for cubed tender beef seasoned with salt and allspice and sautéed in butter. Then a butter-based roux with a bit of bouillon, Sarepta mustard, and pepper simmered and mixed with just a couple spoonfuls of smetana—a soured heavy cream—and mixed with the meat. No mushrooms, no onions or tomatoes, no beef strips, and certainly no noodles or Cream of Mushroom soup.

But elsewhere, the written Stroganoff recipe had taken a turn. Pelagia P. Aleksandrov-Ignatyev (1872–1953), a professor and author of cooking manuals, published works in the early 20th century, texts that went into greater detail than just the ingredients and process but also explained why things were to be done as indicated. In 1914, his recipe for Beef Stroganoff in “Practical foundations of culinary art: A guide for culinary schools and for self-study” included diced onion and tomato paste and a side of potato straws.

Stuck on the Mustard

But the mustard intrigued me, not an ingredient I’d associate with Russians. I’ve found articles that claim the mustard was a touch of the French—Dijon, right?—but Molokhovets’ recipe specifically calls for Sarepstkaja, and so I entered the rabbit hole.

Even before the French came the Germans. By invitation from Catherine the Great, Germans emigrated to the steppe along the Volga River and in 1756 founded the town of Sarepta, today a district of Volgograd.

Among these settlers was Konrad Neitz, a missionary and doctor who took an interest in breeding wild mustard plants there. Eventually, he had something that satisfied him, a spicy-sweet brown variety, and in 1802, he started producing it and grinding by hand. By 1810, its popularity demanded a horse-powered mill. But it was when he served some to Emperor Alexander I that it really exploded. The emperor liked it so much he gifted Neitz a gold watch.

In the years before this, the Russians had relied on England for their mustard, but starting in 1806, Napoleon’s embargos on British trade had made it scarce. This, combined with the quality, explains its sweeping popularity and its inclusion by name in that cookbook recipe 60 years later. It became widely known by its town of origin, Sarepta.

If you’re looking for a substitute, consider English mustard, which is what they would have used before Napoleon’s time. Other variations are aplenty, but this recipe is a good base from which to begin.

Beef Stroganoff

Serves 4 to 6

• 1 pound top sirloin, ribeye, or tenderloin, thinly sliced in two-inch strips against the grain
• 1 cup beef broth
• 2 tablespoons butter
• 1/2 medium onion, finely chopped
• 1/2 pound crimini mushrooms, thickly sliced
• 1 garlic clove, minced
• 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
• 2 tablespoons olive oil, for the roux (optional)
• 1/2 cup sour cream or smetana (see note)
• 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce (optional)
• 1/2 teaspoon spicy brown mustard
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
• 8 to 12 ounces egg noodles (or mashed potatoes, rice, or potato straws)
• 1 tablespoon chopped chives or green onions

Heat a large frying pan over medium-high and oil it lightly once hot. Sear the beef pieces quickly—less than a minute per side—so that they are browned on both sides but not cooked through. If you need to, cook the slices in batches; if crowded, the pieces will steam each other rather than sear right away. Set them aside off heat but keep them warm. Heat the broth and keep it at the ready.

Add the butter to the pan, plus the chopped onion and sliced mushrooms. Sauté for about 8 minutes, until the onions and mushrooms are lightly golden and the mushroom liquid has evaporated. Then add the minced garlic and sauté that for about a minute, just until fragrant.

At this point, one can add the flour directly and stir it in well, or, as I prefer, make a roux as the mushrooms are sautéing: In a small pan over medium heat, mix the flour and 2 tablespoons olive oil until smooth, and cook it a couple of minutes more to lose the raw flour taste. Then add a few tablespoons of the heated beef broth to thin it out, so that it’s smooth and liquid, and set aside.

Add the remaining broth to the mushrooms, deglazing the pan to get those flavorful bits into the mix. Then stir in the roux and let that simmer a bit and start to thicken. Stir in the mustard (and Worcestershire sauce, if using).

Temper the sour cream (see note) by adding a couple spoonfuls of the sauce from the pan, blending well, and adding a bit more until it’s mixed smoothly. Only then add the warmed sour cream to the pan while stirring constantly. Do not let this boil, or the sour cream still may curdle.

Add the beef slices back in allow the meat to cook through for a minute or two. When the dish reaches the gravy consistency, season to taste with salt and pepper.

No one’s judging here: Serve it old-school on a plate with potato straws, or pour it over al dente twisted egg noodles, mashed potatoes, or even rice. (I’m a noodle guy.) Sprinkle with chopped chives or green onions.

Note: Smetana had high enough fat content not to curdle, but the typical American sour cream will curdle a bit if you don’t “temper” it.