The history of Springfield’s iconic food shows the original was nothing like today’s version

FOOD | Julianne Glatz

“They’re just not elegant anymore,” my mother sighed.

Horseshoes? Elegant? Springfield’s iconic dish that almost inevitably appears on our pubs’ and casual eating establishments’ menus? The gargantuan pig-out preparation beloved of Springfield area residents that’s often viewed with disbelief by visitors? “Do you folks actually eat those things?” asked Peter Segal, host of NPR’s “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me” when the show was broadcast from the PAC a few years ago. In their book, 500 Things to Eat Before It’s Too Late, “Roadfood’s” Jane and Michael Stern describe horseshoes as “unbridled plebeian opulence.”

But for a long time, horseshoes really were elegant. They were created and served in Springfield’s most elegant restaurant in what was Springfield’s most elegant hotel. I know, because I ate my first horseshoes there in the late 1950s and early 1960s.

It was one of my most special childhood treats, and by far the one that made me feel most grown-up. Every so often my grandfather, Robert Stevens, who was a realtor, would take me to lunch in the Red Lion Room at the Leland Hotel. My entire family dined in the Red Lion Room occasionally for birthdays or other celebrations. But when my grandfather took me to lunch there, it was just the two of us. We’d order horseshoes, and then eat quietly so we could listen in on the political wheeling and dealing going on all around us.

It was an awe-inspiring experience for a young child. I’d squirm a bit, because my starchy petticoats and the stiff ruffles on the back of my underpants were itchy. But the horseshoes were wonderfully delicious; and the “Olde English” decor as well as the waitresses’ faux-medieval outfits – long velvet (velveteen?) dresses in deep jewel-tones of red, green and gold with laced bodices and matching jeweled caps – made the Red Lion Room seem like something in a magic castle from a fairy tale. And listening to the political goings-on made me feel important, even if I didn’t understand much of it.

Those horseshoes were made with two slices of homemade-type white bread not more than a half inch thick. The ham was thinly sliced from a bone-in ham, which provided the horseshoe shape from whence the sandwich’s name came; other meat choices were also thinly sliced, and the chicken or turkey was roasted in house – never (Heaven forbid!) from highly processed chicken or turkey “roll.” The cheese sauce covering the meat and toast was tangy, and the handful of crisp fries that topped it were made from fresh potatoes. The sandwich was served on a preheated steak platter just slightly larger than the two pieces of toast.

Over time, though, horseshoes morphed into something that, although recognizable as descendants of the original, has become a far cry from those I first ate. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I suspect it must have begun in the 1970s when I was away at college and then Chicago. And I don’t know why, although my guess is that local restaurant owners and chefs began competing for horseshoe customers by offering ever-larger portions. But horseshoes were always rich and filling – even the half-portions known as ponyshoes. Has there ever been anything less appropriate to super-size? The toast is now Texas (usually Wonderbread-type), meats are piled on, and options now include hamburger patties as well as breaded and fried whole chicken breasts and pork tenderloins. The platters are larger, filled to the brim with cheese sauce that’s rarely as tasty as the original (even when it claims to be) and the handful of fries or wedges from freshly cut potatoes has become a mountain of usually crinkle-cut frozen fries drenched in more cheese sauce.

Super-sized horseshoes have become so ubiquitous that most people – even locals – now think they’re the original version. They’ve been featured as such on TV in shows such as “Burt Wolfe’s Travels and Traditions” and “Man Vs. Food,” hosted by Alan Richman, and in travel books and guides like the Sterns’. Websites such as Wikipedia and What’sCookinginAmerica.net inaccurately describe classic horseshoes.

I have my childhood memories of horseshoes, as well as a recipe for “Original Leland Horseshoe Sauce” (p.16) written in my grandmother’s beautiful copperplate cursive. I was pretty sure it was the original – or at least close to it – because of my taste memory. But I’ve long wanted to nail down horseshoes (pun intended), to establish beyond doubt their origins and exact composition.

Thanks to local history buff Tony Leone, at last I’ve been able to do so. Leone is more that just a history buff. He’s been appointed by the Illinois House to the Illinois Capitol Historic Preservation Board and by the governor as a trustee of the Illinois Historic Preservation Board. Owner/innkeeper of the Pasfield House, which he beautifully renovated in 2002, Leone was named the 2011 Preservationist of the Year, winning the Springfield Mayor’s Award for Historic Preservation. When Leone handed me an inches-thick file, I found horseshoe pay dirt.

Leone’s interest in horseshoe history resulted from his acquisition of the Pasfield House, and its owners’ connection to the Leland Hotel. The first Leland was opened in 1867. According to a July 1909 Springfield Chamber of Commerce newsletter, it was considered “one of the best hotels in the West” and the prime reason a serious attempt by Peoria and another by Decatur to “steal” the capital failed, because a sufficiency of quality hotel accommodations was crucial for out-of-town legislators. “In the history of the Capital the name of the Leland Hotel…has ever been a point of vantage which has turned the tide of many a battle and brought home the spoils to Springfield,” it says.

A 1908 fire destroyed the original Leland Hotel. Though it had been privately owned, Springfield’s citizens were concerned enough about the consequences of its loss that the Chamber of Commerce formed a committee to build a new hotel and fund it with public subscriptions. The $125,000 raised was “the largest amount of money ever raised in Springfield by public subscriptions for any purpose,” the newsletter says. “We, all of us, know that with the Leland standing, Peoria would never have thought of attempting to “lift” the Illinois State Fair and that with the promise of the new building, their claims melted into nothingness.” George Pasfield, Jr., whose family was one of Springfield’s oldest and wealthiest, was president of the new Leland Hotel’s board of directors, and other Pasfields were in charge of its construction.

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