Croissant

Croissant (pronounced krwah-sahn (French) or kruh-sahnt (barbarians))

A rich, buttery, often crescent-shaped, roll of leavened dough or puff paste.

1899:  From the French croissant (crescent), present participle of the verb croître (to increase, to grow), from the Middle French croistre, from the Old French creistre derived from the Classical Latin crēscēns & crēscentem, present active infinitive of crēscō (I augment), drawn from the Proto-Italic krēskō. The ultimate root was the primitive Indo-European ḱreh (to grow, become bigger).  Correct pronunciation here.  

The Austrian Pastry

Like some other cultural artefacts thought quintessentially French (French fries invented in Belgium; Nicolas Sarkozy (b 1955; French president 2007-2012) from here and there; the Citroën DS (1955-1975) styled by an Italian) the croissant came from elsewhere, its origins Austrian, the Viennese kipferl a crescent-shaped sweet made plain, with nuts or other fillings.  It varies from the French classic in being denser and less flaky, made with softer dough.  First noted in the thirteenth century at which time, it was thought a “sweet” it was another three-hundred years before it came to be regarded as a morning pastry.  Tastes changed as new techniques of baking evolved and around the turn of the seventeenth century, recipes began to appear in Le Pâtissier François using Pâte feuilletée (puff pastry), these being the first recognisably modern croissants.

Culinary histories include a number of (likely apocryphal) tales of why the croissant adopted a crescent shape.  One suggests it was baked first in Buda to celebrate the defeat of the Ummayyad (the Umayyad Caliphate (661–750) was the second of the four major caliphates created after the death of the prophet Muhammad (circa 570-632)) forces by the Franks in the Battle of Tours (732), the shape representing the Islamic crescent moon although more famous is the notion it was designed after the battle of 1683 when the Ottomans were turned back from the gates of Vienna.  A baker, said to have heard the Turks tunneling under the walls of the city as he lit his ovens to bake the morning bread, sounded an alarm, and the defending forces collapsed the tunnel, saving the city.   To celebrate, bread was baked in the shape of the crescent moon of the Turkish flag.

Portrait of Marie Antoinette (1769) oil on canvas by Joseph Ducreux (1735-1802).

The official title of the portrait was Archduchess Maria Antonia of Austria and it was created as the era’s equivalent of a Tinder profile picture, the artist summoned in 1769 to Vienna to paint a pleasing rendering of the young lady the Hapsburg royal court planned to marry off to Louis, Dauphin of France (1754-1973) who would reign as Louis XVI (King of France 1774-1792)).  Tinder profile pictures can be misleading (some pounds and even more years sometimes vanishing) so the work must be considered in that context although she was barely fourteen when she sat so it may be true to the subject.  Ducreux’s portrait was the first glimpse the prince had of his intended bride and it must have been pleasing enough for him metaphorically to "swipe right" and the marriage lasted until the pair were executed with the blade of the guillotine.  As a reward, Ducreux was raised to the nobility as a seigneur de la baronnie (lord of the barony, the grade of of baron granted to roturiers (commoners)) and appointed premier peintre de la reine (First Painter to the Queen), outliving the royal couple.

A more romantic tale attributes the pastry to Marie Antoinette (1755–1793; Queen of France 1774-1792), who, as an Austrian, preferred the food of her homeland to that of the French court and, at state dinners, would sneak away to enjoy pastries and coffee.  There is no documentary evidence for her having re-christened the kipferl as the croissant but the story is she so missed what she knew as kipfel (German for crescent) that she commanded the royal baker to clone the treat.  More prosaic, but actually verified by historical evidence, is that August Zang (1807-1888), a retired Austrian artillery officer founded a Viennese Bakery in Paris in 1839 and most food historians agree he is the one most likely to have introduced the kipfel to France, a pastry that later inspired French bakers to create crescents of their own.  The first mention of the croissant in French is in French chemist Anselme Payen’s (1795-1871) Des Substances alimentaires (1853), published long after Marie-Antoinette’s time in court, the first known printed recipe, using the name, appearing in Swiss chef Joseph Favre’s (1849-1903) Dictionnaire universel de cuisine (1905) although even that was a more dense creation than the puffy thing known today.

Breakfast in Paris.

Although the famous shape is much admired, for purists, the choice is always the un-curved croissant au beurre, (butter croissant), the more eye-catching crescents being usually the ordinaires, made with margarine.  The taste in the English-speaking world for things like ham-and-cheese croissants is regarded by the French as proof of Anglo-Saxon barbarism although they will tolerate a sparse drizzle of chocolate if it’s for children and food critics reluctantly concede the almond croissant (with a frangipane filling, topped with slivered almonds and a dusting of powdered sugar) is “…enjoyed by younger women”.  Generally though, the French stick to the classics, eschewing even butter, a croissant being best enjoyed unadorned and taken with a strong black coffee and while some will insist this should be accompanied with a Gitanes, that is optional.

The cube croissant, an Instagram favorite.

Although much focused upon, the shape of a croissant of course becomes less relevant when eaten when the experience becomes one of taste and texture.  For that reason the pastry used has long attracted those chefs for whom food offers architectural possibilities and while for more than a century one-offs have been created for competition and special event, in recent years the phenomenon of social media has been a design stimulant, Instagram, TikTok et al fuelling a culinary arms race and patisseries have built (sometimes short-lived) product lines in response to viral videos.  Fillings have of course been a feature but it’s the shapes which have been most eye-catching (and by extension click-catching which is the point for the content providers). There have been “croissants” in the shape of spheres, discs, pyramids, spirals, wedges and cubes, the last among the more amusing with chefs referencing objects and concepts such as dice, cubist art and, of course, the Rubik’s Cube.  Many have been just a moment while some have for a while trended.

Dominique Ansel's Cronut, stacked and sliced.

Some have endured for longer such as the Cronut (the portmanteau’s construct being cro(issant) + (dough)nut) and so serious was New York based French pastry chef Dominique Ansel (b 1978) that in 2013 he trademarked his creation.  In the familiar shape of a doughnut, the composition was described as “a croissant-like pastry with a filling of flavored cream and fried in grapeseed oil.”  Interviewed by Murdoch tabloid the New York Post, the chef revealed it took “two months of R&D (research & development)” before the Cronut was perfected and the effort was clearly worthwhile because after being released in his eponymous bakery in Manhattan’s SoHo neighbourhood, the city’s food bloggers (a numerous and competitive population) responded and within days photographs circulated of dozens waiting for opening time, a reaction which prompted the application to the US Patent and Trademark Office.  In the way of such things, around the planet “clones”, “tributes”, “knock-offs”, “imitations”, “rip-offs” (the descriptions as varied as the slight changes in the recipes introduced presumably to fend off a C&D (cease and desist letter)) soon appeared.  Predictably, some were called “Doughssants” (the Germanic eszett a nice touch) although others were less derivative.

New York Post, August 16 2022.

Monsieur Ansel in 2015 released Dominique Ansel: The Secret Recipes, a cookbook which included the Cronut recipe and the thing in its authentic form was clearly for the obsessives, the instructions noting making one or a batch was a three-day process.  In its review of the year, Time magazine nominated the Cronut as one of the “best inventions of 2013”, prompting one cultural commentator (another species which proliferates in New York City) to observe the decadence of the West had reached the point the breakdown of society was close.  There may have been something in the idea the new “Visigoths at the Gates of Rome” were actually pastry chefs because in the wake of the Cronut the city was soon flooded with all sorts of novel sugary treats, mostly elaborations of croissants, doughnuts and, it being NYC, bagels.  By 2022 the New York Post was prepared to proclaim: “Move over cronuts! NYC's hot new baked good is the Suprême”, the defenestrator from Noho’s Lafayette Grand Café and revealed to be a “unique circular croissant filled with pastry crème and topped with ganache and crushed up cookies.”  Again of the Instagram & TikTok age, queues were reported even though at a unit cost of US$8.50 it was two dollars more expensive than a Cronut, the price of which had increased fairly modestly since 2013 when it debuted at US$5.00.

All the recent variations on the croissant are built on the theme chefs have for centuries understood is the easy path to popularity: FSS; add fat, salt & sugar, the substances mankind has for millennia sought.  Once it took much effort (and often some risk) to find these things but now they’re conveniently packaged and widely available at prices which, although subject to political and economic forces, remain by historic standards very cheap.  Often, we don’t even need to seek out the packages because so much of the preparation and distribution of food has been outsourced to specialists, mostly industrial concerns but the artisans persist in niches.  That’s certainly true of the croissant, few making their own whether basic or embellished and one of the latest of the croissant crazes is FSS writ large: the crookie.

Miss Sina's crookie (without added topping or powered sugar).

A crookie is a croissant stuffed with chocolate chip cookie dough and its very existence will be thought particularly shameful by some Parisian purists because it was first sold in December 2023 by the Boulangerie Louvard, located on Rue de Châteaudun in Paris’s 9^th arrondissement which, in an Instragram post announced the arrival: “Our pure butter croissant, awarded the seventh best croissant in the Île-de-France region in 2022, is made every morning with a 24-hour fermented milk sourdough and layered with Charente butter.  For our cookie dough, we use one of the best and purest chocolates in the world, from @xoco.gourmet.”  Offered originally in a test batch to test the market, the boulangerie soon announced “The concept was well received, so we're keeping it.  Available every day in-store!”

Unlike a Cronut which (at least in its pure form) demands three days to make, the charm of the crookie is its elegant simplicity and Instagrammers quickly deconstructed and posted the instructions:

(1) With a serrated knife, cut open a croissant lengthwise, leaving a “hinge” at the back.

(2) Add 2-3 tablespoons of your chocolate chip cookie dough (from a packet or home-made).

(3) Close the two sections of croissant wholly encasing the dough.

(4) When the dough is almost cooked (time will vary according to oven and the volume of dough but it takes only a few minutes), remove from oven.

(5) Add more cookie dough to the top of croissant and return to the oven for final bake.

(6) When the outside is crispy and the centre gooey, remove from oven and top with a dusting of powdered sugar.

Some crookie critics don't recommend either adding the second lashing of dough or the powered sugar because they tend to "overwhelm" the croissant and limit the surface area, thereby denying the dish some of the essential crispiness.  

The croissant in fashion

Louis Vuitton Loop (part number M81098).  Created by Nicolas Ghesquière (b 1971) for the Cruise 2022 Collection, the Loop is described as a "half-moon baguette" and was inspired by the earlier Croissant bag, the original a less fussy design.

Lindsay Lohan in T-shirt with croissant theme.

While a handbag lends itself well to the shape of a crescent, it does inherently limit the efficiency of space utilization but this aspect is often not a primary goal in the upper reaches of the market.  With garments however, although actually a common component because the shape makes all sorts of engineering possible such as the underwire of the bra or other constructions where any sort of cantilever effect is demanded, it’s usually just an element rather than a design motif.  As a playful touch, a distinctive crescent moon or croissant might appear on a T-shirt or scarf but it’s rare to see a whole garment pursue the theme although they have appeared on the catwalks where they attract the usual mix of admiration and derision.   

Sarah Jessica Parker in "croissant dress".

Sometimes though, such things escape the catwalk.  In 2022 the actor Sarah Jessica Parker (b 1965) appeared in HBO's And Just Like That, a spin-off (2021-2022) of the Sex and the City TV series (1998-2024), wearing an orange Valentino couture gown from the house’s spring/summer 2019 collection.  It recalled a large croissant, the piece chosen presumably because the scene was set in Paris although it must have been thought the viewers needed the verisimilitude laid on with a trowel because also prominent was a handbag in the shape of the Eifel Tower.  A gift to the meme-makers, admiration for the dress was restrained.

Utopia & Dystopia

Utopia (pronounced yoo-toh-pee-uh)

(1) An imaginary island described in Sir Thomas More's Utopia, a place enjoying perfection in law, society and politics; such a place cannot exist.

(2) An ideal place or state of being.

(3) Any visionary system of political or social perfection.

(4) A popular product name in the illicit drug industry.

1516: From the New Latin utopia (literally "nowhere"), coined by Sir Thomas More (1478–1535) and used as title of his 1516 book about an imaginary island enjoying perfect legal, social, and political systems although the author’s meaning was rather more nuanced than that the casual use of “utopia” is used usually to convey.  The construct was the Ancient Greek οὐ (ou) (not) +‎ τόπος (topos) (place; region) + ia (from the Classical Latin ia and the Ancient Greek ία (ía) & εια (eia) which form abstract nouns of feminine gender).  The meaning was extended to "any perfect place" by the early seventeenth century.  Marx used the word in disparagement of the “…useless utopian myths…” he thought infected the schools of socialist too remote from political and economic reality.  The French form was utopie.  Utopia, utopographer, utopianizer, utopianization & utopianism are nouns, utopian & utopist are nouns & adjectives, utopianize is a verb, utopianistic is an adjective, utopianly is an adverb; the noun plural is utopias.

Dystopia (pronounced dis-toh-pee-uh)

(1) A society characterized by human misery, as squalor, oppression, disease, and overcrowding.

(2) Any imaginary place or state of being where everything is bad.

1868: A compound word dys + (u)topia, the word coined by the English philosopher John Stuart Mill (1806–1873) and its first public use was in one of his speeches delivered in the House of Commons.  The construct was the Ancient Greek δυσ (dus) (bad) + τόπος (tópos) (place; region) + ia (from the Classical Latin ia and the Ancient Greek ία (ía) & εια (eia) which form abstract nouns of feminine gender). It’s since usually been used in the sense of any bad place, real or imagined.  In popular culture, depictions of dystopia have tended to follow the concerns of the time; pandemics, nuclear war, alien invasion, dictatorial régimes and climate change.  The spelling distopia is erroneous but not uncommon.  Dystopia, dystopographer, dystopianizer, dystopianization & dystopianism are nouns, dystopian & dystopist are nouns & adjectives, dystopianize is a verb, dystopianistic is an adjective and dystopianly is an adverb; the noun plural is dystopias.  The constructs follow the model of those derived from utopia although in use, most are rare.

Urban future by noted practitioner of dystopian art, Polina Kulagina.  There is an entire genre of dystopian art and literature.

For something which More insisted can't exist, utopia has survived well and it's proved a popular building block.  A gaytopia is the sort of place (real or imagined) which is (for whatever reason) a paradise for the LGBTQQIAAOP community and the hetrotopia was apparently a right-wing reaction to that, the idea being a "gay-free" zone.  A pornotopia is a place (real or virtual) in which every form of pornography however depraved was available; it was a specialized form of an infotopia which was something like the original vision of some for the WorldWideWeb (WWW) back when Al Gore (b 1948; US vice president (VPOTUS) 1993-2001 & in 2000 the next president of the United States (NPOTUS)) called it the "information superhighway".  Apparently he invented the internet so it's reasonable he assumed naming rights.  Pornotopia was originally used to describe a imagined world where all were willing (even anxious) to engage in all forms of sexual activity while an intimatopia was a fantasy world serving as an ideal setting for sexually charged relationships involving a high degree of sustained emotional intimacy.  The romantopia was a world imagined by women as the ideal setting for romantic love (it has dismissively been called millsandboonatopia).  A cyberutopia is a kind of heaven for nerds, a place full of cables, computers, routers and coffee machines where Coca-Cola & pizza are free.  The technoutopia is much the same sort of place and one inhabited by technoutopians and technoutopists dedicated to the pursuit of technoutopism.  An autopia was envisaged as an urban landscape designed around the use of the automobile and it's long been used as a critique of certain cities of which Los Angeles is the best-known example although there are many cities where traffic management is far, far worse.  The negative forms can be a bit fuzzy (and remember More's Utopia was used as an internally negated concept).  Dystopia is well known but there is also unutopia & anti-utopia, all appearing to mean "the antithesis of utopia".  On the rare occasions anti-utopia & unutopia appear, it's advised to deconstruct the context.

The dystopian vision of Dante's Inferno: The Fifth Circle (1587) by Stradanus (1523-1605)), depicting Virgil and Dante on the River Styx in the fifth circle of Hell where the wrathful are for eternity condemned to splash around on the surface, fighting each other.  Dante Alighieri's (circa 1265–1321), Divine Comedy was written between 1307-1321 and helping the pair cross is the infernal ferryman Phlegyas.  Stradanus was one of the many names under which the Flemish artist Jan van der Straet painted, the others including Giovanni della Strada, Johannes della Strada, Giovanni Stradano, Johannes Stradano, Giovanni Stradanus, Johannes Stradanus, Jan van Straeten & Jan van Straten.

So influential has been Robert Bolt’s (1924–1995) play A Man for All Seasons (1960) in forming the public perception of Sir Thomas More that he seems now remembered as a kind of proto-liberal.  It is true he held opinions which would have been shared by few (lord) chancellors of the last 500-odd years including a condemnation of private property and the idea that the very structure of English society was a “conspiracy of the rich”.  Centuries before Karl Marx (1818-1883), he discussed the surplus value of labor and the mechanisms by which working people were alienated for this value so it could be absorbed by the already rich to add to their wealth.  So he ticks many boxes of wokeness but he also held views on women and their place that would make social media identity Andrew Tate (b 1986) follow his X (formerly known as Twitter) account.

More’s book Utopia is similarly misunderstood, the modern use of the word meaning many who have never read it merely assume what it means.  Structurally, it was influential because it contains threads identifiable as both science fiction (SF) and fantasy and in both these genres, authors have often described “utopias”, usually either as (1) places of unrestricted self-indulgence or (2) places in which everything is so antiseptically perfect that humans, with their inherent imperfections, just “don’t fit in”.  In these alternative universes, being fictional, something has to happen and what often occurs is that they turn into dystopias, the ultimately inadequate human inhabitants dealt with; that which doesn't "fit in" must be "thrown out".  More wasn’t quite so theatrical; his original title for the book was in Latin and is best translated as something like “the Best State of a Commonwealth on the New Island of Utopia” and, living in troubled times, his book explored ways society might be arranged in another way that would ensure the intrigue, corruption and scandal with which he was familiar might be avoided.  Unlike England with its then quite rigid hierarchical structure, Utopia was a communal venture and one in which forms of wealth existed but only as a means to ensure things run smoothly.  Not only was the quest to accumulate wealth not pursued, the very idea was absurd because it would fulfil no useful purpose.  Unfortunately, such is the nature of man that it seems such a place can never exist, or at least not long survive, thus the choice of the name Utopia (“nowhere” in the New Latin).

Algorithm

Algorithm (pronounced al-guh-rith-um)

(1) A set of rules for solving a problem in a finite number of steps.

(2) In computing, a finite set of unambiguous instructions performed in a prescribed sequence to achieve a goal, especially a mathematical rule or procedure used to compute a desired result.

(3) In mathematics and formal logic, a recursive procedure whereby an infinite sequence of terms can be generated.

1690s: From the Middle English algorisme & augrym, from the Anglo-Norman algorisme & augrimfrom, from the French algorithme, re-fashioned (under mistaken connection with Greek αριθμός (arithmos) (number)) from the Old French algorisme (the Arabic numeral system) from the Medieval Latin algorismus, a (not untypical) mangled transliteration of the Arabic ⁧الخَوَارِزْمِيّ⁩ (al-ḵawārizmiyy), the nisba (the part of an Arabic name consisting a derivational adjective) of the ninth century Persian mathematician Muḥammad ibn Mūsā al-Khwārizmī and a toponymic name meaning “person from Chorasmia” (native of Khwarazm (modern Khiva in Uzbekistan)).  It was Muḥammad ibn Mūsā al-Khwārizmī works which introduced to the West some sophisticated mathematics (including algebra). The earlier form in Middle English was the thirteenth century algorism from the Old French and in English, it was first used in about 1230 and then by the English poet Geoffrey Chaucer (circa 1344-1400) in 1391.  English adopted the French term, but it wasn't until the late nineteenth century that algorithm began to assume its modern sense.  Before that, by 1799, the adjective algorithmic (the construct being algorithm + -ic) was in use and the first use in reference to symbolic rules or language dates from 1881.  The suffix -ic was from the Middle English -ik, from the Old French -ique, from the Latin -icus, from the primitive Indo-European -kos & -ḱos, formed with the i-stem suffix -i- and the adjectival suffix -kos & -ḱos.  The form existed also in the Ancient Greek as -ικός (-ikós), in Sanskrit as -इक (-ika) and the Old Church Slavonic as -ъкъ (-ŭkŭ); A doublet of -y.  In European languages, adding -kos to noun stems carried the meaning "characteristic of, like, typical, pertaining to" while on adjectival stems it acted emphatically; in English it's always been used to form adjectives from nouns with the meaning “of or pertaining to”.  A precise technical use exists in physical chemistry where it's used to denote certain chemical compounds in which a specified chemical element has a higher oxidation number than in the equivalent compound whose name ends in the suffix -ous; (eg sulphuric acid (H₂SO₄) has more oxygen atoms per molecule than sulphurous acid (H₂SO₃).  The noun algorism, from the Old French algorisme was an early alternative form of algorithm; algorismic was a related form.  The meaning broadened to any method of computation and from the mid twentieth century became especially associated with computer programming to the point where, in general use, this link is often thought exclusive.  The spelling algorism has been obsolete since the 1920s.  Algorithm, algorithmist, algorithmizability, algorithmocracy, algorithmization & algorithmics are nouns, algorithmize is a verb, algorithmic & algorithmizable are adjectives and algorithmically is an adverb; the noun plural is algorithms.

Babylonian and later algorithms

An early Babylonian algorithm in clay.

Although there is evidence multiplication algorithms existed in Egypt (circa 1700-2000 BC), a handful of Babylonian clay tablets dating from circa 1800-1600 BC are the oldest yet found and thus the world's first known algorithm.  The calculations described on the tablets are not solutions to specific individual problems but a collection of general procedures for solving whole classes of problems.  Translators consider them best understood as an early form of instruction manual.  When translated, one tablet was found to include the still familiar “This is the procedure”, a phrase the essence of every algorithm.  There must have been many such tablets but there's a low survival rate of stuff from 40 centuries ago not regarded as valuable.

So associated with computer code has the word "algorithm" become that it's likely a goodly number of those hearing it assume this was its origin and any instance of use happens in software.  The use in this context, while frequent, is not exclusive but the general perception might be it's just that.  It remains technically correct that almost any set of procedural instructions can be dubbed an algorithm but given the pattern of use from the mid-twentieth century, to do so would likely mislead or confuse confuse many who might assume they were being asked to write the source code for software.  Of course, the sudden arrival of mass-market generative AI (artificial intelligence) has meant anyone can, in conversational (though hopefully unambiguous) text, ask their tame AI bot to produce an algorithm in the syntax of the desired coding language.  That is passing an algorithm (using the structures of one language) to a machine which interprets the text and converts it to language in another structure, something programmers have for decades been doing for their clients.

A much-distributed general purpose algorithm (really more of a flow-chart) which seems so universal it can be used by mechanics, programmers, lawyers, physicians, plumbers, carpet layers, concreting contractors and just about anyone whose profession is object or task-oriented.   

The AI bots have proved especially adept at such tasks.  While a question such as: "What were the immediate implications for Spain of the formation of the Holy Alliance?" produces varied results from generative AI which seem to range from the workmanlike to the inventive, when asked to produce computer code the results seem usually to be in accord with a literal interpretation of the request.  That shouldn't be unexpected; a discussion of early nineteenth century politics in the Iberian Peninsular is by its nature going to to be discursive while the response to a request for code to locate instances of split infinitives in a text file is likely to vary little between AI models.  Computer languages of course impose a structure where syntax needs exactly to conform to defined parameters (even the most basic of the breed such as that PC/MS-DOS used for batch files was intolerant of a single missing or mis-placed character) whereas something like the instructions to make a cup of tea (which is an algorithm even if not commonly thought of as one) greatly can vary in form even though the steps and end results can be the same.

An example of a "how to make a cup of tea" algorithm.  This is written for a human and thus contains many assumptions of knowledge; one written for a humanoid robot would be much longer and include steps such as "turn cold tap clockwise" and "open refrigerator door".

The so-called “rise of the algorithm” is something that has attracted much comment since social media gained critical mass; prior to that algorithms had been used increasingly in all sorts of places but it was the particular intimacy social media engenders which meant awareness increased and perceptions changed.  The new popularity of the word encouraged the coining of derived forms, some of which were originally (at least to some degree) humorous but beneath the jocularity, many discovered the odd truth.  An algorithmocracy describes a “rule by algorithms”, a critique in political science which discusses the implications of political decisions are being made by algorithms, something which in theory would make representative and responsible government not so much obsolete as unnecessary.  Elements of this have been identified in the machinery of government such as the “Robodebt” scandal in Australia in which one or more algorithms were used to raise and pursue what were alleged to be debts incurred by recipients of government transfer payments.  Despite those in charge of the scheme and relevant cabinet ministers being informed the algorithm was flawed and there had been suicides among those wrongly accused, the politicians did nothing to intervene until forced by various legal actions.  While defending Robodebt, the politicians found it very handy essentially to disavow connection with the processes which were attributed to the algorithm.

The feeds generated by Instagram, Facebook, X (formerly known as Twitter) and such are also sometimes described as algorithmocracies in that it’s the algorithm which determines what content is directed to which user.  Activists have raised concerns about the way the social media algorithms operate, creating “feedback loops” whereby feeds become increasingly narrow and one-sided in focus, acting only to reinforce opinions rather than inform.  In fairness, that wasn’t the purpose of the design which was simply to keep the user engaged, thereby allowing the platform to harvest more the product (the user’s attention) they sell to consumers (the advertisers).  Everything else is an unintended consequence and an industry joke was the word “algorithm” was used by tech company CEOs when they didn’t wish to admit the truth.  A general awareness of that now exists but filter bubbles won’t be going away but what it did produce were the words algorithmophobe (someone unhappy or resentful about the impact of algorithms in their life) and algorithmophile (which technically should mean “a devotee or admirer of algorithms” but is usually applied in the sense of “someone indifferent to or uninterested in the operations of algorithms”, the latter represented by the great mass of consumers digitally bludgeoned into a state of acquiescent insensibility.

Some of the products are fighting back: The Algorithm: How AI Decides Who Gets Hired, Monitored, Promoted, and Fired and Why We Need to Fight Back Now (2024) by  by Hilke Schellmann, pp 336, Hachette Books (ISBN-13: 978-1805260981).

Among nerds, there are also fine distinctions.  There are subalgorithms (sub-algorithm seems not a thing) which is a (potentially stand-alone) algorithm within a larger one, a concept familiar in many programming languages as a “sub-routine” although distinct from a remote procedure call (RPC) which is a subroutine being executed in a different address space.  The polyalgorithm (again hyphens just not cool) is a set of two or more algorithms (or subalgorithms) with instructions for choosing which in some way integrated.  A very nerdy dispute does exist within mathematics and computer science around whether an algorithm, at the definitional level, really does need to be restricted to a finite number of steps.  The argument can eventually extend to the very possibility of infinity (or types of infinity according to some) so it really is the preserve of nerds.  In real-world application, a program is an algorithm only if (even eventually), it stops; it need not have a middle but must have a beginning and an end.

There is also the mysterious pseudoalgorithm, something les suspicious than it may first appear.  Pseudoalgorithms exist usually for didactic purposes and will usually interpolate (sometime large) fragments of a real algorithm bit it may be in a syntax which is not specific to a particular (or any) programming language, the purpose being illustrative and explanatory.  Intended to be read by humans rather than a machine, all a pseudoalgorithm has to achieve is clarity in imparting information, the algorithmic component there only to illustrate something conceptual rather than be literally executable.  The pseudoalgorithm model is common in universities and textbooks and can be simplified because millions of years of evolution mean humans can do their own error correction on the fly.

Of the algorithmic

The Netflix algorithm in action: Lindsay Lohan (with body-double) in Irish Wish (2024).  The car is a Triumph TR4 (1961-1967), one of the early versions with a live rear axle, a detail probably of no significance in the plot-line.

The adjective algorithmic has also emerged as an encapsulated criticism, applied to everything from restaurant menus, coffee shop décor, choices of typefaces and background music.  An entire ecosystem (Instagram et al) has been suggested as the reason for this multi-culture standardization in which a certain “look, sound or feel” becomes “commoditised by acclamation” as the “standard model” of whatever is being discussed.  That critique has by some been dismissed as something reflective of the exclusivity of the pattern of consumption by those who form theories about what seem not very important matters; it’s just they only go to the best coffee shops in the nicest parts of town.  In popular culture though the effect of the algorithmic is widespread, entrenched and well-understood and already the AI bots are using algorithms to write music will be popular, needing (for now) only human performers.  Some algorithms have become well-known such as the “Netflix algorithm” which presumably doesn’t exist as a conventional algorithm might but is understood as the sets of conventions, plotlines, casts and themes which producers know will have the greatest appeal to the platform.  The idea is nothing new; for decades hopeful authors who sent manuscripts to Mills & Boon would receive one of the more gentle rejection slips, telling them their work was very good but “not a Mills & Boon book”.  To help, the letter would include a brochure which was essentially a “how to write a Mills & Boon book” guide and it included a summary of the acceptable plot lines of which there were at one point reputedly some two dozen.  The “Netflix algorithm” was referenced when Falling for Christmas, the first fruits of Lindsay Lohan’s three film deal with the platform was released in 2022.  It was an example of followed a blending of several genres (redemption, Christmas movie, happy ending etc) and the upcoming second film (Irish Wish)  is of the “…always a bridesmaid, never a bride — unless, of course, your best friend gets engaged to the love of your life, you make a spontaneous wish for true love, and then magically wake up as the bride-to-be.” school; plenty of familiar elements there so it’ll be interesting to see if the algorithm was well-tuned.

Irrefragable

Irrefragable (pronounced ih-ref-ruh-guh-buhl)

(1) Not to be disputed or contested (as assertion).

(2) Not able to be denied or refuted; indisputable (as fact).

(3) That which cannot or should not be broken; indestructible (archaic and probably extinct).

(4) Of a person, someone obstinate; stubborn (obsolete except as a literary device).

1525–1535: A learned borrowing from Late Latin irrefrāgābilis (irrefragable) with the English suffix –able appended.  The suffix -able was from the Middle English -able, from the Old French -able, from the Latin -ābilis (capable or worthy of being acted upon), from the primitive Indo-European i-stem forms -dahli- or -dahlom (instrumental suffix); it was used to create adjectives with the sense of “able or fit to be done”.  The construct of irrefrāgābilis was the Latin ir- (a variant of in- (used a prefix meaning “not”)) + refragā(rī) (the present active infinitive of refrāgor (to oppose, resist; to gainsay, thwart)) + -bilis (the suffix used to form adjectives indicating a capacity or worth of being acted upon).  Because of the paucity of documentary evidence, the ultimate source of the Latin refrāgor remains uncertain, but the construct may have been re- (the prefix used in the sense of “again”) + fragor (a breaking, shattering; a crash; din, uproar (from frangō (to break, shatter), ultimately from the primitive Indo-European bhreg- (to break)), formed as an antonym of suffrāgōr, the first-person singular present passive indicative of suffrāgō (to support; to vote for).  The sixteenth century French form was irréfragable, also from the Late Latin.  The meanings related to “indestructible objects” fell from use as early as the mid-seventeenth century while the figurative sense of “someone stubborn or obstinate” endured into the twentieth and, as a literary device, probably still tempts some and for those so tempted, the better style guides help by telling us to stress the second syllable.  The spelling irrefragible is obsolete.  Irrefragable is an adjective, irrefragability & irrefragableness are nouns and irrefragably is an adverb; the noun plural is irrefragabilies.

In English, irrefragable didn’t survive in common use for no better reason than people for whatever reason preferred the alternatives (literal & figurative) including (depending on the context): undeniable, indubitable, unassailable, indisputable, unambiguous, unquestionable, irrefutable, incontestable, immutable and unanswerable.  All those synonyms convey much the same thing for most so usually, the only thing the use of “irrefragable” is likely to engender is bafflement; few people will know what it means.  That can be fun between consenting word-nerds but it otherwise tends just to annoy.  There are structuralists who claim “irrefragable” is (or at least can be) different form a word like “unquestionable” because the former should specifically be associated with logical or argumentative strength while the later can be used in any context without necessarily emphasizing the same rigorous logical support.  So, because the underpinning of the scientific method is the disproving stuff, to say a scientific theory is irrefragable does not mean it cannot be argued against or disproven or that it’s beyond doubt or uncertainty; it means only that it cannot be refuted based on the current evidence.  By contrast, in some schools of theology, many things are unquestionable, not because they can be proved or disproven but because they must be accepted as matters of faith.  In the Roman Catholic Church, this is formalized: If a pope (invoking his infallibility in matters of dogma), declares something to be thus, it is, as a matter of canon law, both irrefragable & unquestionable.  The ancient idea of papal infallibility has been invoked only once since it was codified in the proceedings of the First Vatican Council (Vatican I 1869-1870) but since the early post-war years, pontiffs have found ways to achieve the same effect, John Paul II (1920–2005; pope 1978-2005) & Benedict XVI (1927–2022; pope 2005-2013, pope emeritus 2013-2022) both adept at using what was in effect a personal decree a power available to one who sits at the apex of what is in constitutional terms an absolute theocracy.  Critics have called this phenononom "creeping infallibility" and its intellectual underpinnings own much to the tireless efforts of Benedict XVI while he was head of the Inquisition (by then called the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith) during the late twentieth century.

Defragable: Defragmentation in action under MS-DOS 6.22.  On a nearly full big drive (say 320 MB) on which defragmentation had been neglected for a while, the process could take literally hours.  True obsessives would add the relevant command to their autoexec.bat to start every day with a defrag, the sequence being: (1) switch on, (2) go and get coffee and (3) hope it was done upon return.

Before installable file systems (IFS) began to gain critical mass in the 1990s, disk defragmenters were something of a fetish among nerds because, at the software level, there were few quicker (a relative term) and cheaper ways to make things run faster.  Fragment was from the late Middle English fragment, from the Latin fragmentum (a fragment, a remnant), the construct being frangō (I break) +‎ -mentum, from the suffix -menta (familiar in collective nouns like armenta (herd, flock)), from the primitive Indo-European -mn̥the.  The tendency of the early file systems to increasing sluggishness was because the File Allocation Table (FAT) was an up-scaled variant of that used on floppy diskettes where the cluster sizes (the segments into which the media was divided) were small and thus less prone to fragmentation.  However, because of the arcane math which dictated how many clusters there could be under the various implementations of FAT, the only way to accommodate the increasing size of hard disk drives (HDD) was to make the clusters larger, the consequence of which was a file of 1 KB or less absorbed all of a 32 KB cluster, something both an inefficient use of space and inherently prone to fragmentation.  What defragmenters did was re-allocate files to make data both as contiguous and un-fragmented as possible.  Modern file systems (HPFS, NTFS et al) still have limits but the numbers are very big and contemporary operating systems now handle defragmentation dynamically.  Although it remains a useful system on USB pen drives and such because of the wide system compatibility and ease of use, it’s doubtful even the more nostalgic nerds have fond memories of FAT on HDDs; a corrupted FAT could be a nightmare.

Tea Tray

Tea Tray (pronounced tee-trey)

(1) A tray used to carry a tea service.

(2) A tray of this type used for related purposes.

(3) The accepted descriptor of certain rear spoilers on some Porsches.

Mid-late 1600s: Trays in one form or another are probably one of mankind’s earliest inventions and the creation of the “tea tray” reflected the popularity of the brewed leaf and the place it assumed in polite society as the rich were able to purchase elaborate “tea services” (cups, saucers, milk jugs, tea pots, strainers et al).  In England and Europe, the “taking of tea” in such circles was sometimes formalized    

The noun tea entered English in the late sixteenth century, from the Dutch thee, from the Amoy (Xiamen) dialect of Hokkien 茶 (written both as “tê” & “t’e”), akin to the Chinese chá, from Old Chinese, thought ultimately from the primitive Sino-Tibetan s-la (leaf, tea).  It was the merchants of the Dutch East India Company (based in what is modern-day Indonesia) who after 1610 brought the leaf (and thus the word “tea”) to England and other parts of Western Europe.  The traders obtained the leaf in Amoy (the Malay teh was shipped along the same trade routes). The doublets chai and cha are from the same root.  Served in Paris by at least 1635, tea was introduced in England by 1644.  The spelling “tea” wasn’t at first the default, the variations including tay, thea, tey & tee and the popular early pronunciation seem to have been to rhyme with obey, the familiar modern tee not predominate until the late eighteenth century.  The Russian chai, the Persian cha, the Greek tsai, the Arabic shay and the Turkish çay all came overland from the Mandarin form.  The meaning “afternoon meal at which tea is served” dates from 1738 and is still used in certain regions to mean “evening meal” in the sense other use “dinner” (historically, for these folk “dinner was served around midday).  In US use, tea was slang for “marijuana” during the 1930s (apparently an allusion to it being often brewed in boiling water) but an onrush of newer slang rendered it obsolete as early as the early 1950s.

Lindsay Lohan in The Parent Trap (1998) with silver tea tray.

Tray (a small, typically rectangular or round, flat, and rigid object upon which things are carried) predates the eleventh century and was from the Middle English treye, from the Old English trēġ & trīġ (flat wooden board with a low rim), from the Proto-West Germanic trauwi, from the Proto-Germanic trawją or traujam (wooden vessel), from the primitive Indo-European dóru, a variant of the root drewo- (be firm, solid, steadfast (with also the specialized senses  “tree; wood” and derivatives referring to objects made of wood. The primary sense may have been “wooden vessel”).  It was cognate with the Old Norse treyja (carrier), the Old Swedish trø (wooden measure for grain & corn), the Low German Treechel (dough trough), the Ancient Greek δρουίτη (drouítē) (tub, vat) and the Sanskrit द्रोण (droṇa) (trough); trough and tree were influenced by the same sources.  The alternatives teatray and tea-tray are both accepted as standard forms but both are usually listed as “rare”, the former especially so.  Tea tray is a noun; the noun plural is tea trees.

George IV sterling silver tea set, hallmark from the silver workshop of Rebecca Emes (widow of silversmith John Emes (circa 1765-1810)) & Edward Bernard who were in partnership between 1808-1829.

The pieces are rendered in a melon shaped form with a textured leaf inspired frieze at the top register, rising from embellished shell form feet.  Originally a four piece set (teapot, coffee pot, cream jug and open sugar bowl) more than a century later a Canadian owner commissioned (through Birks (Canada)) a matching muffin dish.  The trademark on the muffin dish is that of Ellis & Co, Empire Works, Great Hampton Street & Hall Street, Birmingham (hallmarked 1937).  The tea tray is a sterling silver “George III” tea tray by Solomon Hougham,

High tea at the Savoy, London: High teas are events where ladies meet to talk about their feelings.

Although there are some striking modernist creations, the most sought after teas sets are those of porcelain or sterling silver, antique versions of the latter more common simply because they are less fragile, lasting centuries with only minimal care.  The first tea sets seem to have been the simple porcelain containers made in China during the Han Dynasty (206–220 BC).  From these humble, functional beginnings came eventually the intricately designed services of the eighteenth & nineteenth centuries which included not only the teapot and tea tray but also cups, sugar bowls with tongs, milk jugs, small plates for lemon slices and a remarkable variety of strainers and sieves to filter out pieces of the leaves.  In the sixteenth century porcelain tea sets arrived with the leaf and like many innovations from the East, consumption was originally limited to the rich who soon began to object to scalding their fingers on the handle-less cups; cups with handles (surely a marker of civilization) soon became essential in any drawing room.  Less pleasingly, adding milk and sugar also became fashionable so sugar bowls and milk jug (creamers) were added to sets along with the necessary teaspoons.  The tea craze thus influenced furniture, the “tea table” the item on which tea was served, sometime a place for the tea tray to sit but used also for more elaborate events which included cakes and such; this was the origin of the modern “high tea” which became such a profitable side-line for hotels.  Sterling silver tea sets began to appear in the late eighteenth century although it would be some decades before they attained great popularity, aided by Queen Victoria’s (1819–1901; Queen of the UK 1837-1901) fondness for tea and although the influence of the British royalty on the fashions of society was often negligible, in this she seems to have led the way.

Forks in evolution: The ducktail, the whale tail and the tea tray

There was much thoughtful engineering which made the 1973 Porsche 911 Carrera RS 2.7 such a formidable car in competition both in terms of what was taken out (most creature comforts) and what was put in (horsepower, light weight components and a braking system said to cost about as much as a new Volkswagen Beetle) but what caught the eye of most were the lurid graphics along the sides (Yellow, Blue, Green, Red and Blood Orange among the choices) and the spoiler which sprouted from the rear; it came to be called the “Ducktail” and was the subject of Patent 2238704: “The invention relates to a passenger car with a rear spoiler – one preferably mounted between side panels - and an aerodynamic device in the rear to increase the dynamic rear wheel pressure.”

1973 Porsche 911 Carrera RS 2.7 during wind tunnel testing of the Ducktail spoiler (left) and a production version with blue graphics (right).

The 911 Carrera RS 2.7 was a homologation special and Porsche planned to build only the 500 identical road-legal versions examples demanded to qualify the thing to be eligible competition under the Group 4 (Gran Turismo) regulations.  Although its 210 hp (156 kW) doesn’t sound impressive fifty years on (and even in the era there were many more powerful machines), weighing a svelte 960 KG (3086 lb), it could reach 100km/h (60 mph) in 5.8 seconds and touch 245 km/h (152 mph).  Given the performance, the Ducktail was a necessity to ensure there was at speed no dangerous lift at the rear but the factory was soon compelled to issue a bulletin warning that anyone fitting a ducktail to any other 911 would also have to fit the factory's front spoiler because, without the front unit, the rear down-force would become “excessive”, lifting the nose, the result: instant instability.  As it turned out, demand was greater than expected and eventually 1580 cars were built, many with a few of the creature comforts restored and today the 1973 Carrera is among the most collectable of the 911s; sales over US$2 million have been recorded.

1974 Porsche 911 Carrera RS 3.0 with whale tail.

The delicate lines of the 911 were spoiled when the 1974 models were released, the “impact” bumpers grafted on to satisfy US regulations an unhappy addition but in fairness to Porsche, their implementation was aesthetically more successful than many, notably their Stuttgart neighbors Mercedes-Benz which appeared to have taken for inspiration the naval rams once fitted beneath the waterlines of battleships and there to sink smaller vessels by ramming; at least on warships they couldn’t be seen.  The Ducktail however survived the legislative onslaught and became available on the new Carrera coupe (fitted as standard in North American markets) which was a pure road car without any of the compromises which made its raw-boned predecessor so engaging.

Later in the year however, a variant of the rear spoiler evolved for the 911 Carrera RS 3.0, this time rendered as a larger, flatter piece with rubber edges, the trailing edge rakishly upturned; it came to be called the “Whale Tail.”  Actually to speak of the Whale Tail as an item is a little misleading because the evolution continued and it was only the early examples which used the simple construction with a recessed grille which tracked the line of the engine cover, blending into the uninterrupted flat expanse of the spoiler itself.  By 1976 the (pre-intercooler) Turbo Carrera (the 930, the so-called “widow-maker”) was fitted with a Whale Tail with a second grille inset into the spoiler itself and to complicate the parts catalogue further, the secondary grille on the RoW (rest of the world) cars was smaller than that fitted to vehicles destined for North America; again the increasingly rigid US regulations the cause.  As the years went by, the Whale Tail continued to change.

The Whale Tail (left) and the Tea Tray (right)

By 1978, there was another evolutionary fork, the 911 Turbo’s spoiler becoming the “Tea Tray”, distinguished by a continuous raised rubber lip around the sides and rear edge.  The recessed grilles were replaced by a large, inset louvered plastic grille, needed to accommodate the additional height of the intercooler while the base of the assembly became a wide pedestal mounted through the engine cover and although there were detail changes, the Tea Tray was fitted to 930s (and atmospheric cars with the M491 option) until the retirement of the long-serving (the 1974-1989 911s often called “G Series” although technically that should apply only to the 1974 model year production but such is the visual similarity the use persists) platform in 1989.

Tea Tray on 930 Turbo Cabriolet (left) and Taco on 996.1 GT3 (right)

The Ducktail, Whale Tail and Tea Tray remain the best known of the Porsche spoilers but there were others including the “Swan Neck” but the most photogenic was the “Taco”.  It was introduced on the 911 GT3 (RoW 996.1) and was so admired the factory later made it available as part of an optional aero-kit.  The nickname is of course an allusion to the Mexican culinary staple, the resemblance quite obvious when viewed in profile although it has also been dubbed the “Pacman”.  The 996.1 GT3, production of which was limited to 1868 units, was first displayed at the 1999 Frankfurt Motor Show and was one of the dual-purpose 911s (for road and track, the GT3 badge appearing several times since) and like all the spoilers, the Taco was functional and it needed to be, the 300 lbs (136 KG) downforce generated at the top speed of 304 km/h (189 mph) required to ensure the thing remained in contact with planet Earth.

Spoilers and other aerodynamic aids can be re-purposed.  A young lady with a tea tray (with coffee pot) (left) and laundry hanging on a the wing of a 1969 Dodge Daytona (right).  In period, between stints on the tracks, drivers would hang their sweat-laden racing suits on the wings of Daytonas and Plymouth Superbirds.