San Francisco was a hard place to throw a party if your parents were out of town in 1902.

Pressurized kegs were still decades away from commercial use. The first Jägermeister shot wasn’t poured until 1934. And while there was no legal minimum drinking age during Theodore Roosevelt’s first term, another 80 years would pass before someone invented a wine cooler.

But you could definitely make Jell-O shots. The San Francisco Chronicle ran a recipe on Dec. 29, 1902, for a “New Year’s Dinner Dessert” called “wine jelly,” that is:

1. Not just a Jell-O shot, but an artisanal Jell-O shot.

and 2. Actually somewhat delicious.

Not all early Chronicle recipes met these standards. But after spending the past five years searching for The Chronicle’s first recipes for iconic popular dishes, and trying the recipes at home, I’ve found enough examples to have a really weird party.

Below are first recipes for Jell-O shots in 1902, avocado toast in 1927, guacamole in 1947, pizza in 1948 and nachos in 1977 — and how they all turned out when made in the 2010s.

Jell-O shots in 1902

The recipe: The recipe might have been an advertisement, not a piece of independent Chronicle editorial copy. Honestly, in 1902, it was hard to differentiate the two.

Either way, this arguably improves the Jell-O shot concept, with an added dessert topping (always good), and enough vitamin C to ward off scurvy for a week or two.

How it turned out: Pleasingly decent. Between the age of the recipe and the bottle of $5 Sherry wine we used, we were convinced this would taste like something made at 2 a.m. in a prison cell sink.

But the 1902 Jell-O shot was totally edible and bordered on tasting good. The juice of the orange adds a citrus bite that complements the water and Sherry, and the drink was surprisingly potent. Best of all is the presentation, in a compost-friendly hollowed-out orange. Have no doubt: Someone could duplicate this recipe to the letter tomorrow and sell each one for $17 in the Mission District.

Avocado toast in 1927

The recipe: The Chronicle was doing some weird things with avocados in the first half of the 20th century. (The guacamole recipe coming up in a few paragraphs is an absurdist culinary nightmare.) But Peet’s could roll out a version of The Chronicle’s 1927 avocado toast and no one would complain.

How it turned out: Completely forgettable. We were tempted to add a small handful of arugula to battle the acid-y flavor of the lemon juice, but that may be an acquired taste. How is avocado toast in 1927 different from avocado toast in 2019? They used to call them “alligator pears,” and that’s about it.

Pizza in 1947

The recipe: Pronounce it “peet-sa”? This isn’t pizza, it’s cold cuts and ketchup on a biscuit. Even Little Caesars corporate leadership would look at this and say, “That’s offensive to Italian culture.”

We’re imagining the baffled Chronicle publisher the day after this recipe ran, wondering why every single subscriber in North Beach canceled on the same day.

How it turned out: As we stated in 2015 when we made 1947 Chronicle pizza, it looks like a large flying animal ate a pizza, and deposited the result on a biscuit from 100 feet in the air. The one positive? If you take a bite of this dish, your next trip to Mountain Mike’s will feel like an excursion to the French Laundry.

Guacamole in 1948

The recipe: We were offended by the pretentious pronunciation choice, but the stock value on 1948 guacamole didn’t plummet until The Chronicle suggested “hwa-ca-mo-lay” as a salad dressing for grapefruit.

How it turned out: An international incident. When we placed the 1948 guacamole on a halved grapefruit, it sounded as if every tortilla chip in our pantry suddenly cried out in terror, and was suddenly silenced. The guacamole was decent by itself, but the Worcestershire sauce and Tabasco flavors clashed with the sour bite of the grapefruit.

Nachos in 1977

The recipe: The next time you start thinking “The San Francisco Chronicle has gone downhill,” just re-read this recipe for nachos in 1977. It contains just two ingredients, and one of them has a typo.

How it turned out: When I made this for my children and asked for a review, my younger son refused to speak to me, wrote the word “GARBAGE” on a piece of paper, and held it until I threw away the rest. The recipe was particularly bad because with no instructions to preheat the tortilla, the end result had the temperature range of the planet Mercury, with burnt corners on the top, while remaining chilly on the bottom center of the tortilla under the cheese.

Peter Hartlaub is The San Francisco Chronicle’s pop culture critic. Email: phartlaub@sfchronicle.com Twitter: @PeterHartlaub