The Cook Book by “Oscar” of the Waldorf

Three thousand recipes from the maitre d'hotel of the Waldorf — the hotel kitchen that taught Gilded Age America how to dine, from beef tea to watermelon with champagne.

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Boundins of Salmon

Remove the skin and bone from one pound of salmon, reduce it to a pulp, and pass it through a fine hair sieve. Mix with the puree ten ounces each of bread panada and crayfish butter, season the mixture with pepper and salt, and bind it with two well beaten eggs and a little reduced lean sauce that has been thickened with egg. Mix an onion that has been fried white and cut into small pieces with the forcemeat. Cut some strips of paper four inches long by two and one-half inches wide, and butter them. Place a piece of forcemeat three and one-half inches wide by one and three-fourths inches long and one and three-fourths inches thick on each strip of paper. Make a hollow in the center of each piece of forcemeat about three-fourths of an inch deep, and three-fourths of an inch wide. Fill the hollows with a salpicon of cooked salmon and truffles mixed in stiffly reduced allemande sauce, cover them with a little of the forcemeat, and wrap the paper round. Put the boudins in a sautepan with a small quantity of stock, and let them simmer gently for fifteen minutes. Drain the boudins, arrange them in a circle on a hot dish, pour over them some allemande sauce thickened with crayfish butter, and serve.

For the Modern Kitchen

This is classic hotel forcemeat work: a pounded fish mousseline stuffed with a diced garnish, wrapped in buttered paper and poached. Nothing in it is difficult, but almost every component assumes a brigade kitchen where panada, crayfish butter and allemande sauce were already standing by.

A Little History

The boudin in French kitchen terms is any sausage-shaped preparation, and by the late nineteenth century the fish boudin blanc is often said to have become a set piece of the grande cuisine repertoire: mousseline forcemeat, a hidden salpicon of diced luxuries, a poach in paper, a rich sauce poured over at the last moment. Oscar Tschirky, ma"itre d'hôtel of the Waldorf from 1893, assembled his 1896 cook book largely from the professional canon of that moment, and pages like this one read as instructions to a saucier rather than to a housekeeper — the panada, the crayfish butter and the allemande are all named as things already made. Crayfish butter in particular tells you about the period: it belongs to a kind of thrift that has largely disappeared from restaurants and never established itself in home cooking.

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