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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Potted Goose

Singe and draw a goose, and remove the bones. To fill a potting pan seven inches in diameter the goose should weigh about four pounds when cleaned and without the giblets. Lard the breast with strips of fat bacon and sprinkle over with a little salt and pepper. Remove the sinews from the thighs, cut off the flesh, add to it eight ounces of fillet of veal and one pound of fat bacon, chop them all up and pound in a mortar together with one ounce of spiced salt. Put a layer of this mixture at the bottom of the pan. Spread out the goose with the skin part downwards, dust it over with a little more spiced salt, put another layer of the veal mixture in the inside of it, roll it around and put it in the pan; cover over with more of the veal mixture, put a few slices of bacon on the top, place a bay leaf on this, put the lid on the pan and set it in a large saucepan, pour in water to about two inches in depth, place the saucepan in the oven and cook for three hours. When the goose is done, which can be ascertained by putting a trussing needle into it, take it out, let it get cold and cover over in the dish with a layer of the melted fat of the goose. Let it remain for a day, and it will then be ready for use.

For the Modern Kitchen

This is a terrine in the older sense of the word: a boned bird packed in forcemeat, cooked in a water bath, then sealed under its own fat. Nothing about the method is difficult, but several of Oscar's terms and quantities need translating.

A Little History

Potting is the older English answer to the French terrine and pâté en croûte: meat cooked down, packed tight in a pot and sealed under a cap of clarified fat or butter so it could be carried, given as a gift or kept in a cool larder. Beef, ham, tongue and game were all usual subjects, and geese made particularly good sense because a fattened bird supplies both the meat and, in the rendered fat, its own sealing medium, and because a boned goose rolled around forcemeat slices into a handsome pattern of dark meat, pale veal and white fat. By the time Oscar Tschirky was the Waldorf's maître d'hôtel at the turn of the twentieth century, presiding over the dining rooms rather than the stoves, dishes like this belonged to the garde-manger, the cold larder department whose galantines, aspics and terrines furnished the buffet and the supper table rather than the hot service. The recipe's careful specification of pan diameter and bird weight is a hotel habit: a brigade making the same item week after week needs proportions that fill the mould exactly.

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