No. 1146

Brandade of Salt Cod

Brandade de Morue Salee

Soak salt codfish for fourteen hours, changing the water several times, put it on to cook in cold water, set it on one side at the first boil and let it bubble for twenty-five minutes, then shred half a pound of this fish. Fry in oil two tablepoonfuls of chopped onion and one clove of garlic, let attain a good golden color, then put in the codfish to warm; pound and convert it into a paste, working it well with a whip, and then incorporate into it slowly one pint of oil, a little well thickened bechamel (No. 409), some double raw cream, pepper, nutmeg, salt if found necessary, and chopped parsley; dress it pyramid form and garnish around with oyster patties (No. 939), oysters a la villeroi (No. 698) and trussed crawfish. Serve separately a hot bearnaise mayonnaise sauce (No. 433).

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For the Modern Kitchen

Ranhofer's brandade is a hot emulsion of salt cod and oil, closer to a savory mousse than to the potato-heavy versions common now. Two things decide whether it works: how gently the fish is cooked, and how slowly the oil goes in.

Never let the fish boilKeep the poach gentle -- "Set it on one side at the first boil" means draw the pan off direct heat, though Ranhofer's own words are "let it bubble" for twenty-five minutes, so he expected a simmer rather than a bare tremble. Salt cod held at a rolling boil turns stringy and tough, and twenty-five minutes is generous by modern standards; thick loin pieces are usually done in 10-12 minutes at a gentle simmer, thin tails sooner.
The soak is not optionalFourteen hours in several changes of cold water, refrigerated, is the correct order of magnitude for old-style hard-salted cod. Modern lightly salted or vacuum-packed cod may need only 8-12 hours. Taste a raw sliver of the thickest part before cooking: it should read seasoned, not salty.
One pint of oil to half a pound of fishThat is roughly 2 cups of oil to 8 oz of cooked cod, and it is a genuine emulsion built like mayonnaise. Warm the oil slightly, add it in a thin thread while working the paste constantly, and stop the moment the mixture looks glossy rather than slack. If it breaks, start a spoonful of the paste in a clean bowl and beat the broken mixture back into it.
"Double raw cream"Unpasteurized high-fat cream, richer than ordinary cream; figures given for "double" cream vary. Use pasteurized heavy cream; the recipe specifies no amount, and a few tablespoons is enough to loosen the paste at the end.
The cross-referencesNo. 409 is Ranhofer's bechamel and No. 433 his bearnaise-flavored mayonnaise; neither appears on this page. A stiff bechamel of 2 tablespoons each butter and flour to a cup of milk, cooked until it holds a shape on the spoon, does the work here. It is there for body, so keep it thick and use only a few spoonfuls.
Pounding without a mortarA food processor handles the shredded cod and aromatics well; work the fish first, then stream the oil through the feed tube with the machine running. Unlike potato brandade, there is no starch to turn gluey, so extended machine work does no harm.
The garnish belongs to another eraOyster patties, oysters a la Villeroi and trussed crawfish are buffet architecture for a formal service. The brandade stands perfectly well as a warm spread with grilled bread, and the bearnaise mayonnaise is optional beside it.
YieldThe half pound is fish already soaked and cooked, not dry weight; with the pint of oil and the cream it gives roughly 3 cups of finished brandade, six to eight servings as a first course.

A Little History

Brandade is often said to take its name from the Provencal brandar, to stir or agitate, which describes the only technique that matters: the long beating that carries oil into pounded salt cod. It is generally traced to Languedoc and Provence, with Nimes claiming the classic version, and it belongs to the trade that carried barrels of Atlantic salt cod deep into the Mediterranean and inland to places that never saw fresh sea fish. Charles Ranhofer, chef at Delmonico's in New York, printed it in The Epicurean (1894) in a distinctly restaurant register, thickened with bechamel and cream, molded into a pyramid and ringed with oysters and crawfish, which tells you how a peasant preparation was expected to present itself in a nineteenth-century dining room. His omission of potato is worth noting: the potato-bound brandade familiar today is a later economy.