The Epicurean
A Treatise on the Culinary Art — Charles Ranhofer of Delmonico’s — 1894
No. 1587

Breast, Tendon and Shoulder of Mutton, Navarin

Poitrine, Tendon et Epaule de Mouton Navarin

Cut into half inch pieces one pound of breast, one pound of tendon and one pound of shoulder of mutton. Lay these meats in a vessel, season them with salt, pepper, two cloves, nutmeg, thyme, bay leaf and a bunch of parsley containing a clove of garlic; pour on a quarter of a bottleful of Madeira wine and let marinate for six hours, then drain off the meats, wipe dry and fry them with chopped up fat pork and half a pound of three-quarter inch dice pieces of blanched lean bacon; add to this the Madeira and aromatics with some brown sauce (No. 414) and let cook on a moderate fire while skimming off the fat thoroughly. In the meantime prepare some turnips cut out with a one-inch vegetable spoon, fry them in lard and when they begin to brown, sprinkle over some powdered sugar and after they are of a fine color, remove with a skimmer, place in a saucepan and finish cooking in a little of the brown sauce taken from the stew, and wetting with some stock (No. 194a). Dress the stew, range the turnips around and pour over the gravy from both the meat and turnips reduced together with half a pint of white wine and strained through a tammy (No. 159).

For the Modern Kitchen

Ranhofer's navarin is a straightforward mutton stew, but it leans on the cross-references and butchery vocabulary of a professional French kitchen. A few translations make it workable at home.

A Little History

Navarin is the standard French name for a brown mutton or lamb stew garnished with turnips and other spring vegetables, and its origin is disputed: some trace it to navet, the turnip that defines the dish, while others link it to the naval battle of Navarino in 1827. Charles Ranhofer, who ran the kitchen at Delmonico's in New York for over thirty years and published The Epicurean in 1894, treats it as one entry in a long run of mutton preparations — a stuffed breast and a haricot with turnips, near neighbours that show how many ways a nineteenth-century brigade could work through the cheaper end of the carcass. The Madeira marinade and the espagnole base mark this as a restaurant version rather than a household one; so does the assumption that a cook has a pot of brown sauce and a pot of stock already standing on the range, which is what makes a recipe like this a set of instructions for assembly rather than a stew from scratch.