No. 1766

Lambs' Trotters a la Bordelaise and a la Bordelaise Wenberg

Pieds d'Agneau a la Bordelaise et a la Bordelaise Wenberg

Scald, scrape and singe twenty-four lambs' feet, split them underneath through the thickness of the meat their whole length, remove the pointed hoof bones leaving the foot whole. Dilute a small handful of flour with cold water in a saucepan able to hold three gallons, add to it salt, whole peppers, parsley leaves, thyme, bay leaf, cloves, garlic and carrots cut in four; put in the feet and let cook for five hours; when done, drain. Fry six shallots colorless in butter, moisten them with red wine, a little espagnole sauce (No. 414), brandy and meat glaze (No. 402); season with salt and pepper, add the feet, simmer and serve them in a very little sauce.

A la Bordelaise Wenberg.—Prepare as for the above adding finely minced hot peppers, plenty of brandy and red wine, and when ready to serve, a little freshly ground black pepper.

← No. 1765 Lambs' Tongues with Olives Lamb No. 1767 Lambs' Trotters a la Chantilly →

For the Modern Kitchen

Ranhofer is cooking twenty-four feet at a restaurant's scale, in a pan holding three gallons. The method is sound but assumes a kitchen with espagnole and meat glaze already standing on the stove.

The hinge: cook them in a blancThe "small handful of flour diluted with cold water" is not thickening — it is a blanc, a flour-and-water cooking liquid that keeps pale offal from darkening and greying during long boiling. Whisk the flour into cold water before it goes near heat, or you will spend the next hour fishing out lumps.
Scale it downTwenty-four feet in three gallons serves twelve or more as a course. Six to eight feet in a 6-quart pot, with the aromatics cut proportionally, is a domestic quantity and serves three or four.
SourcingLambs' feet are a halal- and Greek-butcher item and are often sold already scalded and scraped; ask for them split. Singeing over a gas flame or with a torch removes remaining hair. Pigs' trotters behave similarly but are fattier and gelatinous in a different, stickier way.
Five hoursThree to four hours at a bare simmer will often bring the feet to the point where the meat yields under a fingernail but the foot still holds together. Judge by texture, not the clock; boiling hard will shred them.
Espagnole and meat glazeNo. 414 is the flour-thickened brown mother sauce; No. 402 is glace de viande, brown stock reduced to a syrup. A good store-bought or homemade demi-glace covers both, in which case use a couple of tablespoons and skip the separate glaze.
"Fry six shallots colorless"Sweat them in butter over low heat until translucent with no browning at all — colour here would muddy the red-wine reduction, which is the point of the Bordelaise.
"A very little sauce"The sauce should reduce to a glossy coating that clings, not a pool. Reduce the wine and brandy hard before the espagnole goes in, then finish the feet in the sauce for a few minutes.
The Wenberg version"Finely minced hot peppers" means fresh chilies, seeded and very finely chopped; a fresno or serrano is in the right register. "Plenty of brandy" is deliberately vague — a quarter cup for six feet, flamed or well reduced, is defensible.
ServingRich and gelatinous; a small portion with plain boiled potatoes or bread to catch the sauce is enough. It sets to a firm jelly when cold, so serve hot from the pan.

A Little History

The Epicurean (1894) is Charles Ranhofer's record of some thirty years as chef at Delmonico's in New York, and the second name here is a piece of house history rather than classical nomenclature: by the traditional account Ben Wenberg was a sea captain and Delmonico's regular whose name attached to the lobster dish later respelled Newburg. What Ranhofer does to the Bordelaise here is heat, spirits and a strong finish -- minced hot peppers, extra brandy and pepper ground at the pass. The Bordelaise proper is red wine, shallots and brown sauce, a Bordeaux formula that travelled with French cooking into every serious American hotel kitchen. That trotters were worth two named preparations in a book aimed at the richest tables in New York is a reminder that the great restaurant kitchens took extremities seriously: they were cheap, they were laborious, and turning five hours of simmering into something a banker would order was precisely the sort of thing a chef was paid for.