No. 1930

Duckling a l'Andalouse

Caneton a l'Andalouse

Procure a young duck; singe, draw and clean it well, then truss it as for an entree (No. 178); fry it very slowly with chopped up leaf lard and when it assumes a fine color, remove it from the saucepan, drain off the fat and cover the bottom with slices of ham, cut up carrots and onions, a bunch of parsley garnished with thyme and bay leaf and the duck; moisten with a little white wine and let this fall quickly to a glaze, then remoisten with a little stock (No. 194a), and let fall to a glaze twice more. After the duck is half cooked pour in two gills of Malaga wine and finish cooking slowly for about three-quarters of an hour; transfer the duck to another saucepan and keep it hot. Strain the stock and reduce it with the same amount of espagnole sauce (No. 414), to the consistency of a succulent sauce, and add to it a garnishing of small mushroom buttons, stoned Spanish olives, and small ball-shaped chicken quenelles; dress the duck, garnishing with part of the sauce, and serve the remainder separately.

← No. 1929 Mongrel Duck—Roasted and Stuffed Duck & Goose No. 1931 Ducklings a la Bordelaise—Sauted →

For the Modern Kitchen

Ranhofer writes for a brigade with stock, espagnole and quenelle forcemeat already on hand. Reduced to its bones this is a braised duck in a sweet-wine sauce, and the technique that makes it work is the repeated reduction to a glaze.

The hinge: falling to a glazeMoistening lightly and letting the liquid reduce to a syrupy film on the pan bottom, three separate times, is what builds the colour and depth of the sauce. Adding all the liquid at once and simmering gives a thin, pale braise instead.
Gills of MalagaTwo gills is one cup. Malaga was a sweet fortified wine from Andalusia, hence the dish's name; a cream sherry or a Pedro Ximenez blend gives the same sweet raisiny character.
Leaf lardThe firm fat from around the kidneys, prized because it is neutral. Ordinary lard, duck fat or clarified butter all serve for the initial slow browning.
EspagnoleNo. 414 is the book's classic brown sauce, a brown stock thickened with a browned roux. A well-reduced homemade brown veal or duck stock, lightly thickened, stands in for it; a commercial demi-glace will do at some cost in delicacy.
Trussed as for an entreeLegs and wings drawn tight against the body with string so the bird holds a compact shape in the saucepan and cooks evenly. Any close truss achieves this.
QuenellesSmall poached dumplings of pounded chicken forcemeat, rolled to the size of a marble and poached in stock, not in the sauce. They are a garnish; the dish is not diminished if they are left out.
OlivesSpanish olives were generally packed in strong brine. Taste them first; if they are markedly salty, blanch pitted green olives briefly in water before adding them, or they may oversalt the reduced sauce.
Timing and yieldA duckling of about 4 lb, browned slowly and then braised, will need roughly an hour and a half in total rather than the three-quarters of an hour given for the second stage alone. Legs should be tender enough to give at the joint. One duckling serves two generously, three at a stretch.

A Little History

Charles Ranhofer spent three decades as chef at Delmonico's in New York, and The Epicurean (1894) is essentially that kitchen's working repertory set down in print, cross-referenced number by number so a cook could chase down the espagnole or the quenelle forcemeat elsewhere in the book. The name points to Andalusia by way of its two most distinctive elements: Malaga wine, the sweet fortified wine of the province, and Spanish green olives. Nineteenth-century French kitchens routinely used regional names as shorthand for a set of ingredients rather than for any dish actually eaten in the region, so an Andalusian cook would likely not have recognised this duck. The stacked garnish of mushroom buttons, olives and quenelles is the period signature: a braise judged not only by its sauce but by how many separate small preparations were arrayed around it.