The Epicurean
A Treatise on the Culinary Art — Charles Ranhofer of Delmonico’s — 1894
No. 1961

Pigeons a la Valenciennes

Pigeons a la Valenciennes

Cut six ounces of bacon into small dice; fry them for a few moments in butter, then lift out, leaving the fat in the saucepan, and into this put three fine, clean and trussed pigeons, also a few small onions and a garnished bunch of parsley (No. 123). Fry and moisten to half their height with broth, let fall to a glaze and remoisten once more to half the height of the pigeons and finish cooking over a moderate fire. When they are almost done strain the stock and return it to the sauce-pan without the onions and parsley and let boil up; now add four gills of good rice for each quart of liquid; put back the bacon and a coffeespoonful of prepared red pepper (No. 168) and finish all together. Dish up the rice, untruss the pigeons and dress them on top, surround the whole with small chipolata sausages and the small onions.

For the Modern Kitchen

Ranhofer assumes a brigade kitchen and a stock pot always at the ready. The dish is essentially a braise whose cooking liquid becomes the rice, so the volumes matter more than anything else here.

A Little History

The Epicurean (1894) is Charles Ranhofer's record of thirty years' cooking at Delmonico's in New York, and this entry sits in a long chapter of pigeon dishes that shows how ordinary squab was on an American restaurant menu of the period. The name is often said to point not to Valenciennes in French Flanders but to Valencia — French classical cookery used a la valenciennes for preparations built on rice with poultry, ham or sausage, an echo of Spanish rice cookery filtered through the nineteenth-century French repertoire, and on this traditional account the town's name absorbed the spelling, though the derivation is not documented. The construction here is telling: the birds are braised, the braising liquid is strained and measured, and the rice is cooked in it, so nothing of the pigeon is lost. Domestic pigeon lofts were still common enough in the 1890s that even a book aimed at luxury dining could afford to give squab a dozen pages.