No. 2106

Salmis of Pheasant a la Lorenzo

Salmis de Faisan a la Lorenzo

After the pheasant has been roasted the same as for No. 2107, cut it up into six or eight pieces; pare these nicely, removing all the skin, put them into a saucepan with half a pint of red or white wine, two shallots cut in three-eighths inch squares, the peel of a bitter or an ordinary orange and that of a lemon, all cut in small fillets and then blanched; add a pint of espagnole (No. 414) and a few spoonfuls of game glaze (No. 398). Pound the parings, rub through a sieve and add this pulp to the sauce, heat it up without boiling and keep it warm in the same way in a bain-marie. Dish up the pheasants, squeeze the juice of a bitter orange into the sauce and pour it over the dressed birds, garnish around with bread-crumb croutons cut in heart-shapes and fried in butter and small game croquettes prepared as for No. 885.

← No. 2105 Breasts or Fillets of Pheasants with Truffle Partridge, Pheasant & Grouse No. 2107 Pheasants Adorned with Their Own Plumage—Roa →

For the Modern Kitchen

A classic French salmis: the bird is roasted first, carved, and finished in a sauce built from its own trimmings. Ranhofer assumes a kitchen with espagnole and game glaze already on hand, which is the main obstacle to reproducing it.

Never let the sauce boilThe pounded parings are enriched with the bird's own juices and fat; brought to a boil they break and turn the sauce greasy and grainy. Heat to a bare steam and hold it in a bain-marie, exactly as written.
Roast the pheasant shortClassic salmis practice is to roast the bird underdone, since the meat is reheated in the sauce afterwards; taking it out while the breast is still pink guards against dryness, as pheasant carries little intramuscular fat. Ranhofer himself simply refers the cook back to the roast at No. 2107.
VolumesRanhofer works in American measures: half a pint of wine is 1 cup, a pint of espagnole is 2 cups. That ratio makes a distinctly saucy dish for one bird.
Espagnole and game glazeEspagnole (No. 414) is the brown mother sauce — roux-thickened brown stock with mirepoix and tomato. Game glaze (No. 398) is game stock reduced to a syrup. A good demi-glace stands in for the first; for the second, reduce a cup of strong game or dark chicken stock to a couple of tablespoons.
The parings are the point"pound the parings" means the skin and trim pared from the pieces, pounded in a mortar and forced through a sieve. A food processor plus a fine chinois does the same work; press hard, and discard the dry solids.
Bitter orangeThe bitter or Seville orange is sharp and barely sweet, and available only for a short midwinter season. Where it is unavailable, a common substitution is orange juice cut with about a third its volume of lemon juice; sweet orange alone tends to make the sauce cloying.
Blanching the zestCut the orange and lemon peel in fine julienne with no white pith, then drop it in boiling water for a minute and drain, as the recipe directs. Blanching takes the raw harshness out of the peel.
ShallotsThree-eighths-inch dice is noticeably coarse, leaving the shallot as a distinct element rather than something dissolved into the sauce. They go in raw and soften in the wine.
YieldOne pheasant cut into six or eight serves two, or four at a table with several courses. The heart-shaped fried croutons and small game croquettes are the garnish Ranhofer specifies around the dish.

A Little History

Salmis is a hunting-table dish turned restaurant showpiece: game roasted at the shoot or in the kitchen, then jointed and finished in a sauce thickened with its own pounded carcass. The word is generally traced to salmigondis, an old French term for a ragout of mixed meats, and the technique appears in French cookery well before Charles Ranhofer set it down here. The Epicurean (1894) is his record of thirty-odd years as chef at Delmonico's in New York, and the dedications running through it — Lorenzo among them — point to the Delmonico family and the restaurant's regular patrons rather than to any older tradition. The dish also reflects a period when wild pheasant, grouse and partridge moved through American markets in quantity; the elaborate garnish of fried croutons and game croquettes might be read as the mark of a service à la russe kitchen, where a single bird had to arrive at the table looking like a composed plate.