The Epicurean
A Treatise on the Culinary Art — Charles Ranhofer of Delmonico’s — 1894
No. 2250

Croustades of Chicken Livers with Madeira

Croustades de Foies de Volaille au Madere

Prepare some croustades in channeled molds, buttered while cold and lined with fine foundation paste (No. 135), fill them up with buttered paper and rice, over this a round of buttered paper, cover and fasten on a flat of the same paste; pinch the edges and lay on the center a puff paste cover made in three layers an eighth of an inch thick and two inches in diameter for the lower one, an inch and a half for the second and an inch for the upper one; egg over and bake in a hot oven, take off the lid and empty out the insides. Fry some chicken livers in a sautoir over a brisk fire, drain off the fat and moisten with a little Madeira or Marsala wine, adding some small cooked mushroom heads and half-glaze sauce (No. 413). Fill the croustades with these livers and mushrooms, sauce over, replace the covers and serve.

For the Modern Kitchen

Ranhofer assumes a pastry cook at your elbow and a stock pot already going. Strip that away and this is a blind-baked pastry case filled with sautéed livers in a Madeira pan sauce — an hour's work if the demi-glace is bought.

A Little History

Charles Ranhofer ran the kitchens at Delmonico's in New York for over thirty years, and The Epicurean (1894) is essentially his working repertoire set down in print, complete with cross-references to a numbered library of pastes and sauces. Croustades — edible cases baked or fried and then filled — were a staple of the nineteenth-century entrée course, valued because they let a small quantity of expensive garnish be served hot, individually, and with visible architecture; the tiered puff-paste lid here is pure dining-room theatre. Chicken livers in Madeira belong to the same French tradition that produced foies de volaille garnishes throughout classical cookery, and Madeira held its place in professional kitchens long after it faded from American drinking habits, prized for the way its oxidized, nutty character survives reduction. The recipe's terseness is telling: Ranhofer was writing for cooks who already knew what a sautoir and a half-glaze were, and who could be trusted to line a channeled mold without being told how.