The Epicurean
A Treatise on the Culinary Art — Charles Ranhofer of Delmonico’s — 1894
No. 2262

Cutlets of Pheasant a la Reginald

Cotelettes de Faisan a la Reginald

Cut up a pound of the white meat of a cooked pheasant free of fat and skin into three-sixteenths inch squares, also four ounces of truffles; mingle these with reduced bechamel (No. 409) and meat glaze (No. 402), season properly and let get cold. Divide the preparation into one and three-quarters inch in diameter balls, roll and lengthen them on one end in the shape of a cutlet and lay them in bread-crumbs; then dip in beaten eggs and again in the bread-crumbs, flatten them down to half an inch in thickness and mold them into cutlet shaped bottomless molds; unmold and fry in very hot white fat or clarified butter, drain and trim with fancy favor frills (No. 10). Dress either in a circle or in a straight row, and serve at the same time a well buttered veloute sauce (No. 415), into which squeeze the juice of a lemon; strain it through a tammy and then add chopped parsley and small three-sixteenths of an inch pieces of cooked mushrooms and red beef tongue.

For the Modern Kitchen

This is a croquette mixture moulded to look like a chop — the sort of trompe-l'oeil entrée Ranhofer built whole chapters around. The hinge is the binding: the panade must be stiff enough and cold enough to hold a shape in hot fat, or the cutlets burst.

A Little History

Charles Ranhofer, chef at Delmonico's in New York for some three decades, published The Epicurean in 1894 as a complete record of the restaurant's repertoire, and its Miscellaneous Entrées chapter is full of dishes like this one: cooked meat, minced fine, bound in sauce and rebuilt into the shape of something it is not. The moulded croquette-as-cutlet was a staple of high service kitchens because it turned the remains of yesterday's roast game into a composed plate that could be breaded in advance and fried to order — economy dressed as luxury, with the paper frill standing in for the bone. The suffix "à la Reginald" follows the house habit of naming garnishes after patrons and occasions; many such names in the book commemorate diners whose identities are now unrecoverable, and no particular Reginald has been documented behind this one.