A three-line salad from Ranhofer's The Epicurean, written for cooks who already knew the proportions of a vinaigrette. Two details need translating: what the vegetables were, and the instruction not to wash them.
- What the two plants areEscarolle is broad-leaved escarole; endive here most likely means the pale forced chicory sold today as Belgian endive or witloof, though the word was used loosely in the period and could also cover curly endive. Curly endive (frisée) works in place of the escarole; both are chicories and both carry the intended bitterness.
- "Quite yellow"Not overripe leaves but blanched ones — the tight inner heart that grew without light. Strip the dark green outer leaves off an escarole head and use only the yellow-white center; from a Belgian endive, discard any leaf that has greened at the tip, as those are noticeably more bitter.
- Splitting the leavesEscarole ribs are broad and tough at the base. Cutting each leaf lengthwise down the center makes it fold and take dressing instead of sitting rigid in the bowl. Trim out the thickest part of the rib entirely.
- On not washingThe recipe gives no reason; the likely one is that water clinging to chicory dilutes the dressing and stops it clinging. Wash them anyway — field-grown escarole traps grit deep in the heart — then dry thoroughly in a spinner or in a towel. Damp leaves are the one reliable way to ruin this salad.
- The dressing, since none is measuredA common ratio is three parts oil to one of vinegar. For a head of escarole and two endives, roughly 3 tablespoons oil, 1 tablespoon wine vinegar, a good pinch of salt and a few turns of pepper, with a tablespoon each of chopped chervil and tarragon. Dissolve the salt in the vinegar before adding the oil.
- The herbsChervil goes limp and loses its faint anise scent within minutes of chopping, so cut it last and dress immediately. Dried tarragon is not a substitute; if fresh tarragon is unavailable, use chervil alone rather than reaching for the jar.
- Timing and yieldDress at the table or seconds before serving — chicory hearts wilt fast under vinegar. Serves about four; in the service of the period a green salad conventionally followed the roast.
The Epicurean (1894) is Charles Ranhofer's record of thirty-odd years as chef at Delmonico's in New York, and its green-salad chapter reads like an inventory of what a well-supplied American kitchen could get out of season: dandelion, corn salad, escarole, forced endive. Belgian endive itself was a relatively new luxury — its forcing in darkness is generally traced to Brussels growers in the middle of the nineteenth century. Ranhofer pairs it with the cheaper escarole and tells the cook to use only the yellow hearts. He also declines to wash the leaves, directing instead that the chicory be wiped leaf by leaf with a cloth, and the resulting dry surface took a vinaigrette better than anything a colander could produce.