The Epicurean
A Treatise on the Culinary Art — Charles Ranhofer of Delmonico’s — 1894
No. 272

Puree of Grouse a la Manhattan

Puree de Tetras a la Manhattan

Roast three grouse for twenty minutes; cut off the fillets and break up the bones, putting them into a saucepan with four quarts of broth, adding a bunch of parsley garnished with bay leaf, half a pound of carrots, quarter of a pound of onions, and let simmer for one hour. Pound the fillets, add to it the same quantity of puree of sweet potatoes, and dilute all with the broth strained through a fine tammy, then return it to the fire in a saucepan to heat without boiling; season and stir into it just when ready to serve four ounces of fine butter. Make a garnishing with one pint of the soup; mix into a half a pint of cream, eight yolks and two whole eggs, and poach this in small buttered timbale molds (No. 5, Fig. 137), and cut crosswise before being put into the puree.

For the Modern Kitchen

Ranhofer's game purée is a two-part construction: a thickened bird-and-sweet-potato soup, and a royale custard poached separately and sliced into it. Almost everything that can go wrong happens at the finish, where eggs and butter meet heat.

A Little History

Charles Ranhofer ran the Delmonico's kitchens for over thirty years, and The Epicurean (1894) is essentially the restaurant's working repertoire set down in French classical order — which is why the head of this recipe is Purée de Tétras and only the English gloss says grouse. The run of game purées around No. 271 and 272, snipe, plover, woodcock, grouse, reflects a period when wild birds were still a commercial commodity in American markets; the Lacey Act of 1900 and later state game laws ended that traffic, and the dishes went with it. What makes this one "à la Manhattan" is almost certainly the sweet potato, an American ingredient dropped into an otherwise wholly French structure of pounded game, tammy-strained broth and a royale garnish. Ranhofer used geographic epithets freely for such small domestications, and the naming habit tells you more about Gilded Age New York's appetite for a local signature on a French menu than about any documented origin.