The Epicurean
A Treatise on the Culinary Art — Charles Ranhofer of Delmonico’s — 1894
No. 3504

Champagne Punch

Punch au Champagne

Procure some imitation silver champagne pails made of cardboard or gum paste (No. 3624). Have tin molds to fit into these and incrust them in ice, filling to the top with water. As soon as this becomes frozen sufficiently thick to cover the sides to one-eighth of an inch empty out the liquid and unmold, lay these ice pails inside the cardboard ones and imitate the bottle in gum paste (No. 3624), having the surrounding ice of white rock candy; these should be laid on the cover. Pour into a small freezer one quart of pineapple water ice (No. 3606), half a gill of fine brandy, half a gill of kirsch and two gills of champagne; mix the whole and add as much Italian meringue (No. 140). When frozen fill the pails, lay on the covers and serve.

For the Modern Kitchen

This is a frozen punch — a spoom, essentially — dressed up as a miniature champagne bucket for the table. The elaborate presentation is optional; the ice itself is straightforward once the measures are decoded.

A Little History

The Epicurean (1894) is Charles Ranhofer's record of thirty-odd years running the kitchen at Delmonico's in New York, and it is written for a brigade with time and hands to spare — hence cardboard champagne pails, gum-paste bottles and hollow ice shells for what is, at bottom, a scoop of sorbet. Frozen punches of this kind belonged to a fixed slot in the long formal dinner: served before the roast, which was frequently the game course, they were meant to cool the palate and settle the diner for the courses still to come, the same role the better-known Roman punch played on American menus of the period. The alcohol was structural as much as flavouring — spirits keep the mixture soft and spoonable — and the Italian meringue, whipped egg whites cooked with hot sugar syrup, gave the frothy body that distinguishes a punch ice from a plain water ice. The whole conceit of serving an ice disguised as the bottle it was flavoured with is very much of its moment: Gilded Age dining prized the table trick, and Ranhofer's cross-references to numbered sub-recipes show how much of that effect was assembled from parts kept ready in a professional kitchen.