No. 3579

Sicilian

Sicilienne

Whip twelve raw egg-yolks in a tinned copper basin with twelve ounces of sugar and a quart of boiling milk; add three ounces of roasted coriander seeds, a piece of cinnamon and half a pound of chocolate; cook on a slow fire, allow to cool, then add a pint of cream; pass this through a sieve; freeze, and add six ounces of almonds, each one to be cut lengthwise in four, and three ounces of candied orange or lemon peel cut up very finely. Have one quart of chocolate ice cream (No. 3449) into which mix half as much whipped cream (No. 50). Line a square one-quart mold with bands of biscuit a quarter of an inch thick. At the bottom place a layer of the chocolate ice cream, over this slices of guava jelly and citron marmalade and the chocolate cream, repeating the operation until the mold is completely full. Pack in salted ice, freeze for one hour, unmold and dress.

← No. 3578 Rice with Maraschino Ices & Ice Creams No. 3580 Algerian Timbales →

For the Modern Kitchen

Ranhofer is really giving two preparations at once: a coriander-and-chocolate ice cream base, and a lined, layered mold built from a separate chocolate ice cream. Read it twice before starting, and have everything cut, sliced and cold before the freezing begins.

Two preparations, one dishThe first half makes a spiced chocolate ice cream in its own right. The mold in the second half uses chocolate ice cream No. 3449 lightened with whipped cream, not the coriander base — though the coriander ice can be substituted if you want the flavors to agree.
The custard is the hinge"Cook on a slow fire" means a custard cooked to 170-180F, stirred constantly, until it coats the spoon. Twelve yolks in a quart of milk will curdle quickly above 185F; use a heavy pan over low heat, and temper the boiling milk into the yolks rather than the reverse.
Tinned copper basinCopper conducts fast and evenly, which is why it was specified; the tin lining kept the copper off the acidic custard. Any heavy stainless or enameled pan does the same job today. Never cook a custard in bare copper.
Three ounces of corianderThat is roughly a cup of whole seed, an aggressive amount by modern palates. Roast until fragrant, steep in the hot custard, and taste as you go — the seeds are strained out at the sieving stage, so the infusion time is your control. Half the quantity gives a spice note rather than a spice wall.
The chocolateHalf a pound of nineteenth-century "chocolate" usually meant an unsweetened or only lightly sweetened cake, closer to modern 100% cacao or a 70% bar. The twelve ounces of sugar suggests bitter chocolate; if you use a sweetened bar, cut the sugar back accordingly.
Freezing without a machine"Freeze" here means working the base in a can set in a bucket of ice and coarse salt. An ice cream machine does the same thing. The almonds and candied peel go in at the end, when the ice is set but still soft enough to fold.
Biscuit for liningThe "bands of biscuit" are strips of sponge — ladyfinger batter or génoise baked in a sheet and cut a quarter-inch thick. Cut them to the height of a one-quart square mold and press them against the chilled sides before filling.
Guava jelly and citron marmaladeBoth were bought-in preserves rather than things made up for this dish. Guava paste (goiabada), sliced thin, stands in for the jelly; a thick candied-citron or bitter orange marmalade works for the second layer.
Packing and hardening"Pack in salted ice, freeze for one hour" is the hardening step, not churning — the modern equivalent is the freezer at 0F for at least two hours, with the mold wrapped or sealed. Unmold by dipping briefly in warm water.
YieldThe one-quart mold serves six to eight in slices. The coriander ice cream base makes something closer to two quarts on its own, well beyond what the mold requires.

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 the ices section is where the book's ambition shows most plainly — hundreds of numbered frozen preparations, cross-referenced to each other like a parts catalogue. Dishes named for places were a standing convention of the grand-restaurant repertoire, and the names were suggestive rather than documentary: a Sicilienne signals the flavors a nineteenth-century French-trained cook associated with the Mediterranean south — chocolate, almonds, candied citrus peel, warm spice. The coriander is the more interesting choice, plausibly a survival of the older European habit of scenting chocolate with seed spices that predates the vanilla-and-sugar profile we now take as default. Guava jelly, meanwhile, was a Caribbean import, said to have reached New York through much the same trade as sugar, and appears throughout Ranhofer as a ready-made preserve — a reminder that even the most elaborate restaurant construction leaned on things bought in jars.