The Epicurean
A Treatise on the Culinary Art — Charles Ranhofer of Delmonico’s — 1894
No. 954

Rissoles of Red Tongue or of Sweetbreads

Rissoles de Langue Ecarlate ou de Ris de Veau

Red Tongue.—Reduce one pint and a half of espagnole sauce (No. 414), with a little meat glaze (No. 402), and two spoonfuls of Madeira wine, add to it one pound of red veal tongue cooked and cooled under a weight, then cut into three-sixteenth inch squares, eight ounces of mushrooms and two ounces of truffles, the two latter articles being cut into eighth of inch pieces; heat the mixture well until boiling point is reached, then set it aside to get cold. Use this preparation for making the rissoles the same as No. 161, and serve them on folded napkins.

Sweetbreads.—Fry one ounce of chopped up onions in butter with one pound of braised sweetbreads previously pressed under a weight to reduce it to three-sixteenths of an inch in thickness, then cut into Julienne; add some cooked and well drained mushrooms, diluting the whole with veloute sauce (No. 415), thicken properly with egg-yolks, cream and fresh butter, add chopped parsley, salt, pepper and nutmeg, set this preparation aside to cool and finish the rissoles as for No. 161. Serve on folded napkins.

For the Modern Kitchen

Two fillings for the same fried pastry, from Ranhofer's cross-referenced system. Almost everything you need is in the numbers he sends you off to, so the notes below fill those gaps first.

A Little History

The Epicurean (1894) is Charles Ranhofer's record of what came out of the Delmonico's kitchens in New York during his long reign there, and it is organised like a professional reference rather than a household book: fillings, sauces and doughs are numbered and recombined, so a single pastry shell such as No. 161 serves partridge, marrow, tongue or sweetbread as the larder allows. Rissole is an old word, medieval in origin -- the French verb rissoler, to brown, derives from it rather than the other way about -- and the form is older still: a fried turnover of chopped cooked meat in a wrapper of pastry. What marks these two as late-nineteenth-century restaurant food is the machinery behind them: scarlet tongue, a nitre-cured luxury of the charcuterie counter, and braised sweetbreads pressed flat under a weight, both bound in the mother sauces that Careme's generation had codified and that Ranhofer expected any cook in his brigade to have standing ready on the stove.