The Epicurean
A Treatise on the Culinary Art — Charles Ranhofer of Delmonico’s — 1894
No. 969

Irving Timbales

Timbales a la Irving

Pound some cooked game or young rabbit, free of all sinews and skin with an equal quantity of rice, half as much bechamel (No. 409) and a little fresh butter, rub through a fine sieve, and set it away to get cold. Butter some cold molds (No 2, Fig. 137) and decorate the bottom with a three-quarters of an inch in diameter slice of truffle, and the sides with triangles cut from truffles, one and five-eighths of an inch long, by three-eighths of an inch wide at the widest part. Set them round the narrow ends reaching to the bottom, the widest ends meeting together at the opening of the timbale. Fill the bottom and inner sides with game cream forcemeat (No. 75) and place a ball of the prepared game puree in the center, and fill it up with game forcemeat; finish cooking and serve same as No. 959. Serve separately a champagne sauce (No. 445), with some essence of game (No. 389).

For the Modern Kitchen

A Delmonico's timbale is an assembly job, not a cooking job: nearly all the work is in the two farces and the truffle lining, and the actual cooking is a gentle poach. Ranhofer's numbered cross-references mean the page is only about a third of the recipe.

A Little History

The Epicurean (1894) is Charles Ranhofer's record of thirty-odd years as chef at Delmonico's in New York, and its habit of naming dishes after people is a house habit — patrons, performers and public figures all got a garnish attached to their names. Which Irving this one honors is not stated; the name is often assumed to point to Washington Irving, whose New York associations were strong, though the English actor Henry Irving toured America repeatedly in these years and was exactly the sort of visitor Delmonico's flattered in print. Either way, the dish itself is standard high-French practice of the period: a lined and decorated mold, a cream forcemeat, a poach in the bain-marie, and a sauce sent to table apart. The truffle triangles measured to the eighth of an inch tell you what kind of kitchen this was — a brigade with enough hands to cut them, and a dining room that would notice.