The Epicurean
A Treatise on the Culinary Art — Charles Ranhofer of Delmonico’s — 1894
No. 984

Sartiges Timbales

Timbales a la Sartiges

Butter some timbale molds (No. 2, Fig. 137), decorate the center of the bottom with a rosette design made of truffles, and around the top and bottom of the sides of the mold, lay a detached row of round pieces of truffle, having those at the bottom somewhat smaller than those at the top. In the center on each side make a truffle cross-shaped like an X, one inch high, and in the middle of it, lay a small eighth of an inch round of tongue, and on each side rings of tongue, three-eighths of an inch in diameter. Fill the bottoms and sides with a grouse cream forcemeat (No. 75), and set in the center of this a salpicon composed of squares of truffle cut in three-sixteenths of an inch, and mingled with a well reduced half-glaze sauce (No. 413); fill up with more of the forcemeat, and finish the same as the timbales (No. 959). Serve separately an espagnole sauce (No. 414) with game essence (No. 389).

For the Modern Kitchen

This is one of Ranhofer's cross-referenced constructions: the entry itself is really a decorating scheme, and the substance sits in the numbered recipes it points to. Read it as an assembly diagram and gather the components first.

A Little History

The Epicurean (1894) is Charles Ranhofer's account of thirty-odd years as chef at Delmonico's in New York, and it is organised like a professional reference rather than a home cookbook: numbered recipes that call on one another, and dishes named for the patrons, diplomats and public figures who ate them. "A la Sartiges" belongs to that habit of commemorative naming, and is generally taken to honour the Comte de Sartiges, French minister to the United States in the 1850s, though Ranhofer, as usual, offers no explanation. The dish itself shows what an elaborate hot side dish meant in that kitchen: a cream forcemeat of game, a bound dice of truffle hidden at the center, and a decoration of truffle and cured tongue laid out to measured fractions of an inch inside a mold the diner never sees intact. The pattern exists only to be revealed at the moment of unmolding, which tells you how much labour a nineteenth-century brigade could spend on a single course.