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Pate De Fois Gras Club Sandwiches
With a tablespoon dipped in hot water scoop out twelve thin slices pate de fois gras from a tureen, lay slices over twelve freshly prepared toasts, and proceed to finish same as chicken club.
A two-line assembly recipe that assumes you already know the book's chicken club and have a terrine of foie gras on hand. Almost all the work is in the parts it does not describe.
- "Tureen" means terrineThe original is a chilled terrine of foie gras, scooped rather than cut. A modern equivalent is a tin or ceramic crock of bloc de foie gras or a mi-cuit terrine; the smooth spreadable "mousse de foie gras" will not hold a slice and is better spread than scooped.
- The hot spoonThis is the hinge of the recipe. Foie gras at refrigerator temperature crumbles and smears; a tablespoon dipped in very hot water and wiped dry shaves a clean, thin curl that lies flat on the toast. Re-dip between each slice.
- Serve it cool, not coldTake the terrine from the refrigerator ten to fifteen minutes before slicing. Straight from the cold it tastes of nothing but fat; well short of room temperature it turns greasy.
- "Same as chicken club"Club sandwiches of this period are generally double-deckers on toast with mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato and bacon, but the book's own chicken club entry is the authority and should be consulted rather than assumed. Here the foie gras simply takes the place of the chicken.
- Twelve toastsTwelve slices of foie gras on twelve toasts, built as clubs, gives four to six sandwiches depending on whether you use two or three slices of bread. Cut on the diagonal and pin with picks.
- The toast"Freshly prepared" is meant literally. Toast made in advance sweats and softens, and a limp base under rich pâté is the usual failure. Toast, butter, and build in one motion.
- AvailabilityFoie gras is banned or restricted in some jurisdictions and is expensive everywhere else. A good coarse country pâté or a duck liver parfait slices the same way and behaves the same on toast, though it is a different dish.
Alexander Filippini spent decades in the kitchens of Delmonico's in New York, and The International Cook Book (1906) reads like the working repertoire of a large restaurant: hundreds of short entries, many of them cross-referencing an earlier one rather than repeating themselves. The club sandwich itself was a new thing in that world, generally traced to American gentlemen's clubs of the 1890s, and by the time this book appeared it had become a template a chef could ring changes on — chicken, turkey, tongue, and here a slice of foie gras laid over toast. That such a luxury was treated as one variation in a list, rather than as an occasion, says a good deal about the kind of house Filippini cooked for.