A friend recently alerted me to this video purporting to describe the proper way of making éclairs: http://www.videojug.com/film/how-to-make-chocolate-eclairs
Note the ingredients for "pastry cream." Cream and sugar. That's it. I shall have to fly to Britain to maim these philistines at the next opportunity. Not only do they attempt to purpetuate the idiocy of filling éclairs with whipped cream... No, such a crime is too minor for these fiends. Instead they have the gall, the sheer effrontery, the abysmal lack of taste and common human decency actually to attempt to promulgate the notion that whipped cream is somehow the same as pastry cream.
I beg you, friends in fair Albion! Find these monsters and destroy them before it is too late!
And see my earlier post describing the proper way to make éclairs.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Thanks for Foods Not Eaten
Thanksgiving has come and gone, and while it is difficult to go wrong with the staples of Thanksgiving fare, I am quite certain that many of you have been subjected to all manner of abominations in the name of pointless variation. I would therefore like to take a moment to give thanks for all the appalling food I was not confronted with this year, in the vain hope that some of the villains who regularly foist these misbegotten travesties upon others will come to understand the error of their ways.
I am thankful that I was not confronted with tofurkey.
While I am willing to accept that some choose a vegetarian lifestyle and are content with it, I do not wish to have it thrust in my face in such a manner. Tofurkey, for those lucky souls among you who remain blissfully unexposed to this vile substance, is a vegetarian "turkey alternative" comprising tofu and flavorings formed into a shape intended to be reminiscent of a turkey breast. It bears less relationship to an actual turkey breast than McNuggets bear to chicken Kiev... Except that McNuggets are far closer to edible than is tofurkey.
Tofu, while an excellent ingredient in many dishes, is most emphatically not a meat substitute. Do not attempt to serve anyone a great slab of the substance and expect them to believe it is meat, or even to be remotely satisfied. If you must serve a vegetarian repast, focus instead on actual vegetables, and on dishes that are not supposed to have meat, let alone be meat.
I am thankful that the turkey was not cooked until it became a crumbling, desiccated husk.
Some years ago, I chose to cook a turkey myself. I made a beautifully spiced, slightly citrusy brine to marinate it overnight, filled it with a traditional stuffing with a hint of black truffles, and cooked it to a beautiful golden brown on the outside. It released just barely enough liquid to make a decent gravy, and the breast meat was as moist as the tears in the eyes of my guests as they bit into that delectable flesh.
Tears in the eyes of all save one of my guests, that is. One particular shriveled biddy actually had the temerity to complain that my turkey was not as moist as it would be had she prepared it. As she was the mother of a dear friend, I could not cast her out into the cold where she belonged after such a transgression, and upon reflection, I found myself intrigued as to what she could possibly mean. While I am willing to concede the theoretical possibility that one could prepare a turkey that was more moist, I found it highly unlikely.
In order to sate my curiosity, I ensured that the next year's Thanksgiving meal would be held at my friend's house, and prepared by her mother (the desiccated biddy who insulted my turkey, that is). I watched as the turkey was removed from the oven. At first glance, it looked acceptable, but already slightly shriveled. When she cut into it, however, the juice spilled out of the bird, flowing liberally from inside the the meat to spill into the pan.
I realized then that this was her idea of a moist turkey; she thought that the juice should be running out of it, rather than remaining inside it. It had never occurred to her that all the liquid she saw was moisture that would not remain in the meat to be served.
My sense of vindication was most satisfactory, but it was greatly tempered by the fact that I would now have to sit through a Thanksgiving meal featuring dry, crumbling turkey. Worse, I could not give the meal the verbal skewering it deserved for fear of alienating my friend.
Alas, the torments we must suffer for our loved ones.
I am thankful that no one elected to put walnuts, almonds, olives, prunes, pomegranates, apples, cherries, chestnuts or any other intrusive flavor or texture into my stuffing.
Stuffing should have a consistent texture (perhaps with small pieces of celery or onions for a bit of mild crunchiness), concentrating on savory flavors that will complement the turkey. Many of these other ingredients might be acceptable in a casserole, but turkey stuffing is not a casserole. Speaking of which:
I am thankful that no one attempted to serve me a tray of stuffing that was prepared as a separate dish.
"Stuffing" is meant to be "stuffed" inside of some other food; specifically turkey, in the case of Thanksgiving. That is why it is called "stuffing".
If you do not stuff it inside of something, it is little more than a pile of rehydrated bread crumbs (or rather bread crumbs infested with nuts, olives, or one of the other abominations which you doubtless added, being the sort to serve so-called stuffing which has never been stuffed in anything).
Yes, there may be some slightly elevated health risks attendant to cooking stuffing inside of poultry, but if you put hot stuffing in a bird and immediately cook the whole properly, you should be safe enough. Indeed, the risk of being injured by angry diners upset at being confronted by flat, undeveloped stuffing is far higher than the risk of food-borne illness. Or it is if I am in attendance, at any rate.
For those who are excessively paranoid about food poisoning, there is another excellent alternative, which is to split the turkey along the backbone and flatten it atop the stuffing. In order to keep the stuffing from absorbing all of the juice (not a bad thing, except that it would preclude gravy) you can place it on a rack inside your roasting pan, possibly on top of some foil which has been punctured in several places to allow liquid to pass through. Place the turkey on top of the stuffing, and you will get most of the benefits of stuffing the turkey normally, but with more even heating, and therefore less risk.
This approach also has the benefit of cooking the various parts of the bird more evenly, and it increases the amount of crispy turkey skin (as opposed to the gelatinous membrane one often finds on the bottom of a turkey roasted more conventionally). The disadvantage to this approach is that it precludes the aesthetically-pleasing presentation of a whole bird at the table, but a creative chef can easily overcome such concerns.
I am thankful that no one prepared candied yams.
I am aware that this statement may be unpopular in some quarters, and that there are many otherwise sensible people in the world who adore candied yams. For me, however, candied yams fail both as a sweet and as a savory dish. The starchiness of the yams prevents them from obtaining a dessert-like quality, while their uniform sweetness makes them unworkable when viewed as a side.
Do not mistake me; I can often enjoy a sweet sauce with my meal. The difference is that a sauce provides a controllable accent to the rest of the dish, while the undifferentiated starchy sweetness of yams pervades the entire dish, rendering it quite unpalatable.
I am thankful that no one made cranberry relish instead of cranberry sauce.
Cranberry sauce is a Classic.
Do not mess with it.
You may choose jellied or whole berry, and can adjust the amount and source of the sugar (e.g. by using orange juice), but it had better remain recognizably cranberry sauce, rather than some sort of appalling "see how creative I can be", "I must be different. DIFFERENT do you hear?" relish or paste.
If for some reason you feel compelled to make such fripperies, be certain that they are in addition to proper cranberry sauce, rather than in place of it. Nothing incites my ire more than being presented with a dish that has deprived me of something that is good in the name of giving me something that is different.
I am thankful that no one made sweet potato pie.
More than that, I am extremely grateful that no one made "sweet potato" pie with yams. Yams are not sweet potatoes. They are much more sweet, and have a much more intense (and less pleasant) flavor than sweet potatoes.
At its best, sweet potato pie is quite similar to pumpkin pie. Certainly it looks like much like pumpkin pie. The flavor is a little bit more tangy, and the color usually a bit lighter, but it is easy to mistake one for the other, and those accustomed to pumpkin pie will be misled and perhaps disappointed.
The natural question arises, why not simply make pumpkin pie? You will please more people, and avoid the trap of making something that looks like pumpkin pie but does not taste like pumpkin pie.
You do not want to make something that looks like pumpkin pie but does not taste like pumpkin pie. This violates my First Rule, and will earn my extreme displeasure. Or rather it would if I liked either pumpkin pie or sweet potato pie. As it stands, I would doubtless avoid it, and you would have succeeded in dodging a bullet. Or perhaps a carving knife, as I rarely bring firearms to the table.
I am thankful that I shall be cooking my own Christmas dinner.
Having escaped Thanksgiving without confronting any culinary atrocities, I would now be viewing the next oncoming holiday with great trepidation were it not for the fact that I shall be preparing that meal myself. I have not yet settled on a final menu, but rest assured that it will be simple, it will focus on the traditional flavors of the season, it will be exquisitely prepared, and it will be perfectly seasoned.
I beg you all, take my words to heart. Keep the flavors simple. Give your friends and family the solid, traditional flavors they deserve, and seek to achieve excellence through skilled preparation and subtle enhancements, rather than through radical departures. Experiment on your own time, or with friends who are willing to give you honest criticism and be prepared for the worst, if your friends are worth their table salt.)
At the holidays, even such as I will feel bound by friendship not to complain. Do not take advantage of the this time to inflict your deplorable culinary contrivances upon a captive audience of dear friends. Show them the respect they deserve, and feed them the meal they came to eat.
- Ram
I am thankful that I was not confronted with tofurkey.
While I am willing to accept that some choose a vegetarian lifestyle and are content with it, I do not wish to have it thrust in my face in such a manner. Tofurkey, for those lucky souls among you who remain blissfully unexposed to this vile substance, is a vegetarian "turkey alternative" comprising tofu and flavorings formed into a shape intended to be reminiscent of a turkey breast. It bears less relationship to an actual turkey breast than McNuggets bear to chicken Kiev... Except that McNuggets are far closer to edible than is tofurkey.
Tofu, while an excellent ingredient in many dishes, is most emphatically not a meat substitute. Do not attempt to serve anyone a great slab of the substance and expect them to believe it is meat, or even to be remotely satisfied. If you must serve a vegetarian repast, focus instead on actual vegetables, and on dishes that are not supposed to have meat, let alone be meat.
I am thankful that the turkey was not cooked until it became a crumbling, desiccated husk.
Some years ago, I chose to cook a turkey myself. I made a beautifully spiced, slightly citrusy brine to marinate it overnight, filled it with a traditional stuffing with a hint of black truffles, and cooked it to a beautiful golden brown on the outside. It released just barely enough liquid to make a decent gravy, and the breast meat was as moist as the tears in the eyes of my guests as they bit into that delectable flesh.
Tears in the eyes of all save one of my guests, that is. One particular shriveled biddy actually had the temerity to complain that my turkey was not as moist as it would be had she prepared it. As she was the mother of a dear friend, I could not cast her out into the cold where she belonged after such a transgression, and upon reflection, I found myself intrigued as to what she could possibly mean. While I am willing to concede the theoretical possibility that one could prepare a turkey that was more moist, I found it highly unlikely.
In order to sate my curiosity, I ensured that the next year's Thanksgiving meal would be held at my friend's house, and prepared by her mother (the desiccated biddy who insulted my turkey, that is). I watched as the turkey was removed from the oven. At first glance, it looked acceptable, but already slightly shriveled. When she cut into it, however, the juice spilled out of the bird, flowing liberally from inside the the meat to spill into the pan.
I realized then that this was her idea of a moist turkey; she thought that the juice should be running out of it, rather than remaining inside it. It had never occurred to her that all the liquid she saw was moisture that would not remain in the meat to be served.
My sense of vindication was most satisfactory, but it was greatly tempered by the fact that I would now have to sit through a Thanksgiving meal featuring dry, crumbling turkey. Worse, I could not give the meal the verbal skewering it deserved for fear of alienating my friend.
Alas, the torments we must suffer for our loved ones.
I am thankful that no one elected to put walnuts, almonds, olives, prunes, pomegranates, apples, cherries, chestnuts or any other intrusive flavor or texture into my stuffing.
Stuffing should have a consistent texture (perhaps with small pieces of celery or onions for a bit of mild crunchiness), concentrating on savory flavors that will complement the turkey. Many of these other ingredients might be acceptable in a casserole, but turkey stuffing is not a casserole. Speaking of which:
I am thankful that no one attempted to serve me a tray of stuffing that was prepared as a separate dish.
"Stuffing" is meant to be "stuffed" inside of some other food; specifically turkey, in the case of Thanksgiving. That is why it is called "stuffing".
If you do not stuff it inside of something, it is little more than a pile of rehydrated bread crumbs (or rather bread crumbs infested with nuts, olives, or one of the other abominations which you doubtless added, being the sort to serve so-called stuffing which has never been stuffed in anything).
Yes, there may be some slightly elevated health risks attendant to cooking stuffing inside of poultry, but if you put hot stuffing in a bird and immediately cook the whole properly, you should be safe enough. Indeed, the risk of being injured by angry diners upset at being confronted by flat, undeveloped stuffing is far higher than the risk of food-borne illness. Or it is if I am in attendance, at any rate.
For those who are excessively paranoid about food poisoning, there is another excellent alternative, which is to split the turkey along the backbone and flatten it atop the stuffing. In order to keep the stuffing from absorbing all of the juice (not a bad thing, except that it would preclude gravy) you can place it on a rack inside your roasting pan, possibly on top of some foil which has been punctured in several places to allow liquid to pass through. Place the turkey on top of the stuffing, and you will get most of the benefits of stuffing the turkey normally, but with more even heating, and therefore less risk.
This approach also has the benefit of cooking the various parts of the bird more evenly, and it increases the amount of crispy turkey skin (as opposed to the gelatinous membrane one often finds on the bottom of a turkey roasted more conventionally). The disadvantage to this approach is that it precludes the aesthetically-pleasing presentation of a whole bird at the table, but a creative chef can easily overcome such concerns.
I am thankful that no one prepared candied yams.
I am aware that this statement may be unpopular in some quarters, and that there are many otherwise sensible people in the world who adore candied yams. For me, however, candied yams fail both as a sweet and as a savory dish. The starchiness of the yams prevents them from obtaining a dessert-like quality, while their uniform sweetness makes them unworkable when viewed as a side.
Do not mistake me; I can often enjoy a sweet sauce with my meal. The difference is that a sauce provides a controllable accent to the rest of the dish, while the undifferentiated starchy sweetness of yams pervades the entire dish, rendering it quite unpalatable.
I am thankful that no one made cranberry relish instead of cranberry sauce.
Cranberry sauce is a Classic.
Do not mess with it.
You may choose jellied or whole berry, and can adjust the amount and source of the sugar (e.g. by using orange juice), but it had better remain recognizably cranberry sauce, rather than some sort of appalling "see how creative I can be", "I must be different. DIFFERENT do you hear?" relish or paste.
If for some reason you feel compelled to make such fripperies, be certain that they are in addition to proper cranberry sauce, rather than in place of it. Nothing incites my ire more than being presented with a dish that has deprived me of something that is good in the name of giving me something that is different.
I am thankful that no one made sweet potato pie.
More than that, I am extremely grateful that no one made "sweet potato" pie with yams. Yams are not sweet potatoes. They are much more sweet, and have a much more intense (and less pleasant) flavor than sweet potatoes.
At its best, sweet potato pie is quite similar to pumpkin pie. Certainly it looks like much like pumpkin pie. The flavor is a little bit more tangy, and the color usually a bit lighter, but it is easy to mistake one for the other, and those accustomed to pumpkin pie will be misled and perhaps disappointed.
The natural question arises, why not simply make pumpkin pie? You will please more people, and avoid the trap of making something that looks like pumpkin pie but does not taste like pumpkin pie.
You do not want to make something that looks like pumpkin pie but does not taste like pumpkin pie. This violates my First Rule, and will earn my extreme displeasure. Or rather it would if I liked either pumpkin pie or sweet potato pie. As it stands, I would doubtless avoid it, and you would have succeeded in dodging a bullet. Or perhaps a carving knife, as I rarely bring firearms to the table.
I am thankful that I shall be cooking my own Christmas dinner.
Having escaped Thanksgiving without confronting any culinary atrocities, I would now be viewing the next oncoming holiday with great trepidation were it not for the fact that I shall be preparing that meal myself. I have not yet settled on a final menu, but rest assured that it will be simple, it will focus on the traditional flavors of the season, it will be exquisitely prepared, and it will be perfectly seasoned.
I beg you all, take my words to heart. Keep the flavors simple. Give your friends and family the solid, traditional flavors they deserve, and seek to achieve excellence through skilled preparation and subtle enhancements, rather than through radical departures. Experiment on your own time, or with friends who are willing to give you honest criticism and be prepared for the worst, if your friends are worth their table salt.)
At the holidays, even such as I will feel bound by friendship not to complain. Do not take advantage of the this time to inflict your deplorable culinary contrivances upon a captive audience of dear friends. Show them the respect they deserve, and feed them the meal they came to eat.
- Ram
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Return to the web - and to Porcella Urban Market
Yet again I have been absent for an extended interval, and to you, my readers, I can only say, "mea culpa".
I said something rather different to the court, mind you, for you see, my absence has been due to some unfortunate legal complications of an incident originating with a bit of Châteaubriand billed as Kobe beef. The beef was tough, domestic, badly overcooked, and almost certainly not even Wagyu, let alone properly pampered Kobe. This travesty was served with an architectural wedge of congealed polenta doubtless capable of supporting the combined weight of myself and half the kitchen staff, together with a combination of badly undercooked fava beans and appalingly overcooked brussels sprouts. Oh, and huge sprigs of parsley.
My subsequent rather spirited discussion with the individual billing himself as the chef eventually came to involve a variety of sharp and/or heavy kitchen implements, culminating in what I felt was a very creative though rather messy use of a mandoline and chinois upon his person. This lively exchange was followed by visits from emergency medical services and the Seattle police, the latter of whom sadly failed to see the signficant public service I had done by rendering that charlatan unable to reproduce.
Alas, my difficulties relating to this situation have not yet ended. I am certain that a jury of my peers would acquit me instanter, but given the unlikelihood of finding any of my actual peers attending jury duty, I may suffer further enforced absence in the not-too-distant future.
Regardless, for the moment, I am here, and I am here to discuss food. On advice of counsel, I shall refrain from naming the site of the abovementioned incident. Instead, I would like to give an update on the state of Porcella Urban Market.
Loyal readers (should any such remain) may recall that I recently expressed some trepidation as to whether Porcella would recover from the loss of Chef Noah Mellich.
I am happy to report that I have dined twice at Porcella in the past month, and the quality is indeed as high as ever. True, the character of the place has changed somewhat: It's now a bit more of a normal cafe, and less the fascinating upscale deli market it once was. The quality of service, too, has yet to catch up with the transformation, but nonetheless, I can still recommend Porcella heartily.
For those who are not familiar with Porcella, allow me to re-post my first visit to Porcella as it happened a year ago:
Porcella Urban Market
10245 Main St
Bellevue, WA 98004
(425) 286-0800
(From November, 2006)
Being ever the optimist, I decided today to continue my search for a decent éclair.
First I called Huffman's in Kirkland. They claimed that they would make proper éclairs, but only as a special order with 48 hours' notice. I shall keep that in mind, I suppose, but given the history of my search, I am fairly certain that they would not make the éclairs properly. I would then be forced to resort to pitchforks and torches, tar and feathers, or one of the other traditional remedies one applies to mountebanks who fail to deliver goods as promised. I am trying to cut back on such activities, so I think it best not to risk it.
I then called Belle Pastry on Main Street in Bellevue. I had decided that it might be considered a bit supercilious to use the phrase “crème pâtissière” when otherwise speaking English. Not wishing to appear pretentious (perish the thought, and no snickers from you lot) I foolishly decided to say "pastry cream" instead of "crème pâtissière".
I had a conversation on the phone about how important it is that the éclairs be filled with proper pastry cream, and I was assured that yes, they do use pastry cream in their éclairs. Off to Bellevue with me!
I spend my journey in breathless anticipation of my impending gustatory bliss. Upon arrival, I look in the case and - horrors! - the éclairs are filled with Bavarian cream. Those monsters.
Perhaps I am simply missing the real éclairs. Could they be hidden in the back? I call over the clerk. This is the very woman with whom I spoke on the phone. The one who assured me that the éclairs were filled with pastry cream. I point out that the éclairs are filled with Bavarian cream.
"That's the kind of pastry cream we use." I am struck dumb. I understand that it can be hard to find good help, but how the hell can anyone work in what purports to be a French bakery and not know what pastry cream is? Worse, how can they not know and assume that they do?
Pretentious or not, I resolve henceforth to call it only "crème pâtissière". In this way, I will elicit either the incomprehension that will warn me to ignore whatever the person says, or I will stumble upon one who knows both what it means and what it is.
I gaze balefully upon the clerk, eyes burning with the seething rage that has infused me at this base deception, this foul fraud that has raised my hopes and dashed them once more upon the rocky shores of desolation. I prepare to vent my overflowing spleen, but then... I cannot. As I regard the face of this poor girl who does not understand even the things that surround her each day, my rage burns away to ash, and I can feel naught but pity for her. I depart.
Crushed with disappointment, I wander aimlessly along the street, thinking perhaps to raise my spirits at a pleasant-looking Italian place I noticed on the way in. I soon discover that they are closed for lunch on Saturdays. Clearly this is not my day for food.
But then...
I plod dejectedly back toward my Mercedes (a C32 AMG, the love of my automotive life, sadly now showing her age). I am trying to decide whether I should continue my search for quality food, or simply resign myself to eating an enchirito, when I see "Porcella Urban Market". From the outside, it appears to be an upscale deli/supermarket. Definitely a step up from Taco Bell, but I expect little more than that.
I wander in, and lo! I find an outstanding French bistro. No éclairs, sadly, but at least there are no bad éclairs, either.
They have a deli-style counter with items like duck confit and what appears to be a very refined pâté de foie gras, but they also have a wide-open kitchen with counter seating, and an excellent, if somewhat pricey, full menu.
I order the rabbit and foie gras pâté, and the Muscovy duck. For a drink, since my stomach sadly cannot tolerate the wine this meal deserves, I ask for a coke. They do not carry coke.
Let me say that again: They. Do. Not. Carry. Coke.
Amazing.
Unable to decide for the moment whether to be impressed or simply bemused by their dedicated snobbery, I look in the drink case, and find a very nice "French Limonade". My unbespectacled eyes persist in reading it as "French Lemonade" when the contents are clearly limonade, but I attribute the mismatch to overzealous translation. Indeed, such mistranslations are often a positive sign as to the authenticity of an imported food, so I am actually somewhat encouraged.
Limonade is what Sprite wishes it could be, the clear citrus beverage that stands above all others. Like most imported sodas, it is made with cane sugar instead of corn syrup, and therefore has a cleaner sweetness that does not interfere with the subtle citrus flavors. (Blame U.S. tariffs and subsidies for the ascendance of corn syrup over sugar; a travesty all around.)
Such mundane thoughts maunder through my mind only for as long as it takes to purchase the bottle, open it, and pour a small glass with just a single cube of ice.
In the instant that this clear liquid nectar touches my lips, I am transported back to my favorite sidewalk café on the Canabière in Marseilles, where I oft would journey when on break from my studies at the Sorbonne.
I once again feel the gentle breeze wending its way past the milling crowds, struggling bravely against the mistral winds to bring me a wisp of salt from the Vieux Port, as I sit beneath the Mediterranean sun with ma belle soubrette Pauline at my side. We share a single bottle of limonade to last us the afternoon, for we can afford nothing more. When our lone bottle is at last as empty as our combined pocketbooks, she licks the final drops of that sweet elixir from my quivering tongue, and... Ah, but some memories are best left unvoiced.
I savor my limonade as I slowly return to the present from my fond remembrance of things past, awaiting my meal and cautiously anticipating further sensory delights.
When the pâté arrives, it is served with the obligatory cornichons (pleasantly garlicky, though never my favorite), sweet caramelized onions, two kinds of mustard, and bread sticks. The bread sticks have me momentarily concerned, until I realize that they are not so much breadsticks as breadstick-shaped mini-baguettes. The crust is thin but just crunchy enough, and the inside is nicely moist. It does not quite meet my standards as a baguette, but it vastly exceeds my expectations for bread sticks, so I elect to call it a victory.
I put a small piece of the pâté on a breadstick with some of the caramelized onions, take a bite... Heaven. The pâté is light on the foie gras, and has a nice rustic texture that accentuates the mild flavor of the rabbit. I settle in to taste all the various combinations of the ingredients on my plate, and all of them satisfy quite well. I will confess that I have on occasion had slightly better pâté, but coming on the heels of the surprising limonade, on a day when I thought my hopes for fine dining had been dashed... How could I be less than content?
Next comes the duck. It is served with figs, on a bed of polenta. I must confess that I have never been a big fan of polenta, and in fact, I almost skipped the whole dish simply because it came with polenta. I am profoundly pleased that I did not.
The Muscovy duck is good, serviceable duck. Slightly on the tough side (for such is the nature of the Muscovy duck; tough yet savory), but cooked to a beautiful medium rare, with perfectly seasoned skin, the figs and a savory sauce on the side... Again I am transported, this time to a small restaurant somewhere in the countryside between Orleans and Bourges, I believe it was...
It was at the end of a long day of travel that I stumbled into a rustic farmhouse with no more than four tables, unable to believe my good fortune at finding a prix fixe that included canard à l'orange, but would not bankrupt me.
The meal that day started with a hearty soupe à l'oignon filled with great chunks of rustic bread and enough gruyere to melt my heart and begin the process of hardening my youthful arteries. I remember rationing myself on that soup, to ensure that I would be ready to fully enjoy the duck when it came.
As I ate my soup, the restaurateur came to the table to tell me that I was in for the rare treat of wild duck that he himself had shot that morning while out walking his fields. When my plate arrived, it held slices of duck (doubtless Rouen duck, though at that age I could not yet identify the species) cut in precisely the same way as the Muscovy duck set before me today. The wild freshness of that duck in France more than made up for any flaws in its preparation, just as the toughness of the Muscovy duck adds to its character, enhancing the sensory experience at this serendipitous meal.
I focus on the duck, dreading the polenta I see beneath it. Until this day, I believed that polenta was little more than a thick, undifferentiated mass with less flavor than unsalted grits and the texture of day-old cream of wheat.
Today, however, the polenta is the star of the plate, even in the presence of that excellent duck. And that, my friends, is a major achievement.
Rather than the usual congealed lump, this polenta is a cross between tapioca and a fine risotto, with a savory flavor having a depth I never knew was possible in the dish. I find myself in the midst of an exceedingly rare culinary experience where there is a complexity to a flavor that I cannot precisely identify. My mouth wants to attribute it to some kind of veal or chicken stock, but the flavor is not precisely what one would expect for those ingredients.
Upon inquiring, I learn that the method of preparation is remarkably simple, if a bit time-consuming. The chef sweats onions, shallots, and sage in butter, adds the polenta, and fills the pot with milk. He then stirs with a whisk, and later with a spoon, until the polenta has achieved a thick (but not congealed) consistency, and then he serves it. This process both imparts the complex flavors I encountered and ensures the outstanding texture I observed.
Why is it, then, that so many restaurants get it so badly wrong? Only now have I come to understand the potential of polenta. I have become a zealous convert to properly-made polenta, and those who do it incorrectly will henceforth incur my wrath.
The meal was so outstanding that I decide to break one of my rules and order coffee from the place where I just had a fine meal. I made this rule years ago after one too many fine dinners was marred by an inferior shot of espresso served at the end, and have not regretted it since.
Porcella, however, has the good sense to acquire its beans from Caffe Vita, which is among the the top few roasters in the region (which is to say it is among the best on the entire continent, if I might exhibit a bit of well-justified regional chauvinism). I take this fact as a sign from heaven, and order a latte to go.
I notice that the man who makes my espresso (an obvious Francophone who seems to truly understand my pain as regards éclairs) draws the shots very short. Clearly the man understands how espresso should be made, so I refrain from adding my usual sugar (which I add to fight the harshness of poorly roasted or poorly prepared coffee), hoping against hope that I have at last found a place where one can obtain both good food and good coffee.
Again, I am hugely impressed. There is no hint of bitterness in the coffee. I drink it unsugared, and I am content with life once again.
Now, if they only chose to add proper éclairs to their menu, I would have to nominate the owners for beatification.
- Ram
I said something rather different to the court, mind you, for you see, my absence has been due to some unfortunate legal complications of an incident originating with a bit of Châteaubriand billed as Kobe beef. The beef was tough, domestic, badly overcooked, and almost certainly not even Wagyu, let alone properly pampered Kobe. This travesty was served with an architectural wedge of congealed polenta doubtless capable of supporting the combined weight of myself and half the kitchen staff, together with a combination of badly undercooked fava beans and appalingly overcooked brussels sprouts. Oh, and huge sprigs of parsley.
My subsequent rather spirited discussion with the individual billing himself as the chef eventually came to involve a variety of sharp and/or heavy kitchen implements, culminating in what I felt was a very creative though rather messy use of a mandoline and chinois upon his person. This lively exchange was followed by visits from emergency medical services and the Seattle police, the latter of whom sadly failed to see the signficant public service I had done by rendering that charlatan unable to reproduce.
Alas, my difficulties relating to this situation have not yet ended. I am certain that a jury of my peers would acquit me instanter, but given the unlikelihood of finding any of my actual peers attending jury duty, I may suffer further enforced absence in the not-too-distant future.
Regardless, for the moment, I am here, and I am here to discuss food. On advice of counsel, I shall refrain from naming the site of the abovementioned incident. Instead, I would like to give an update on the state of Porcella Urban Market.
Loyal readers (should any such remain) may recall that I recently expressed some trepidation as to whether Porcella would recover from the loss of Chef Noah Mellich.
I am happy to report that I have dined twice at Porcella in the past month, and the quality is indeed as high as ever. True, the character of the place has changed somewhat: It's now a bit more of a normal cafe, and less the fascinating upscale deli market it once was. The quality of service, too, has yet to catch up with the transformation, but nonetheless, I can still recommend Porcella heartily.
For those who are not familiar with Porcella, allow me to re-post my first visit to Porcella as it happened a year ago:
Porcella Urban Market
10245 Main St
Bellevue, WA 98004
(425) 286-0800
(From November, 2006)
Being ever the optimist, I decided today to continue my search for a decent éclair.
First I called Huffman's in Kirkland. They claimed that they would make proper éclairs, but only as a special order with 48 hours' notice. I shall keep that in mind, I suppose, but given the history of my search, I am fairly certain that they would not make the éclairs properly. I would then be forced to resort to pitchforks and torches, tar and feathers, or one of the other traditional remedies one applies to mountebanks who fail to deliver goods as promised. I am trying to cut back on such activities, so I think it best not to risk it.
I then called Belle Pastry on Main Street in Bellevue. I had decided that it might be considered a bit supercilious to use the phrase “crème pâtissière” when otherwise speaking English. Not wishing to appear pretentious (perish the thought, and no snickers from you lot) I foolishly decided to say "pastry cream" instead of "crème pâtissière".
I had a conversation on the phone about how important it is that the éclairs be filled with proper pastry cream, and I was assured that yes, they do use pastry cream in their éclairs. Off to Bellevue with me!
I spend my journey in breathless anticipation of my impending gustatory bliss. Upon arrival, I look in the case and - horrors! - the éclairs are filled with Bavarian cream. Those monsters.
Perhaps I am simply missing the real éclairs. Could they be hidden in the back? I call over the clerk. This is the very woman with whom I spoke on the phone. The one who assured me that the éclairs were filled with pastry cream. I point out that the éclairs are filled with Bavarian cream.
"That's the kind of pastry cream we use." I am struck dumb. I understand that it can be hard to find good help, but how the hell can anyone work in what purports to be a French bakery and not know what pastry cream is? Worse, how can they not know and assume that they do?
Pretentious or not, I resolve henceforth to call it only "crème pâtissière". In this way, I will elicit either the incomprehension that will warn me to ignore whatever the person says, or I will stumble upon one who knows both what it means and what it is.
I gaze balefully upon the clerk, eyes burning with the seething rage that has infused me at this base deception, this foul fraud that has raised my hopes and dashed them once more upon the rocky shores of desolation. I prepare to vent my overflowing spleen, but then... I cannot. As I regard the face of this poor girl who does not understand even the things that surround her each day, my rage burns away to ash, and I can feel naught but pity for her. I depart.
Crushed with disappointment, I wander aimlessly along the street, thinking perhaps to raise my spirits at a pleasant-looking Italian place I noticed on the way in. I soon discover that they are closed for lunch on Saturdays. Clearly this is not my day for food.
But then...
I plod dejectedly back toward my Mercedes (a C32 AMG, the love of my automotive life, sadly now showing her age). I am trying to decide whether I should continue my search for quality food, or simply resign myself to eating an enchirito, when I see "Porcella Urban Market". From the outside, it appears to be an upscale deli/supermarket. Definitely a step up from Taco Bell, but I expect little more than that.
I wander in, and lo! I find an outstanding French bistro. No éclairs, sadly, but at least there are no bad éclairs, either.
They have a deli-style counter with items like duck confit and what appears to be a very refined pâté de foie gras, but they also have a wide-open kitchen with counter seating, and an excellent, if somewhat pricey, full menu.
I order the rabbit and foie gras pâté, and the Muscovy duck. For a drink, since my stomach sadly cannot tolerate the wine this meal deserves, I ask for a coke. They do not carry coke.
Let me say that again: They. Do. Not. Carry. Coke.
Amazing.
Unable to decide for the moment whether to be impressed or simply bemused by their dedicated snobbery, I look in the drink case, and find a very nice "French Limonade". My unbespectacled eyes persist in reading it as "French Lemonade" when the contents are clearly limonade, but I attribute the mismatch to overzealous translation. Indeed, such mistranslations are often a positive sign as to the authenticity of an imported food, so I am actually somewhat encouraged.
Limonade is what Sprite wishes it could be, the clear citrus beverage that stands above all others. Like most imported sodas, it is made with cane sugar instead of corn syrup, and therefore has a cleaner sweetness that does not interfere with the subtle citrus flavors. (Blame U.S. tariffs and subsidies for the ascendance of corn syrup over sugar; a travesty all around.)
Such mundane thoughts maunder through my mind only for as long as it takes to purchase the bottle, open it, and pour a small glass with just a single cube of ice.
In the instant that this clear liquid nectar touches my lips, I am transported back to my favorite sidewalk café on the Canabière in Marseilles, where I oft would journey when on break from my studies at the Sorbonne.
I once again feel the gentle breeze wending its way past the milling crowds, struggling bravely against the mistral winds to bring me a wisp of salt from the Vieux Port, as I sit beneath the Mediterranean sun with ma belle soubrette Pauline at my side. We share a single bottle of limonade to last us the afternoon, for we can afford nothing more. When our lone bottle is at last as empty as our combined pocketbooks, she licks the final drops of that sweet elixir from my quivering tongue, and... Ah, but some memories are best left unvoiced.
I savor my limonade as I slowly return to the present from my fond remembrance of things past, awaiting my meal and cautiously anticipating further sensory delights.
When the pâté arrives, it is served with the obligatory cornichons (pleasantly garlicky, though never my favorite), sweet caramelized onions, two kinds of mustard, and bread sticks. The bread sticks have me momentarily concerned, until I realize that they are not so much breadsticks as breadstick-shaped mini-baguettes. The crust is thin but just crunchy enough, and the inside is nicely moist. It does not quite meet my standards as a baguette, but it vastly exceeds my expectations for bread sticks, so I elect to call it a victory.
I put a small piece of the pâté on a breadstick with some of the caramelized onions, take a bite... Heaven. The pâté is light on the foie gras, and has a nice rustic texture that accentuates the mild flavor of the rabbit. I settle in to taste all the various combinations of the ingredients on my plate, and all of them satisfy quite well. I will confess that I have on occasion had slightly better pâté, but coming on the heels of the surprising limonade, on a day when I thought my hopes for fine dining had been dashed... How could I be less than content?
Next comes the duck. It is served with figs, on a bed of polenta. I must confess that I have never been a big fan of polenta, and in fact, I almost skipped the whole dish simply because it came with polenta. I am profoundly pleased that I did not.
The Muscovy duck is good, serviceable duck. Slightly on the tough side (for such is the nature of the Muscovy duck; tough yet savory), but cooked to a beautiful medium rare, with perfectly seasoned skin, the figs and a savory sauce on the side... Again I am transported, this time to a small restaurant somewhere in the countryside between Orleans and Bourges, I believe it was...
It was at the end of a long day of travel that I stumbled into a rustic farmhouse with no more than four tables, unable to believe my good fortune at finding a prix fixe that included canard à l'orange, but would not bankrupt me.
The meal that day started with a hearty soupe à l'oignon filled with great chunks of rustic bread and enough gruyere to melt my heart and begin the process of hardening my youthful arteries. I remember rationing myself on that soup, to ensure that I would be ready to fully enjoy the duck when it came.
As I ate my soup, the restaurateur came to the table to tell me that I was in for the rare treat of wild duck that he himself had shot that morning while out walking his fields. When my plate arrived, it held slices of duck (doubtless Rouen duck, though at that age I could not yet identify the species) cut in precisely the same way as the Muscovy duck set before me today. The wild freshness of that duck in France more than made up for any flaws in its preparation, just as the toughness of the Muscovy duck adds to its character, enhancing the sensory experience at this serendipitous meal.
I focus on the duck, dreading the polenta I see beneath it. Until this day, I believed that polenta was little more than a thick, undifferentiated mass with less flavor than unsalted grits and the texture of day-old cream of wheat.
Today, however, the polenta is the star of the plate, even in the presence of that excellent duck. And that, my friends, is a major achievement.
Rather than the usual congealed lump, this polenta is a cross between tapioca and a fine risotto, with a savory flavor having a depth I never knew was possible in the dish. I find myself in the midst of an exceedingly rare culinary experience where there is a complexity to a flavor that I cannot precisely identify. My mouth wants to attribute it to some kind of veal or chicken stock, but the flavor is not precisely what one would expect for those ingredients.
Upon inquiring, I learn that the method of preparation is remarkably simple, if a bit time-consuming. The chef sweats onions, shallots, and sage in butter, adds the polenta, and fills the pot with milk. He then stirs with a whisk, and later with a spoon, until the polenta has achieved a thick (but not congealed) consistency, and then he serves it. This process both imparts the complex flavors I encountered and ensures the outstanding texture I observed.
Why is it, then, that so many restaurants get it so badly wrong? Only now have I come to understand the potential of polenta. I have become a zealous convert to properly-made polenta, and those who do it incorrectly will henceforth incur my wrath.
The meal was so outstanding that I decide to break one of my rules and order coffee from the place where I just had a fine meal. I made this rule years ago after one too many fine dinners was marred by an inferior shot of espresso served at the end, and have not regretted it since.
Porcella, however, has the good sense to acquire its beans from Caffe Vita, which is among the the top few roasters in the region (which is to say it is among the best on the entire continent, if I might exhibit a bit of well-justified regional chauvinism). I take this fact as a sign from heaven, and order a latte to go.
I notice that the man who makes my espresso (an obvious Francophone who seems to truly understand my pain as regards éclairs) draws the shots very short. Clearly the man understands how espresso should be made, so I refrain from adding my usual sugar (which I add to fight the harshness of poorly roasted or poorly prepared coffee), hoping against hope that I have at last found a place where one can obtain both good food and good coffee.
Again, I am hugely impressed. There is no hint of bitterness in the coffee. I drink it unsugared, and I am content with life once again.
Now, if they only chose to add proper éclairs to their menu, I would have to nominate the owners for beatification.
- Ram
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Desserts Should Not Be Controlled Substances
When enjoying a meal at a fine restaurant, there are two things one should eschew if one wishes to avoid disappointment: The first is coffee, which I shall discuss at another time. The second thing that you must avoid is dessert.
Indeed, in American restaurants at any rate, a good rule of thumb is that the finer the savory elements of your meal, the more likely dessert is to be unsatisfying. The reason for this is simple: American pastry chefs seek to display their control over flavors instead of simply reveling in them.
I call out American pastry chefs here because most European pastry chefs seem to have a good understanding of the value of tradition, but I am quite certain that many among the international set are equally guilty. Indeed, it is said that Ho Chi Minh trained as a pastry chef under Escoffier himself, and look how that turned out. No, perhaps it would be safest to view all pastry chefs as the incipient radicals they doubtless are.
Any chef worth his salt (or even his pepper) will tell you that the key to fine cuisine is to combine quality ingredients in simple ways to produce superior flavors. If a savory dish requires more than ten ingredients, the chef has likely made a horrible mistake. Indeed, many of the most remarkable dishes I have ever tasted comprised no more than four or five perfectly selected and prepared ingredients.
On occasion, one may appreciate the artistry behind a more involved dish, savoring its complexity in the way one might appreciate the skill of a great conductor binding what could be a cacophonous mix of random instruments into the medium for a transporting symphony. Such dishes are rare, however, and most often my enjoyment of them is little more than an abstract appreciation of a well-done display of culinary skill.
Far better to eat a simple dish, with a few players interacting directly and clearly. Food should be like fine chamber music, with each ingredient acting as a perfectly-tuned instrument , and the flavors harmonizing with each other in the way that skilled musicians interact in a small, tightly-knit ensemble.
"Yes, but what does all of this have to do with dessert?" You ask, as you never seem to learn not to interrupt me. I was just getting to that, so cease with the endless impatient badgering!
The lesson of simplicity is one that seems to have been lost on most pastry chefs. Indeed, the more skilled the pastry chef, the less likely it is that the chef will trust in a few simple ingredients.
The primary reason for this lamentable situation is that many of the key ingredients in desserts are profoundly simple, and do not vary greatly in flavor so long as they are reasonably fresh, particularly after they have been baked into a dessert. I could, for example, easily identify a fresh, free range organic fried egg next to its month-old factory-raised counterpart, but I would be hard pressed to distinguish them if they were baked into cakes.
Also, the core ingredients of most desserts provide excellent opportunities for varying texture, but less opportunity for varying flavor. That is not to say that one cannot vary flavors significantly even with simple and similar ingredients , as anyone who has tasted both flan and crème brûlée could tell you. Eggs and sugar are incredibly versatile ingredients, especially when combined in various ways with cream, butter, milk, and flour.
However, there are limits to the variety one can achieve with just these few ingredients, and so in order to create desserts, one must look to other elements. Spices and flavoring are vital, and this is where pastry chefs begin to go astray.
Perhaps the most important flavoring in desserts in vanilla. There are some ignorant fools among you who will doubtless argue that chocolate is more important than vanilla. To you I say, shut your cake hole and heed my words, and I may yet raise you up from your benighted nescience.
Vanilla is to sweets as salt is to main courses. A dish flavored strongly with vanilla can be enjoyed for that reason, but most, if not all, sweet dishes benefit greatly from the addition of vanilla regardless of their primary components.
Chocolate, while a truly outstanding ingredient and one of my favorites, is a very strong, dominant flavor. It does not blend easily with other flavors, but instead insists that the entire dish be constructed to blend with it.
Vanilla, however, subtly enhances other flavors, including chocolate. Indeed, I have known several poor misguided souls who will not eat anything containing chocolate, but I have never encountered anyone who will not eat something that contains vanilla.
I have, of course, met those who say that they hate vanilla, but they are liars or self-deluded. What they mean when they say they hate vanilla is that they hate the idea of vanilla. They feel it is boring, uninteresting. It is even possible that to their pathetically underdeveloped palates it is boring.
Far more likely, though, they have never really tasted proper vanilla, having instead consumed execrable "French Vanilla" ice cream made from artificial vanilla flavoring and doubtless padded with sorghum or some other vile filler. Should anyone discover the name of the marketing homunculus who affixed the appellation "French" to this monstrosity, kindly tell me where they are buried so that I may spit upon their grave... And please do this even if they happen to be living at the time you discover their identity. I find it quite a nuisance to have to bury people before spitting on their graves, and I would greatly appreciate your assistance.
But I digress.
Vanilla, chocolate, nuts, spices, fruits; all these and more may be combined in various ways to create an enormous variety of flavors and textures. In the complex variety of dessert, however, there lies a trap, and it is one that is far more likely to ensnare the expert than the amateur.
Many excellent desserts are in fact created flavors, arising from the subtle mix of spices, extracts and oils to create a new, unified taste. Indeed, most chocolate is not, in fact, simply chocolate, but rather contains a range of subtle ingredients that differentiate the products of one chocolatier from those of another.
A skilled pastry chef knows this, and will seek to create ever more complex new flavors. This quest for new flavors can be a wonderful thing when it results in dishes that build on the strong flavors of the main ingredients, enhancing and complementing them to create ever more intense and varied experiences. Indeed, bringing out the strong flavors of chocolate, nuts, or fruits is not terribly difficult, and most amateurs can create quite tasty desserts at home.
Given that most anyone can in theory produce a dessert that is worth eating, pastry chefs will be tempted to differentiate themselves by abusing their culinary skills to produce subtle, controlled flavors. When they inevitably succumb to this temptation, all is lost.
The beauty of their perfectly-textured puff pastries, delightfully rich éclairs, earthy chocolate tortes, and seductive fruit tarts becomes lost as these formerly great chefs embark upon their misguided quests to make a pear taste less like a pear, or to introduce yet another subtle gradation of caramelization to the woefully inadequate sugar in something that now only vaguely resembles ice cream, or to add orange oil to a chocolate chip cookie to give it a subtler flavor.
Dessert is not about subtlety. It is not about control. Dessert is the very epitome of excess. When I bite into a chocolate chip cookie, I do not want to detect a subtle hint of orange oil neutralizing the lingering aftertaste of the chocolate chips. I want the chocolate aftertaste, you microcephalic dolt! If I wanted something frou-frous and controlled, I wouldn't be eating a damned chocolate chip cookie!
Dessert is where we seek an intense, climactic experience to bring an evening of dining to an ecstatic close. It is the time when the chef should stop teasing, stop testing, stop leading us into little-visited culinary corners and side streets, and should instead finally deliver true, intense, uncompromising flavors perfectly combined to bring us to complete, exhausted satiation.
And what is the idea behind putting green tea into everything? Yes, it is a subtle, complex flavor that can enhance some dishes, but come on, enough with the green tea ice cream and such. I have even encountered green tea tiramisu, for Brillat-Savarin's sake!
What the hell are you people thinking?
Each ingredient in a dessert dish should enhance or complement the other ingredients. No ingredient should be included solely to control or minimize the other flavors. Nor should ingredients be there to prove how clever you erroneously think you are, or to what absurd extremes you are willing to follow the latest food trends.
Each time I see a great pastry chef begin to produce these overly-controlled monstrosities, a small part of me dies, and a somewhat larger part of me develops the urge to find a large, blunt instrument and apply it repeatedly to his or her head until I manage to kill whatever deformed knot of brain cells is responsible for this aberration, while hopefully preserving the part that made them great in the first place... Impossible, I know, but euthanasia is certainly a valid option to consider in these cases, as well.
Perhaps it would be even better to surgically implant electrodes in the genitals of these chefs, and give diners the ability to remotely send negative feedback (and perhaps positive feedback, but I am not too concerned on that point) concerning the food using some kind of remote control. This kind of operant conditioning approach might produce better quality pastry.
Indeed, it might be good to apply the technique to chefs in general. I'd certainly enjoy giving a sustained jolt to the next chef who attempts to serve me undercooked chicken, overcooked duck, or architectural polenta.
I confess this idea may be impractical, but something must be done. We must all strive together to persuade our pastry chefs that it is possible to be great simply by executing a classic perfectly. They must learn that dessert is not the time for abstract appreciation of a chef's skills. It is a time to be transported by pure, raw, uncontrolled flavors assembled with care and beauty by a great master.
And if persuasion doesn't work, we can always fall back on the blunt instruments and electrodes.
- Ram
Indeed, in American restaurants at any rate, a good rule of thumb is that the finer the savory elements of your meal, the more likely dessert is to be unsatisfying. The reason for this is simple: American pastry chefs seek to display their control over flavors instead of simply reveling in them.
I call out American pastry chefs here because most European pastry chefs seem to have a good understanding of the value of tradition, but I am quite certain that many among the international set are equally guilty. Indeed, it is said that Ho Chi Minh trained as a pastry chef under Escoffier himself, and look how that turned out. No, perhaps it would be safest to view all pastry chefs as the incipient radicals they doubtless are.
Any chef worth his salt (or even his pepper) will tell you that the key to fine cuisine is to combine quality ingredients in simple ways to produce superior flavors. If a savory dish requires more than ten ingredients, the chef has likely made a horrible mistake. Indeed, many of the most remarkable dishes I have ever tasted comprised no more than four or five perfectly selected and prepared ingredients.
On occasion, one may appreciate the artistry behind a more involved dish, savoring its complexity in the way one might appreciate the skill of a great conductor binding what could be a cacophonous mix of random instruments into the medium for a transporting symphony. Such dishes are rare, however, and most often my enjoyment of them is little more than an abstract appreciation of a well-done display of culinary skill.
Far better to eat a simple dish, with a few players interacting directly and clearly. Food should be like fine chamber music, with each ingredient acting as a perfectly-tuned instrument , and the flavors harmonizing with each other in the way that skilled musicians interact in a small, tightly-knit ensemble.
"Yes, but what does all of this have to do with dessert?" You ask, as you never seem to learn not to interrupt me. I was just getting to that, so cease with the endless impatient badgering!
The lesson of simplicity is one that seems to have been lost on most pastry chefs. Indeed, the more skilled the pastry chef, the less likely it is that the chef will trust in a few simple ingredients.
The primary reason for this lamentable situation is that many of the key ingredients in desserts are profoundly simple, and do not vary greatly in flavor so long as they are reasonably fresh, particularly after they have been baked into a dessert. I could, for example, easily identify a fresh, free range organic fried egg next to its month-old factory-raised counterpart, but I would be hard pressed to distinguish them if they were baked into cakes.
Also, the core ingredients of most desserts provide excellent opportunities for varying texture, but less opportunity for varying flavor. That is not to say that one cannot vary flavors significantly even with simple and similar ingredients , as anyone who has tasted both flan and crème brûlée could tell you. Eggs and sugar are incredibly versatile ingredients, especially when combined in various ways with cream, butter, milk, and flour.
However, there are limits to the variety one can achieve with just these few ingredients, and so in order to create desserts, one must look to other elements. Spices and flavoring are vital, and this is where pastry chefs begin to go astray.
Perhaps the most important flavoring in desserts in vanilla. There are some ignorant fools among you who will doubtless argue that chocolate is more important than vanilla. To you I say, shut your cake hole and heed my words, and I may yet raise you up from your benighted nescience.
Vanilla is to sweets as salt is to main courses. A dish flavored strongly with vanilla can be enjoyed for that reason, but most, if not all, sweet dishes benefit greatly from the addition of vanilla regardless of their primary components.
Chocolate, while a truly outstanding ingredient and one of my favorites, is a very strong, dominant flavor. It does not blend easily with other flavors, but instead insists that the entire dish be constructed to blend with it.
Vanilla, however, subtly enhances other flavors, including chocolate. Indeed, I have known several poor misguided souls who will not eat anything containing chocolate, but I have never encountered anyone who will not eat something that contains vanilla.
I have, of course, met those who say that they hate vanilla, but they are liars or self-deluded. What they mean when they say they hate vanilla is that they hate the idea of vanilla. They feel it is boring, uninteresting. It is even possible that to their pathetically underdeveloped palates it is boring.
Far more likely, though, they have never really tasted proper vanilla, having instead consumed execrable "French Vanilla" ice cream made from artificial vanilla flavoring and doubtless padded with sorghum or some other vile filler. Should anyone discover the name of the marketing homunculus who affixed the appellation "French" to this monstrosity, kindly tell me where they are buried so that I may spit upon their grave... And please do this even if they happen to be living at the time you discover their identity. I find it quite a nuisance to have to bury people before spitting on their graves, and I would greatly appreciate your assistance.
But I digress.
Vanilla, chocolate, nuts, spices, fruits; all these and more may be combined in various ways to create an enormous variety of flavors and textures. In the complex variety of dessert, however, there lies a trap, and it is one that is far more likely to ensnare the expert than the amateur.
Many excellent desserts are in fact created flavors, arising from the subtle mix of spices, extracts and oils to create a new, unified taste. Indeed, most chocolate is not, in fact, simply chocolate, but rather contains a range of subtle ingredients that differentiate the products of one chocolatier from those of another.
A skilled pastry chef knows this, and will seek to create ever more complex new flavors. This quest for new flavors can be a wonderful thing when it results in dishes that build on the strong flavors of the main ingredients, enhancing and complementing them to create ever more intense and varied experiences. Indeed, bringing out the strong flavors of chocolate, nuts, or fruits is not terribly difficult, and most amateurs can create quite tasty desserts at home.
Given that most anyone can in theory produce a dessert that is worth eating, pastry chefs will be tempted to differentiate themselves by abusing their culinary skills to produce subtle, controlled flavors. When they inevitably succumb to this temptation, all is lost.
The beauty of their perfectly-textured puff pastries, delightfully rich éclairs, earthy chocolate tortes, and seductive fruit tarts becomes lost as these formerly great chefs embark upon their misguided quests to make a pear taste less like a pear, or to introduce yet another subtle gradation of caramelization to the woefully inadequate sugar in something that now only vaguely resembles ice cream, or to add orange oil to a chocolate chip cookie to give it a subtler flavor.
Dessert is not about subtlety. It is not about control. Dessert is the very epitome of excess. When I bite into a chocolate chip cookie, I do not want to detect a subtle hint of orange oil neutralizing the lingering aftertaste of the chocolate chips. I want the chocolate aftertaste, you microcephalic dolt! If I wanted something frou-frous and controlled, I wouldn't be eating a damned chocolate chip cookie!
Dessert is where we seek an intense, climactic experience to bring an evening of dining to an ecstatic close. It is the time when the chef should stop teasing, stop testing, stop leading us into little-visited culinary corners and side streets, and should instead finally deliver true, intense, uncompromising flavors perfectly combined to bring us to complete, exhausted satiation.
And what is the idea behind putting green tea into everything? Yes, it is a subtle, complex flavor that can enhance some dishes, but come on, enough with the green tea ice cream and such. I have even encountered green tea tiramisu, for Brillat-Savarin's sake!
What the hell are you people thinking?
Each ingredient in a dessert dish should enhance or complement the other ingredients. No ingredient should be included solely to control or minimize the other flavors. Nor should ingredients be there to prove how clever you erroneously think you are, or to what absurd extremes you are willing to follow the latest food trends.
Each time I see a great pastry chef begin to produce these overly-controlled monstrosities, a small part of me dies, and a somewhat larger part of me develops the urge to find a large, blunt instrument and apply it repeatedly to his or her head until I manage to kill whatever deformed knot of brain cells is responsible for this aberration, while hopefully preserving the part that made them great in the first place... Impossible, I know, but euthanasia is certainly a valid option to consider in these cases, as well.
Perhaps it would be even better to surgically implant electrodes in the genitals of these chefs, and give diners the ability to remotely send negative feedback (and perhaps positive feedback, but I am not too concerned on that point) concerning the food using some kind of remote control. This kind of operant conditioning approach might produce better quality pastry.
Indeed, it might be good to apply the technique to chefs in general. I'd certainly enjoy giving a sustained jolt to the next chef who attempts to serve me undercooked chicken, overcooked duck, or architectural polenta.
I confess this idea may be impractical, but something must be done. We must all strive together to persuade our pastry chefs that it is possible to be great simply by executing a classic perfectly. They must learn that dessert is not the time for abstract appreciation of a chef's skills. It is a time to be transported by pure, raw, uncontrolled flavors assembled with care and beauty by a great master.
And if persuasion doesn't work, we can always fall back on the blunt instruments and electrodes.
- Ram
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Raisins: Little Nuggets of Condensed Sunshine, or Hideous Mummified Grapes?
Few ingredients in the world of food are as controversial as raisins. There are those (I refer to them as "simpleminded cretins") who believe that raisins enhance any dish, and others (I call them "misguided fools") who believe that raisins have no place in the world outside of a child's lunchbox.
Most of us (and I am doing you the great courtesy of considering you one of "us", so don't blow it) quite correctly believe the truth to be somewhere between the two extremes. There are many dishes where raisins can (but far too often do not) enhance the flavor, and there are other dishes where their inclusion should result in dire punishment for the (simpleminded) cretins responsible.
Sadly, public flagellation has become unpopular in recent years (and ritual disembowelment is actually illegal, no matter how deserved), so we cannot treat the creators of such dishes in the way that seems most appropriate. Also, some would argue that it is not appropriate to punish the mentally inferior for their weakness, and this may perhaps be a valid point of view. I will therefore attempt to educate these miscreants as to the proper use, and more importantly the proper omission, of raisins.
The first thing to remember with regard to raisins is that they are, like all dried fruits, fundamentally a textural ingredient. If you are contemplating including raisins in a dish for textural reasons, please first take a moment to think of the many other dried fruits with with similar sweet and chewy characteristics.
I have a certain fondness for dried cranberries myself, or the Persian zereshk. Zereshk translates as "barberry" (berberis vulgaris, to be precise), but since I doubt you would ever have encountered zereshk outside the context of Persian cuisine, it seems rather silly of you to insist on the English name, so why am I bothering explaining it to you? Sometimes my magnanimity does get a tad excessive. I shall endeavor not to digress further.
Regardless, the primary reason I mention these particular alternatives is that each adds a certain tartness that raisins lack (one which is normally counteracted by sugar), and most dishes in which a rational person might briefly consider incorporating raisins could benefit from the bright notes afforded by these alternatives. If you feel the tartness would clash with other flavors, or are looking for a less complex sweetness, consider dried apricots, figs, or perhaps chopped dates. You might even consider albaloo (a Persian dried sour cherry), though that ingredient must be handled carefully in order to avoid some of the same pitfalls as those exhibited by raisins.
Another excellent alternative if you really want the flavor of raisins is the currant. Most people encounter currants only in the form of jam, and that is a pity. The currant has most of the pleasant flavor characteristics of a raisin, with few of its drawbacks. If you can find some, try them, and you may be pleasantly surprised.
If you have considered these and other alternatives but are nonetheless foolishly determined to use raisins, it is time to remember what I said about raisins being a textural element. Their primary quality that raisins can contribute to a dish is their chewiness. At their best, raisins provide a concentrated note of sweetness that will linger after lesser flavors have faded away.
However, "lingering" and "concentrated" are the critical words here. Most dishes do not benefit from these qualities, and even for those dishes that might benefit, you are gambling on the diner's tastes as to whether they'll agree with you on that score. The absolute worst mistake you can make, though, is to attempt to mitigate either of these two properties.
I said that the primary reason I recommended an alternative ingredient was to improve the flavor. The second, and only slightly less important, reason is that raisins have an annoying tendency to partially rehydrate.
Raisins will absorb some of any liquid to which they are exposed, and some idiots (or rather cretins, to remain consistent) use this fact to attempt to reduce the concentration of the flavor and make it less intrusive. I have encountered this practice most often in execrable attempts at curries (often in conjunction with large chunks of celery and other related atrocities).
Whilst soaking a raisin does in fact achieve that purpose, it also causes the raisins to transform into objects that resemble nothing so much as spoiled grapes. Or perhaps the eyeballs of some sort of large rodent. Regardless, the result is not something any sane individual would want to eat. This effect arises from the fact that the outside of a raisin is a tough, intact grape skin which can hold in a fair amount of liquid.
You may be tempted to cut the raisins to avoid this trap. This approach will, in fact, prevent the rodent eyeball effect. However, it will also cause the raisin to disintegrate. Kindly restrain yourself from this course.
"So, when is it appropriate to use raisins, then? Have they no 'raisin d'être'?" You ask.
I was just about to tell you, you impatient twit! Stop interrupting. And no more of those insipid puns, or I shall be forced to remove your tongue with a lemon zester (a laborious process, but one whose results are usually quite satisfactory).
I fear that I would have to say that it is almost never appropriate to use raisins when cooking for others. I have, however, found a few dishes where the use of properly-handled raisins can be appreciated by most people.
The best known case is the oatmeal raisin cookie. Indeed, I consider raisins to be mandatory for oatmeal cookies, and their omission will earn my enduring, implacable hatred. Actually, "implacable" is perhaps an overstatement. A few tins of Osetra and 100 grams of white Italian truffles might induce my forgiveness. Nonetheless, oatmeal cookies without raisins are simply bland, flattened lumps of undifferentiated grain and flour, and are suitable only for feeding to livestock.
If your dough is low in moisture, the raisins will remain chewy, as they should. Simply avoid overcooking the things (exposed raisins will burn before the dough would) and avoid excess liquid in your batter, and all should be well. Assuming, of course, that you know how to make otherwise edible oatmeal cookies.
Simply remember that excessive moisture, flour and leavening are the enemies of quality oatmeal cookies, and even you should be able to produce something that will not result in me leading an angry mob to your abode. If it helps, think of them as oatmeal-raisin candy with a bit of flour added, and you should not be far off the mark.
The only savory dish I have found in which raisins consistently work well would have to be adas polo (and its various Mediterranean variants). This delightful Persian dish is made with lentils, caramelized onions, spices, and raisins mixed in with a light-grained, salted and buttered basmati rice. The key is that the raisins must be added only at the very end, after the lentils have been cooked (and have therefore absorbed most of the moisture). This allows the raisins to become warm and very slightly soft, while still retaining their basic texture and intensity.
To be sure, there are some other raisin-containing dishes that I have enjoyed. In each case, the chef was able to alter the texture of the raisins to subtly blend with the surrounding ingredients in ways most of us could only dream of. My hat is off to them, as yours should be, but do not make the mistake of attempting to imitate them.
I recommend Adas Polo and oatmeal raisin cookies as examples of the viable use of raisins in ways that are achievable by mere mortals. You will note, presuming of course that your powers of observation are up to such abstract tasks, that these dishes both feature raisins prominently. The very name of the oatmeal-raisin cookie tells you what to expect, and in well-made adas polo, the raisins achieve supremacy over the lentils by numbers alone.
For all but the most skilled of chefs, to use a theatrical metaphor, raisins can be outstanding as featured performers, but they are terrible bit players. They tromp about the scenery, yelling out at inopportune moments, exhibiting their pathetic, grating need to be the focus of all attention. In the end, they drag out their insignificant deaths with lingering, hackneyed shudderings and absurd, endless gyrations till the audience has no fonder wish than that some fiend should cut a sandbag from the rafters or otherwise move to hasten the demise of these incompetent supernumeraries. As the saying goes, they have to be the stars, for they are not good enough to be in the chorus.
Do you understand me now? Feature the raisins, or leave them out entirely.
Of course, I'm sure some of you (the "misguided fools" I referred to at the beginning) will take issue with some of my suggestions, but I cannot be held responsible for your lack of good taste or your inflated sense of your own skills that might lead you to think you can safely ignore me.
If you are incapable of restraining your appalling urge to spread this plague of desiccated grapes throughout the world, kindly refrain from entering the world of professional food preparation. What you do in the privacy of your home is your own concern, but I do not desire to be subjected to it while I am attempting to eat.
- Ram
Most of us (and I am doing you the great courtesy of considering you one of "us", so don't blow it) quite correctly believe the truth to be somewhere between the two extremes. There are many dishes where raisins can (but far too often do not) enhance the flavor, and there are other dishes where their inclusion should result in dire punishment for the (simpleminded) cretins responsible.
Sadly, public flagellation has become unpopular in recent years (and ritual disembowelment is actually illegal, no matter how deserved), so we cannot treat the creators of such dishes in the way that seems most appropriate. Also, some would argue that it is not appropriate to punish the mentally inferior for their weakness, and this may perhaps be a valid point of view. I will therefore attempt to educate these miscreants as to the proper use, and more importantly the proper omission, of raisins.
The first thing to remember with regard to raisins is that they are, like all dried fruits, fundamentally a textural ingredient. If you are contemplating including raisins in a dish for textural reasons, please first take a moment to think of the many other dried fruits with with similar sweet and chewy characteristics.
I have a certain fondness for dried cranberries myself, or the Persian zereshk. Zereshk translates as "barberry" (berberis vulgaris, to be precise), but since I doubt you would ever have encountered zereshk outside the context of Persian cuisine, it seems rather silly of you to insist on the English name, so why am I bothering explaining it to you? Sometimes my magnanimity does get a tad excessive. I shall endeavor not to digress further.
Regardless, the primary reason I mention these particular alternatives is that each adds a certain tartness that raisins lack (one which is normally counteracted by sugar), and most dishes in which a rational person might briefly consider incorporating raisins could benefit from the bright notes afforded by these alternatives. If you feel the tartness would clash with other flavors, or are looking for a less complex sweetness, consider dried apricots, figs, or perhaps chopped dates. You might even consider albaloo (a Persian dried sour cherry), though that ingredient must be handled carefully in order to avoid some of the same pitfalls as those exhibited by raisins.
Another excellent alternative if you really want the flavor of raisins is the currant. Most people encounter currants only in the form of jam, and that is a pity. The currant has most of the pleasant flavor characteristics of a raisin, with few of its drawbacks. If you can find some, try them, and you may be pleasantly surprised.
If you have considered these and other alternatives but are nonetheless foolishly determined to use raisins, it is time to remember what I said about raisins being a textural element. Their primary quality that raisins can contribute to a dish is their chewiness. At their best, raisins provide a concentrated note of sweetness that will linger after lesser flavors have faded away.
However, "lingering" and "concentrated" are the critical words here. Most dishes do not benefit from these qualities, and even for those dishes that might benefit, you are gambling on the diner's tastes as to whether they'll agree with you on that score. The absolute worst mistake you can make, though, is to attempt to mitigate either of these two properties.
I said that the primary reason I recommended an alternative ingredient was to improve the flavor. The second, and only slightly less important, reason is that raisins have an annoying tendency to partially rehydrate.
Raisins will absorb some of any liquid to which they are exposed, and some idiots (or rather cretins, to remain consistent) use this fact to attempt to reduce the concentration of the flavor and make it less intrusive. I have encountered this practice most often in execrable attempts at curries (often in conjunction with large chunks of celery and other related atrocities).
Whilst soaking a raisin does in fact achieve that purpose, it also causes the raisins to transform into objects that resemble nothing so much as spoiled grapes. Or perhaps the eyeballs of some sort of large rodent. Regardless, the result is not something any sane individual would want to eat. This effect arises from the fact that the outside of a raisin is a tough, intact grape skin which can hold in a fair amount of liquid.
You may be tempted to cut the raisins to avoid this trap. This approach will, in fact, prevent the rodent eyeball effect. However, it will also cause the raisin to disintegrate. Kindly restrain yourself from this course.
"So, when is it appropriate to use raisins, then? Have they no 'raisin d'être'?" You ask.
I was just about to tell you, you impatient twit! Stop interrupting. And no more of those insipid puns, or I shall be forced to remove your tongue with a lemon zester (a laborious process, but one whose results are usually quite satisfactory).
I fear that I would have to say that it is almost never appropriate to use raisins when cooking for others. I have, however, found a few dishes where the use of properly-handled raisins can be appreciated by most people.
The best known case is the oatmeal raisin cookie. Indeed, I consider raisins to be mandatory for oatmeal cookies, and their omission will earn my enduring, implacable hatred. Actually, "implacable" is perhaps an overstatement. A few tins of Osetra and 100 grams of white Italian truffles might induce my forgiveness. Nonetheless, oatmeal cookies without raisins are simply bland, flattened lumps of undifferentiated grain and flour, and are suitable only for feeding to livestock.
If your dough is low in moisture, the raisins will remain chewy, as they should. Simply avoid overcooking the things (exposed raisins will burn before the dough would) and avoid excess liquid in your batter, and all should be well. Assuming, of course, that you know how to make otherwise edible oatmeal cookies.
Simply remember that excessive moisture, flour and leavening are the enemies of quality oatmeal cookies, and even you should be able to produce something that will not result in me leading an angry mob to your abode. If it helps, think of them as oatmeal-raisin candy with a bit of flour added, and you should not be far off the mark.
The only savory dish I have found in which raisins consistently work well would have to be adas polo (and its various Mediterranean variants). This delightful Persian dish is made with lentils, caramelized onions, spices, and raisins mixed in with a light-grained, salted and buttered basmati rice. The key is that the raisins must be added only at the very end, after the lentils have been cooked (and have therefore absorbed most of the moisture). This allows the raisins to become warm and very slightly soft, while still retaining their basic texture and intensity.
To be sure, there are some other raisin-containing dishes that I have enjoyed. In each case, the chef was able to alter the texture of the raisins to subtly blend with the surrounding ingredients in ways most of us could only dream of. My hat is off to them, as yours should be, but do not make the mistake of attempting to imitate them.
I recommend Adas Polo and oatmeal raisin cookies as examples of the viable use of raisins in ways that are achievable by mere mortals. You will note, presuming of course that your powers of observation are up to such abstract tasks, that these dishes both feature raisins prominently. The very name of the oatmeal-raisin cookie tells you what to expect, and in well-made adas polo, the raisins achieve supremacy over the lentils by numbers alone.
For all but the most skilled of chefs, to use a theatrical metaphor, raisins can be outstanding as featured performers, but they are terrible bit players. They tromp about the scenery, yelling out at inopportune moments, exhibiting their pathetic, grating need to be the focus of all attention. In the end, they drag out their insignificant deaths with lingering, hackneyed shudderings and absurd, endless gyrations till the audience has no fonder wish than that some fiend should cut a sandbag from the rafters or otherwise move to hasten the demise of these incompetent supernumeraries. As the saying goes, they have to be the stars, for they are not good enough to be in the chorus.
Do you understand me now? Feature the raisins, or leave them out entirely.
Of course, I'm sure some of you (the "misguided fools" I referred to at the beginning) will take issue with some of my suggestions, but I cannot be held responsible for your lack of good taste or your inflated sense of your own skills that might lead you to think you can safely ignore me.
If you are incapable of restraining your appalling urge to spread this plague of desiccated grapes throughout the world, kindly refrain from entering the world of professional food preparation. What you do in the privacy of your home is your own concern, but I do not desire to be subjected to it while I am attempting to eat.
- Ram
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Returning from hiatus
I have been silent for some time now, and no doubt the few readers who might have been faithful have long since gone to more voluble purveyors of food-oriented writing. I make no promises to write more frequently in the future, but for now, I have some things to say, and so I will say them.
My search for quality éclairs seems doomed to failure. Since the time of my great disappointment at Dahlia Bakery I have sampled the weak efforts of the Madison Park Bakery (average choux pastry, slightly too custardy filling, and far too much sugar in the topping, resulting in an almost crunchy layer of chocolate); vaguely tolerable mini-éclairs from several coffee shops that shall remain nameless because they simply buy their pastries from elsewhere; and even Whole Foods supermarket, which I am sad to report appears to have the best éclairs in the Puget Sound area.
That last statement may sound much like praise, but I assure you it is not. No, it is rather further condemnation of all of the other so-called éclairs to be found throughout the city.
In the past months I have sampled exceptional (and some not-so-exceptional) tapas at Tango; experienced fine dining at its best at Mistral; worked far too hard; traveled to Boston, the place of my birth, and back; sampled the cuisine of Vancouver (which appears to be almost entirely devoid of éclairs, whether good or otherwise); and I have witnessed the departure of the great Noah Mellich from Porcella, until recently my favorite spot for a quick but fine meal. I do hope the place manages to recover from his departure, but his food was the soul of the place, and they have much work to do to maintain his standards.
Now I plan to return for a time to my third-greatest passion, that of writing. (For the moment I shall leave it to others to ponder what my two greatest passions might be).
I shall also be migrating the rest of the content from my original site over the next few weeks, as I have decided that I prefer to work in through this interface rather than fighting the evils of forum spammers and web design software on my own.
You will hear more from me soon.
- Ram
My search for quality éclairs seems doomed to failure. Since the time of my great disappointment at Dahlia Bakery I have sampled the weak efforts of the Madison Park Bakery (average choux pastry, slightly too custardy filling, and far too much sugar in the topping, resulting in an almost crunchy layer of chocolate); vaguely tolerable mini-éclairs from several coffee shops that shall remain nameless because they simply buy their pastries from elsewhere; and even Whole Foods supermarket, which I am sad to report appears to have the best éclairs in the Puget Sound area.
That last statement may sound much like praise, but I assure you it is not. No, it is rather further condemnation of all of the other so-called éclairs to be found throughout the city.
In the past months I have sampled exceptional (and some not-so-exceptional) tapas at Tango; experienced fine dining at its best at Mistral; worked far too hard; traveled to Boston, the place of my birth, and back; sampled the cuisine of Vancouver (which appears to be almost entirely devoid of éclairs, whether good or otherwise); and I have witnessed the departure of the great Noah Mellich from Porcella, until recently my favorite spot for a quick but fine meal. I do hope the place manages to recover from his departure, but his food was the soul of the place, and they have much work to do to maintain his standards.
Now I plan to return for a time to my third-greatest passion, that of writing. (For the moment I shall leave it to others to ponder what my two greatest passions might be).
I shall also be migrating the rest of the content from my original site over the next few weeks, as I have decided that I prefer to work in through this interface rather than fighting the evils of forum spammers and web design software on my own.
You will hear more from me soon.
- Ram
Sunday, March 25, 2007
L'Erable Effroyable
-or-
Éclair sans chocolat? Je pense que non!
(Dahlia Bakery, Part II)
It is the middle of the afternoon on a winter Friday, and First Street is deserted. No crowds spilling out from Pike's market, no one out on a casual stroll to enjoy the day, indeed, not even a single car is to be seen in motion on this normally bustling thoroughfare.
Perhaps it is because of the rain. The rain, while not very heavy, and hardly unusual for a Seattle winter, is nonetheless particularly unpleasant on this day. The temperature is perhaps a degree or two below normal, and the wind conspires with the rain to lend each falling droplet of water a fierce sting sure to keep the weak (and perhaps the wise) indoors.
A solitary man, replete from a fine little meal at Le Pichet, gazes out at the street, envisioning with some trepidation the quarter mile journey back to his car. Indeed, his final destination is perhaps half a mile past his car, but Ramsey (the man in question) has already decided that any environment so intent on abusing a man of his stature is unworthy of the consideration he might show it by eschewing his automobile for the latter part of his journey.
Resigned, he enters the solitary street, turning up his collar and hunching his shoulders in a vain effort to reduce the abuse he suffers at the wind's wet and clammy hands.
The collar which he has turned up is attached to a trench coat purchased far too many years ago on Savile Row. The style of the coat is somewhat dated, and it shows some signs of wear, yet it carries for him too many memories to be left behind. Much like the tweed jacket, grey flannel pants, and indeed the man, beneath it; the trench coat speaks more of tradition than trend; more of quality than of style.
Ramsey has, however, made some concessions to his adopted setting, and he rues the day he stopped carrying his umbrella, deciding that it would mark him as a tourist. He might also bemoan his lack of a hat, except that the wind would make a mockery of any attempts to keep such a thing on his head. No, he trudges stolidly forward, raising his head only when a curbside enters his view, telling him that he is one block closer to his destination.
At last, somewhat bedraggled, he enters into his car, finally free from the rain. Now he can complete his mission. Now he can drive the five blocks to the Dahlia Bakery and see if their éclairs have truly been "spruced up", as he has been promised.
The rain has indeed kept most indoors, and the man is able to park directly in front of the door to the bakery. He enters, and discovers to his surprise that the shop is actually rather busy.
From whence did all these people come, if not from the empty streets outside? Dahlia bakery is a tiny storefront with no place to sit, so it is unlikely that any of the patrons of the shop have been here for any length of time. It is indeed a mystery, and one unlikely to be solved today.
The small crowd in the shop at first hides the main display case from his view, so Ramsey turns instead to view the many varieties of cookies and tarts arrayed on the shelves to one side. He decides immediately to buy some of the ginger snaps and chocolate pecan cream cookies he has quickly come to adore.
Shortly, the crowd clears enough that he gets his first clear view of the display case. He scans greedily for the promised éclairs.
Odd. there are no éclairs in the case. Have the new éclairs proved so popular as to be gone already? Then he notices some distressingly éclair-shaped objects with golden-brown icing. Said icing looks remarkably like maple glaze. A sense of dread falls upon poor Ramsey as he contemplates the dire concept of what he may in fact be seeing.
Denial is, of course, his first reaction. He looks further, hoping to catch a glimpse of some proper chocolate topping somewhere. He sees none. A sense of deep foreboding come upon him as he approaches the counter, and yet he cannot yet bring himself to face the awful truth.
He takes a moment to focus on the young woman behind the counter. She seems pleasant enough; young, personable. She smiles as she asks him what he would like.
"I'll have four of the chocolate pecan cookie sandwiches, two gingersnaps, and a pear tart with caramel, please." Ramsey's eyes search behind the counter as he conveys this portion of his order. He looks high and low, around the corner back into the kitchen, everywhere in search of the éclairs he still hopes might be somewhere in the establishment as the assistant gathers the items he has requested.
He sees no éclairs. Naught but the maple-covered monstrosities in the far corner of the case.
"Will there be anything else?"
"Pardon me, but do you have any éclairs?"
"Sure! Right over there!" She indicates far end of the display case, devoid of éclairs but veritably bursting with those... things.
Ramsey pauses for a moment, already knowing in his heart that all is lost. Still, perhaps it is simply an oddly-colored, light-brown chocolate that only looks like maple.
"Ehm, what is that substance on top of them?"
"Maple! It's yummy!"
Quite.
Ramsey is uncertain how to proceed. Confronted with a person so clearly disconnected from reality, he finds himself inspecting the woman's eyes, looking for the telltale signs of illicit drug use or mental instability. Seeing none, he decides to charitably assume that perhaps she is the innocent victim of some mental disorder. He chooses to speak slowly, using only small words.
"Do you have any chocolate éclairs?" He suppresses a wince at the redundancy of this phrasing.
"No! We have maple éclairs! They're gooooood!" She smiles broadly. Obliviously. She clearly expects Ramsey to be pleased at her appalling pronouncement.
Denial is no longer an option.
"You don't understand. Tom Douglas himself promised that he had 'spruced up' his éclairs. I have his e-mail!"
"Yeah! This is what he did! They're great!" Chipper little monster.
"Fetch him here! Now!"
"Ummmm..."
"I must speak with Mr. Douglas this instant. Where is he?"
"Ummmm..."
"He promised! Do you understand me? He promised me! And I trusted him! Bring that miscreant to me this instant!"
"Ummmm, he's not here right now..."
At this point, Ramsey realizes that the entire staff and all of his fellow patrons are staring at him in mounting alarm. Carefully he marshals his anger. It should not be directed at this ignorant shop girl misled by someone who should have known better. No, one man is deserving of his ire, and that man is not present.
With visible effort, Ramsey banks his rage away for future use.
"Mr. Douglas shall hear from me."
And so he has. Some months late, but there it is.
- Ram
Éclair sans chocolat? Je pense que non!
(Dahlia Bakery, Part II)
It is the middle of the afternoon on a winter Friday, and First Street is deserted. No crowds spilling out from Pike's market, no one out on a casual stroll to enjoy the day, indeed, not even a single car is to be seen in motion on this normally bustling thoroughfare.
Perhaps it is because of the rain. The rain, while not very heavy, and hardly unusual for a Seattle winter, is nonetheless particularly unpleasant on this day. The temperature is perhaps a degree or two below normal, and the wind conspires with the rain to lend each falling droplet of water a fierce sting sure to keep the weak (and perhaps the wise) indoors.
A solitary man, replete from a fine little meal at Le Pichet, gazes out at the street, envisioning with some trepidation the quarter mile journey back to his car. Indeed, his final destination is perhaps half a mile past his car, but Ramsey (the man in question) has already decided that any environment so intent on abusing a man of his stature is unworthy of the consideration he might show it by eschewing his automobile for the latter part of his journey.
Resigned, he enters the solitary street, turning up his collar and hunching his shoulders in a vain effort to reduce the abuse he suffers at the wind's wet and clammy hands.
The collar which he has turned up is attached to a trench coat purchased far too many years ago on Savile Row. The style of the coat is somewhat dated, and it shows some signs of wear, yet it carries for him too many memories to be left behind. Much like the tweed jacket, grey flannel pants, and indeed the man, beneath it; the trench coat speaks more of tradition than trend; more of quality than of style.
Ramsey has, however, made some concessions to his adopted setting, and he rues the day he stopped carrying his umbrella, deciding that it would mark him as a tourist. He might also bemoan his lack of a hat, except that the wind would make a mockery of any attempts to keep such a thing on his head. No, he trudges stolidly forward, raising his head only when a curbside enters his view, telling him that he is one block closer to his destination.
At last, somewhat bedraggled, he enters into his car, finally free from the rain. Now he can complete his mission. Now he can drive the five blocks to the Dahlia Bakery and see if their éclairs have truly been "spruced up", as he has been promised.
The rain has indeed kept most indoors, and the man is able to park directly in front of the door to the bakery. He enters, and discovers to his surprise that the shop is actually rather busy.
From whence did all these people come, if not from the empty streets outside? Dahlia bakery is a tiny storefront with no place to sit, so it is unlikely that any of the patrons of the shop have been here for any length of time. It is indeed a mystery, and one unlikely to be solved today.
The small crowd in the shop at first hides the main display case from his view, so Ramsey turns instead to view the many varieties of cookies and tarts arrayed on the shelves to one side. He decides immediately to buy some of the ginger snaps and chocolate pecan cream cookies he has quickly come to adore.
Shortly, the crowd clears enough that he gets his first clear view of the display case. He scans greedily for the promised éclairs.
Odd. there are no éclairs in the case. Have the new éclairs proved so popular as to be gone already? Then he notices some distressingly éclair-shaped objects with golden-brown icing. Said icing looks remarkably like maple glaze. A sense of dread falls upon poor Ramsey as he contemplates the dire concept of what he may in fact be seeing.
Denial is, of course, his first reaction. He looks further, hoping to catch a glimpse of some proper chocolate topping somewhere. He sees none. A sense of deep foreboding come upon him as he approaches the counter, and yet he cannot yet bring himself to face the awful truth.
He takes a moment to focus on the young woman behind the counter. She seems pleasant enough; young, personable. She smiles as she asks him what he would like.
"I'll have four of the chocolate pecan cookie sandwiches, two gingersnaps, and a pear tart with caramel, please." Ramsey's eyes search behind the counter as he conveys this portion of his order. He looks high and low, around the corner back into the kitchen, everywhere in search of the éclairs he still hopes might be somewhere in the establishment as the assistant gathers the items he has requested.
He sees no éclairs. Naught but the maple-covered monstrosities in the far corner of the case.
"Will there be anything else?"
"Pardon me, but do you have any éclairs?"
"Sure! Right over there!" She indicates far end of the display case, devoid of éclairs but veritably bursting with those... things.
Ramsey pauses for a moment, already knowing in his heart that all is lost. Still, perhaps it is simply an oddly-colored, light-brown chocolate that only looks like maple.
"Ehm, what is that substance on top of them?"
"Maple! It's yummy!"
Quite.
Ramsey is uncertain how to proceed. Confronted with a person so clearly disconnected from reality, he finds himself inspecting the woman's eyes, looking for the telltale signs of illicit drug use or mental instability. Seeing none, he decides to charitably assume that perhaps she is the innocent victim of some mental disorder. He chooses to speak slowly, using only small words.
"Do you have any chocolate éclairs?" He suppresses a wince at the redundancy of this phrasing.
"No! We have maple éclairs! They're gooooood!" She smiles broadly. Obliviously. She clearly expects Ramsey to be pleased at her appalling pronouncement.
Denial is no longer an option.
"You don't understand. Tom Douglas himself promised that he had 'spruced up' his éclairs. I have his e-mail!"
"Yeah! This is what he did! They're great!" Chipper little monster.
"Fetch him here! Now!"
"Ummmm..."
"I must speak with Mr. Douglas this instant. Where is he?"
"Ummmm..."
"He promised! Do you understand me? He promised me! And I trusted him! Bring that miscreant to me this instant!"
"Ummmm, he's not here right now..."
At this point, Ramsey realizes that the entire staff and all of his fellow patrons are staring at him in mounting alarm. Carefully he marshals his anger. It should not be directed at this ignorant shop girl misled by someone who should have known better. No, one man is deserving of his ire, and that man is not present.
With visible effort, Ramsey banks his rage away for future use.
"Mr. Douglas shall hear from me."
And so he has. Some months late, but there it is.
- Ram
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