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

The Road to Dahlia Bakery

(An Interlude)

Being thought (unjustly, I am certain) by some to be something of a curmudgeon myself, I recently found myself irresistably drawn to the famously irascible Ethan Stowell's new restaurant, Tavolata in Belltown.

As Tavolata's location is close to that of the Dahlia Bakery, I elected to take a leisurely Friday lunch and investigate both this reportedly exceptional new dining spot and Tom Douglas' "spruced up" éclairs.

Those among you who are familiar with Tavolata have doubtless spotted the first flaw in my seemingly perfect plan. Tavolata, as it turns out, does not serve lunch.

I discovered this fact when I entered (later than I had intended) shortly before 2:00 to see some sort of gathering of the employees back in the kitchen area, a lonely host standing at the front podium, and nary a diner to be seen. I say host, rather than maitre d', as Tavolata seems at first impression to lean rather more toward trendy dining than fine dining.

On the off chance that this suspiciously fashionably-dressed gentleman might in fact have some knowledge of quality food, I elected to ask his recommendation concerning the nearest location where one might obtain a late lunch actually worth eating.

He recommended Flying Fish, only a short block away and posessed of a reputation that had already brought it to my attention. Feeling somewhat mollified, I departed into the gathering rain in search of this well-established and widely-lauded establishment.

Finding it was simplicity itself. I had in fact parked virtually across the street from Flying Fish than to Tavolata. I made the requisite crossing and entered the restaurant, and thus began the next brief episode in my little lunchtime drama.

It was now approximately 2:05 PM, and as I quickly discovered, Flying Fish ceases serving lunch at 2:00. However, this fact was just as well, as I found the intense scent of sesame oil and soy sauce permeating the atmosphere of the place to be rather incompatible with my desire for fine European fare.

I presented my predicament to the host overseeing my latest failed attempt to dine. He considered for a moment, and proceded to direct me to Le Pichet, "just a few blocks" down the road.

"A few blocks" in this context turned out to mean three long blocks; perhaps a quarter mile; and the rain, wind, and cold did nothing to raise my spirits.

I arrived at Le Pichet, however, to find it a quiet, pleasant little French Bistro. Finally things were starting to look up.

By now it was 2:30, and though lunch was no longer available, Le Pichet has a quite passable all day menu ("Le Casse Croûte"). "Casse Croûte" (literally "breaking into the crust") might be translated as "snack." Anyone translating it thus would of course be demonstrating an appalling amount of ignorance, for le casse croûte is a true meal-between-meals. Imagine British High Tea, only with food actually worthy of consumption.

The name casse croûte was also particularly appropriate given that the first item on the menu is "Pain et Beurre" for $2.50.

Yes, you read that correctly. They charge two dollars and fifty cents for bread and butter. The gall! The sheer effrontery! The chutzpah!

Naturally, I simply had to order some.

The menu describes it as “Half baguette, butter, confiture”, but it seems that they were out of both baguettes and confiture, as I received instead slices of a remarkably hard-crusted (solid, tough, and crunchy rather than crispy), very rustic bread which was definitely not to my taste. The butter, however, was excellent.

I had also ordered the tartines with pâté and the "Rillons de porc et ses betteraves rôties".

The tartines were served on (somewhat thinner) slices of the same bread, and the rustic pâté (coarse grained, light on the foie gras) complemented the bread beautifully. I could see that the bread with butter I had eaten moments before was in fact intended for use in this application. Seeing it in its proper context, I came to appreciate the better qualities of the bread.

In all, the tartines made quite a pleasant, traditional snack, right down to the cornichons which were neither more nor less than one would expect.

The rillons de porc, though, were remarkable. Rillons de porc, for those who have never encountered them, are prepared in much the same way as duck confit. Thick chunks of pork belly are cooked at low temperature in their own fat until they become lovely, crunchy little nuggets of salty goodness. They are quite similar to pork rinds, only denser, and far more flavorful.

As I said, the rillons de porc were remarkable (crunchy but not hard, with just the right amount of saltiness). The beets atop which they lay, however; the beets adorned with capers, parsley, and crème fraîche? These were indeed outstanding.

Fresh, tender slices of beets, their sweetness enhanced by the crème fraîche and perfectly balanced by the piquancy of the capers... This was my first true culinary find of the day.

Sadly, it was to be my last, as I shall relate in the promised "Part II" of the Dahlia Bakery saga.

Dahlia Bakery, Part I

Some weeks ago, I visited the Dahlia Bakery, a Tom Douglas effort that recently opened next to his well-known Dahlia Lounge. I had heard some extremely complimentary comments concerning the food there, and decided that it was worth a visit.

I had also been told that the Dahlia Bakery had the best éclairs yet produced in the city of Seattle, and it is with great sadness that I must report that the eclairs at Dahlia Bakery were in fact the best I have had in Seattle... Which is to say that they were a failure, but an intriguing failure.

Do not mistake me; overall, Dahlia Bakery is indeed outstanding. The pear tart with caramel sauce is a delight; the chocolate pecan cream cookies are a marvelously addictive demonstration of how the mass-produced sandwich cookies we all have eaten from time to time should truly taste; and the gingersnaps, the chocolate truffle cookies, indeed, almost every item in the shop - truly worth the time to eat.

But then there were the éclairs. The tragic, could-have-been-a-contender, perhaps irredeemably flawed éclairs.

From the outside, these éclairs were truly fantastic. The perfectly moist, tender puff pastry was quite sublime in appearance and texture. The chocolate on top, spread in a thick, beautiful layer, was perfectly bittersweet, with a consistency just thick enough to stand alone without being intrusively hard. These elements were absolute perfection, and worthy of applause.

But of course, these elements, even when executed perfectly, do not an éclair make. No, one must fill it with the proper substance, the absolute, unalterable prerequisite: I am referring, of course, to the crème pâtissière.

Which was not present.

Instead, upon biting through the peerless exterior of one of these seemingly utopian confections, I was confronted with a substance with the exact flavor and texture of melted vanilla ice cream. Truly outstanding vanilla ice cream, mind you; indeed, had it been actual ice cream, I might even have been persuaded to excuse the impudence of its presence in place of crème pâtissière.

It was not actual ice cream, however, and the result was a gloppy mess that failed to satisfy and succeeded in besmirching my hands and immediate surroundings to a surprising degree. Upon inquiring as to why this otherwise outstanding pastry had thus been mistreated, I learned that the éclairs had once been filled with pure crème pâtissière, but that some customers had complained that it was "too rich", resulting in the addition of "just a little" whipped cream.

"Too rich"? "Just a little"? Pfaugh!

If the crème pâtissière were in fact too rich for the debased tastes of some Seattlites, there are two acceptable solutions:

The first (and preferred) method is to slightly increase the proportion of flour in the crème pâtissière. This will make the taste lighter without compromising the quality of the final product.

The second approach is simply to make smaller éclairs, though it is difficult to maintain the quality of the puff pastry at the smaller size, and small éclairs are something of a lesser travesty in and of themselves.

Adding whipped cream, even "just a little" (a description with which I take significant issue in this case), is not acceptable. At this point you have something best described as Bavarian cream, only without the gelatin needed to stabilize it. Any of you who have read my views on éclairs will also know that Bavarian cream is not an acceptable filling.

Knowing that Tom Douglas has a good record of caring about his food and being responsive to feedback, I sent him a polite note directing him to my oh-so-reasonably-expressed views (see Éclairs: Make them right, or BURN in HELL!) concerning proper éclair-making.

Last week, I received a response indicating that they'd decided to "spruce up" their éclair output, and so I returned to inspect the results.

As I shall soon disclose in part II, all is not yet well with the éclairs at Dahlia Bakery.

Boulangerie in Wallingford

Recently, a friend who had heard of my search for éclairs directed me to a small bakery called Boulangerie on North 45th in Seattle. As this particular friend is something of a skilled baker herself, I decided to take her advice and give it a go.

Oh, what a foolish wretch am I. Or perhaps it was she who was the foolish wretch, but I would never say something so cruel about a friend.

But then, I must say the bonds of our friendship have been sorely tested by the travails I endured at her behest, and so perhaps... No, no, I must not. I shall simply have to extract some form of penance, preferably in the form of properly-prepared pastries of some sort.

As you might have gathered by this point, my visit to Boulangerie was a bit of a disappointment. I must confess as well that I visited only once, and perhaps I simply visited on a bad day. But I quite sincerely doubt it.

I should also point out that Boulangerie is not the "Boulangerie Bakery" in downtown Seattle, an establishment whose redondantment redundant name has thus far caused me to shun its interior. (Perhaps I should say its name is pleonastically pléonastique , to appease L'Académie Française; but then, I try to avoid such pedantry.) That bakery, for all I know, might be an outstanding establishment.

And so, disclaimers and equivocations done, I return to my visit to Boulangerie.

The exterior of the shop is quite unassuming, and indeed, the entire shop seems to have been decorated using the proceeds obtained as the result of a thorough search beneath the owner's sofa cushions one weekend. Poor decor is not necessarily a bad sign, and indeed, can often be an indicator that a shop lives solely by the quality of its product, so I was not at all dismayed.

I entered the shop and was greeted by a kindly-seeming older Vietnamese man, doubtless the proprietor and chef. Vietnam, as a former French colony, has a solid tradition in all forms of French cuisine, so again, I was encouraged.

Looking more closely at the pastry case, however, I noted two things: First, every pastry was rather more brown looking than I might expect, and the prices were about half again what I would expect from a shop of this sort.

I immediately started to develop some misgivings, but trusting in my friend, I decided to ignore my better judgement and buy several of their suspiciously dark eclairs with anemic stripes of chocolate piped in thin strips on top... I bought five, at a price in the neighborhood of $20. I leave the math to you, but as I said, they were a bit overpriced.

Why did I buy more than one, you ask? I have asked myself the same question again and again since that day. I could give many reasons, but none would suffice to justify the pain I suffered as a result of that poor decision.

I took the eclairs away with me, because the shop's lack of ambience was not terribly conducive to my goal of enjoying a nice dessert. This decision doubtless saved me from assault charges or similar legal issues, for had I yet remained in that shop when I took the first bite of my eclair, I might have been unable to refrain from injuring that perfidious, purulent purveyor of pestilential pseudo pastries...

Oh, perhaps I might fairly have argued that my assault was justified, but the legal fees would have been ruinous. No, I am glad that I was not in the shop when first I tasted that so-called éclair.

On picking it up, I noticed that the puff pastry had a bit less give than I might expect. A good eclair is usually quite soft and moist. Nonetheless, I took a solid bite...

Crunch!

Crunch!?! What is this crunch? A crunchy éclair??? Never have I been subjected to such an atrocity, and mind you, I have encountered my fair share of culinary mayhem.

I looked inside the éclair, trying desperately to understand how anyone could admire this foul concoction. The "pastry cream" occupied only the bottom quarter of the puff pastry, with the remainder being simply empty, unfulfilling space. Nonetheless, I thought, perhaps it might actually be good pastry cream, and the crunchy shell reflected only some sort of oven malfunction.

I tasted the pastry cream on its own, and was assaulted by the unmistakable flavor of artificial vanilla. Indeed, the substance tasted like a particularly inadequate instant vanilla pudding.

And the chocolate? I have tasted better frosting on a Hostess cupcake.

Pfaugh!

Worse still, I had four more of these monstrosities to dispose of.

I contemplated giving them to a local shelter, but then decided it would be uncharitable to so abuse those unfortunate souls. Instead, I gave one to a nearby twelve-year-old child, who took a single bite, spit it out, and threw the remainder in the trash.

I attempted the same experiment with a six-year-old, with similar results, and decided to stop before I was accused of child abuse.

I was then faced with the issue of proper disposal of these obviously hazardous pseudo-confections. Knowing how picky Seattle can be about such matters, I decided to place the problem back in the hands of the so-called baker who created these abominations.

I crept into the alley behind Boulangerie, hiring a local urchin to act as a look out, and surreptitiously stuffed the remaining éclairs in the dumpster behind the shop.

I later dutifully reported that I suspected Boulangerie of illegally disposing of hazardous wastes, but I fear nothing came of it.

And so my search continues.

-Ram

Éclairs: Make them right, or BURN in HELL!

By way of introduction to myself and my quest, I have decided to republish my first "rant" on the topic of éclairs (from my main web site). I shall from time to time update that site with more extended epistles, but the day-to-day (or week-to-week) progress of my quest shall be recorded here.

So, without further ado, I give you the timeless "Éclairs: Make them right, or BURN in HELL!"

Éclairs. Surely the most sublime of French pastry.

Oh, some might argue for the croissant or some kind of apple torte, or perhaps a Napoléon, but I can only assume that most of them have never tasted a truly well-made éclair. And that those who have tasted a proper éclair and still prefer something else are somehow mentally deficient. Or perhaps have atrophied taste buds. Or maybe they are the kind of people who like licking all the glue off the backs of stamps.

We shall never know the truth on that, I am sure, but the glue licking thing would be my bet.

"But wait," you say, "I got an éclair from my local French bakery the other day, and I didn't like it that much."

I say to you, dear reader, that unless you are one of the aforementioned glue-lickers (a distinct possibility, I suppose, for I have never met you), that so-called "French" bakery has perpetrated a heinous fraud upon you. That confection which they had the brazen temerity to call an éclair (or probably just "eclair," because the concept of an acute accent would doubtless sail over the tiny little empty heads of these culinary miscreants) was not a proper éclair.

Oh, it may have been roughly éclair shaped, but then, so is a hot dog. It may have had chocolate on top, but so would I if I put a Hershey bar on my head. No, my friend... Let me tell you about a proper éclair.

The first requirement for an éclair is that it must be made of proper puff pastry dough, the classic French "choux" paste. It is called a "choux" paste because in the course of preparing it, you must roll it into a ball that looks like a cabbage (“choux” means “cabbage” in French, for the less mentally agile among you who hadn’t figured that out from context). So, you must make the puff pastry dough, extrude it into lines, and then cook it into perfectly moist éclair shells, all ready to be filled with crème pâtissière.

The éclair should also be topped with a nice chocolate ganache, or some variant thereon. The topping is the one area where the chef can experiment and still produce something worth serving.

Crème pâtissière (or pastry cream, for those who dislike French) is the really vital ingredient, though. It is not simply custard. It is a sublime concoction of eggs, milk, sugar, starch, vanilla (whole bean only, if you value your extremities), and flour. Yes, flour. The rawness of the flour perfectly enhances the other flavors to give the whole a remarkable lightness.

The crème pâtissière melds perfectly with the puff pastry outside and the chocolate on top to create a precise balance of flavors and textures that will lift your soul above all pedestrian concerns and leave you floating gently on waves of gustatory bliss.

And yet, an éclair is not simply some namby-pamby lightweight cream puff. No, the crème pâtissière gives the éclair a denseness, a solidity that binds its ethereal flavors to your earthy inner passions; a smooth, seductive, sensual substance that provides the perfect counterpoint to the lightness of its taste.

On biting into the éclair, your tongue will be exposed first to the sublime combination of the puff pastry and crème pâtissière, shielded for the moment from the chocolate topping. Then, just as the last of the filling dissolves away, before you come back from the edge of the ecstasy to which it has taken you, the dark, erotic flavor of the chocolate comes down upon your tongue, pushing you over the edge into orgasmic culinary intoxication.

That is what a proper éclair can do.

Now let me tell you where it all goes wrong.

The most obvious offenders are the donut shops that make rectangular blobs of dough, fry them up, fill them with pudding, glaze them with sugar, and cover them with chocolate. I would say that this violates my number one rule (don’t try to deceive ol’ Ram), but it’s so pathetically obviously not an éclair that I can’t really consider it a serious attempt to deceive anyone. It is more on the order of opportunistically preying on the ignorance of weak-minded fools. Those they prey upon are as much to blame as they are, so I will instead apply my “enchirito principle" (it’s all right as long as you think of it as unrelated to all other food)… I mean, they’re not bad custard-filled donuts, I suppose.

No, those troglodytes are not the ones who earn my deepest ire, my greatest loathing, my sheer psychopathic homicidal rage, and my burning desire to drive heated shish kebab skewers through reproductive organs. No, these feelings I reserve for the diabolical fiends who have actually gone to the trouble of making puff pastry and putting chocolate on top, but who then proceed to put something other than crème pâtissière inside it.

I have personally witnessed so-called éclairs filled such abominations as Bavarian cream (are éclairs Bavarian? Of course not, you ignorant carbuncle), Chantilly cream (which is really just whipped cream, as far as I’m concerned), some kind of random pudding (tasted like Jell-O brand vanilla), chocolate mousse, marzipan, and perhaps worst of all, flavored crème pâtissière.
Let’s get a few things straight: éclairs are not oblong cream puffs. They are not donuts. They are not some random pastry you can just mess around with. They are the one pastry worthy of beatification in their true perfect form.

Deviating from the formula of the crème pâtissière filling in any way is an abomination. If you put chocolate in the filling, you prevent the languid buildup to the ganache. It is like bad sex with a lot of visual teasing up front, no real foreplay, and a joyless, unsatisfying climax at the end.

DON’T. MESS. WITH. THE. CRÈME PÂTISSIÈRE.

Do you understand me, you so-called French chefs of America?

I have scoured the Seattle area for a decent éclair, and so far, only once have I found something acceptable, and that was at a now-defunct supermarket, of all places. Even then, the puff pastry was a bit dry, but I was so happy to find a place that at least tried to get it right that I would have forgiven them anything.

You hear that, you smarmy “very French”, “best in Seattle”, pieces of pseudo-Gallic excrement with the nerve to call yourselves bakeries? You’re so busy trying to show how freaking creative you can be that you end up creating something worse than simply bad. These pseudo-éclairs are vile, base deceptions; confectionary succubae taunting me with their perfected exteriors but then draining my soul with their foul, degraded innards.

You have created things of pure evil, abominations that have no rightful place on earth, let alone on the shelves of your pastry shops. Turn back now, and return to the proper path of pastry making. Otherwise you will surely burn forever in justified torment for the wrongs you have done to us all.

- Ram