Ripe London

Chocolate Tempering & Global Warming

It has been raining for 8 days straight.  It’s cold. So windy I’m amazed my umbrella is still in one piece. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we’re in November.  This is bad weather, even for London.

I was thinking about the weather quite a bit during our truffle-making class today.  Yes.  The art of turning chocolate into cute little ganache-filled orbs that are hard on the outside and soft on the, well, you know…requires a technique called tempering.  You take the chocolate—milk, dark or white—and melt it, then cool it down by about twenty degrees before warming it back up (over a double boiler) a mere 2-3 degrees (depending on your chocolate).  Anything—even one degree—above or below makes the difference between a top truffle and a not truffle.  Too hot, and the chocolate won’t set, leaving it all over your fingers before it gets in your mouth.  Too cold, and the chocolate goes lumpy.  As Chef Pascal said when he leaned over in unconcealed disgust to look at my, shall we say, textured chocolate, “You can’t roll truffles in that.”

After several rounds of warming, whisking, cooling, cursing, I finally got it right.  And it struck me that I had just done an exercise in global warming.  I hear Jamie Oliver wants to make cookery a mandatory subject for schoolchildren.  Excellent.  May I suggest a chocolate-tempering lesson showing how just a few degrees can make such a disastrous difference?

If you’re not into tampering with tempering, you can always get your truffle fix at Rococo Chocolates, 45 Marylebone High Street.  And if you care a trifle about our planet, check out Stop Climate Chaos.

Technorati Tags: climate change, global warming

Sweet Deal

Last week I locked myself out of my flat.  It was 8pm.  I was heading to the gym to work off the Madeleines—dainty pillows of lemony cake—I had made earlier that day in class.   Seeing that it was too late to call the landlord, I grudgingly dialled the locksmith.  When he arrived, I sheepishly explained what happened, as if my story could be any different to everyone else’s.  There I stood helplessly before my door, completely at the mercy of this man who, in less than two minutes, unbolted the “high-security” lock with a ninja-like command and a simple piece of plastic.

The damage?  £120.  I gave a pathetic attempt at negotiation, but the best I got was a ride to the cash machine in exchange for not adding VAT.  I felt the need to discuss.  “You guys must do very well,” I prodded.  “Oh, we do alright,” offered Jeff.  “On a good day, if you work really hard, we’ll make one to two thousand pounds.”  I didn't know if I should feel rage or admiration.  “We’ve got you at a disadvantage, you see.  When it’s midnight and you’re back from your holiday and you’re stuck outside, what are you gonna do?”

Yes, what was I gonna do?  I passed Jeff six £20 notes through his truck window and declined a ride back.  I needed the walk, especially as, after such a depressing encounter, the only thing to do was nix the gym, go home and consider retraining in the fine art of breaking and entering.

Madeleines
Makes 16

2 eggs
75 g (5 tablespoons) caster (granulated) sugar
10 g (2 teaspoons) Demerara or light brown sugar
15 g (1 tablespoon) honey
grated zest of 1 lemon
90 g (1/4 cup + 2 tablespoons) flour
2.5 g (1/2 teaspoon) baking powder 
pinch salt
90 g (1/4 cup + 2 tablespoons) butter, melted and cooled (plus more for brushing moulds)

Preheat oven to 185C/360F.  Brush moulds with melted butter.  Whisk the eggs, sugars, honey and lemon zest in a bowl. Sift the flour, baking powder and salt together into a separate bowl.  Sift again to create a very fine mixture.  Using a spatula, fold half of the dry ingredients gently into the wet ones.  Fold remaining half in until fully combined.  Fold in the melted butter.  Cover the batter and let it rest for about 5 minutes.  Transfer the batter to a plastic freezer bag and snip off one of the corners to create a piping bag.  Pipe the batter into Madelaine moulds, making sure each imprint is filled no more than two-thirds.  Bake for 7-8 minutes, until golden.  Be careful not to over-bake as the Madeleines will dry out.  Immediately pop them out of their shells and cool on wire racks.

Everyone's A Critic

Last night I went to a dinner party at my friend Charlotte’s lovely home in Brook Green, my former neighborhood.  Being invited to a meal there is always a memorable event, both because of the food and the company.  Charlotte’s a gifted cook and also has a fantastic knack for bringing together such intriguingly different personalities; that by the end of the evening you’ll wonder where the time went.  Last night was no exception.

There were eight of us.  To my right, The Musician—impeccably dressed and with that typical English boyishness that once made Hugh Grant so loveable.  To my left: The Wine Writer.  Californian transplant, blushes easily.  Across from me: Charlotte, and next to her, The Barrister.  “I’ve promised myself I won’t touch the wine tonight,” he announces, upon seeing the row of stemware before him.  Next to him: The Pop-Culture Maven.  Also American.  Most downloaded and banned episode of South Park?  She’s got it.  And can quote from it, too.  At the other end of the table: The Fashionista, recently on a job with Victoria Beckham  (size 2 jeans).  Coming full circle, we have Charlotte’s mother, one of the most well-travelled and insightful women I’ve ever met.

The conversation was electric and covered the most savoury of dinner-party topics—politics (Condoleezza’s 4am workout routine), sex (the guys in Brokeback Mountain are shepherds, not cowboys, dammit!  Easily the evening’s most brilliant observation); and religion (Isaac Hayes and his now defunct sweaty balls). 

After numerous courses, my tart au citron arrived at the table.  A crust of pâte brisée (made my rubbing butter and flour between the fingers until it feels like sand) cradles a tangy lemon curd and is crowned with snow-white meringue piped like stars, edges burnished with a blowtorch. 

Spoons dip through for the first bite.  The Musician starts to plot ways to marry me off.  The Fashionista swoons approvingly.  “It’s…correct,” proclaims The Wine Writer.  Over the tops of half-filled glasses, I catch The Barrister eyeing his spoonful inquisitively.  He swallows, and in his baritone declares:  “This says don’t eat me, shag me.” 

Someone rushes past the candlesticks and disappears into the study.

Playing With Fire, Week 1 (Part Deux)

First-day-of-class jitters now over, I returned on Friday to confront a ridiculously elaborate dessert with an equally pompous name:  Bande Feuilletée aux Fruits de Saison.  Or, in other words, mixed fruit in puff pastry case.  Using the dough we painstakingly made and rolled out the day before, this recipe required more rolling and the making of a crème påtissière (the usual eggs, milk and sugar plus a good swig of Grand Marnier).   

With the kind of precision usually reserved for microsurgery, we then sliced and shaped an assortment of fruit to go over the crème eventually piped on the baked pastry.  Apricot-glazed and dusted with icing sugar, the whole thing emerged looking like it had jumped out of a still-life painting.  Or like an overly-made up woman dripping in fancy jewels—interesting to look at, but infused with the kind of self-conscious detachment that makes you not want to get too close.  See for yourself by clicking on the picture at the top.  The fan-shaped things are called Palmiers, which we made by rolling the puff pastry over sugar.  Addictive little suckers.

Yesterday was the food hygiene class given by the Royal Institute of Public Health.  This is a required day for all food-industry professionals, and it included a slide show with the kinds of creepy-crawlies scurrying and chewing their way around even the poshest of restaurants, plus “Food Hygiene:  The Movie,” a gag-filled 20 minutes with a sketch of Sherlock and Watson trying to crack a case of food poisoning.  Riveting.  The day concluded with a multiple-choice test.  If I pass, I’ll get a certificate that proves I know the kinds of things that seem perfectly benign but can kill you.  Did you know that the major cause of food poisoning at take-away places is from rice that has been re-heated?

I’ve been utterly exhausted, and I fear my arms might take on She-Man proportions from all the kneading and rolling.  It hurts.  I love it.  By amazing chance, I told one of the cuisine students I desperately needed to book a massage, at which point she said, “sit there,” and proceeded to turn my tight neck, shoulders and back into a slab of dough.  She’s a licensed massage therapist!  I quickly worked out a deal with her—my desserts for her handiwork.  Ahhh. 

Playing With Fire, Week 1

It has been over seven years since I was in school, except this time I’m decked out with more sharp objects than Edward Scissorhands and studying in Marylebone—not Greenwich—Village.  Madonna lives here, and so do some of the best food shops in London.  Let the calorie parade begin.

My Basic Patisserie course at Le Cordon Bleu runs twice a week with a chef demonstration in the morning and a practical in the afternoon, when I and nine other students try to re-create the day’s recipe.  (The other three days, by the way, I'm freelancing at the ad agency.)

Today’s lesson was a puff pastry filled with poached pears and crème d’amandes.  I won’t even attempt to transcribe the procedure, because no sane cook would ever make it at home.  In fact, as I sat there, I doubted I ever would.  This is hard work.  With making and rolling out and chilling the pastry (several times), preparing and poaching the pears, making the crème, piping it onto the pastry, layering the pears over, making a lattice crust, baking it, glazing it and plating it, the entire process took Chef Pascal 2.5 hours.  And this monsieur can do it in his sleep.  It gave me a newfound admiration for the profession, and I'm now convinced that £1.50 for a croissant is highway robbery (on the customer's end, that is!)

The demo room has a mirror above the Chef so you can see exactly what he’s doing even if you’re a midget like me.  I covered both sides of 6 A4-sized sheets with notes. As the scent of pears simmering in vanilla, cinnamon and rum grew to dizzying heights, it teased the hunger already churning under the unusually high waist of my white-and-blue checked trousers.

Finally, the goods came out of the oven.  This was the moment I had been waiting for.  I picked up the warm slice and bit through it in slow motion. I fell into a trance; the room disappeared.  I was suddenly in a faraway place where London’s stubborn winter chill had gone and traffic noise was replaced with the sound of rustling leaves.  The hot, squishy pear flecked with vanilla beans drifted languidly and then dissolved in my mouth, followed by a creamy slip of sugared almonds.  I felt the burnished, paper-thin flakes from the pastry float onto my white jacket.  I didn’t care.  “Don’t forget to bring your scales and hats to the practical,” said Chef Pascal, rousing me from my pastoral daze. 

Was that rum, or was it absinthe?

Feeling the need to balance my sugar cocktail, I wandered over to Total Organics on Moxon Street (they also have a stall in Borough Market) for a virtuous lunch of mushroom soup and rye bread.  Then it was into the kitchen to show our stuff.  We teamed up in pairs.  I shared marbled-counter space with Nic, a tall blonde woman who has been cooking professionally for several years.  Over the next three hours, we managed to choreograph the making of two pear pastries, hers admittedly much better-looking than mine.  After a few mandatory nibbles, I rushed it to the office, where it was dully received with oohs and ahhs and then demolished within minutes.

Now, with the smell of vanilla still on my fingers, I feel very, very lucky.  And just a touch full. 

Oh, Sugar!

Originally this site was intended to shamelessly worship food—particularly sugar—in all its incarnations.  My sweet tooth seems to have a life of its own, and to keep it happy I’ve decided to do the patisserie program at Le Cordon Bleu, starting next week.  I plan to give a running account of my course here.  I’ve also started doing some catering using only seasonal vegetables and will share the best recipes with you.  However, for reasons I cannot fathom, people have always been more interested in my experience as an American in London. 

It has now been just over two years since I traded the Big Apple for the Big Smoke.  Bagels for scones.  Monterey Jack for Somerset Cheddar.  Fairway and Zabars for Fresh & Wild.  Sometimes it bites.  Often, it's bliss.  So, having matured into a Londoner and with the firm belief that anything can be cured with some good, dark chocolate (from Green & Black’s), and that strawberries should never, ever be eaten in the dead of winter, I present to you:  Ripe London.  I hope you'll dine with me.