Author: Fanny

  • Biscuits croustillants à la cannelle

    Biscuits croustillants à la cannelle

    [Crisp cinnamon biscuits]

    I don’t want fig leaf or oak bark infusion. I don’t want gimmicks and royal icing where it’s not needed. I want to explore flour, sugar, butter and eggs.

    Give me cinnamon. And whole wheat flour. Oats. And dark brown sugar.

    I want to look underneath a biscuit. And see a golden colour. And little ridges. And above all, I want to build a collection of solid recipes for the years to come. For traditions that don’t exist yet, but will. And for those that are already there.

    Yes, at times, I love to experience with crazy flavours. The next big thing. Or more. But as I’ve told you yesterday, for me, Christmas is all about rituals and beautiful habits. I hope you feel the same way.

    Biscuits croustillants à la cannelle
    Adapted from Trine Hahnemann.

    When it comes to a biscuit texture you can get: crisp, crunchy, sandy/short, caky or chewy. These ones are full-on crisp. A beautiful texture which makes them – perhaps – the best biscuits I’ve ever eaten.
    So much, in fact, that this year, I’ve decided to forgo my usual vanilla shortbreads and use this recipe as a base instead. Maybe try different shapes, perhaps even thumbprint cookies and see how that goes.

    I think their insane texture comes from the initial sanding technique, when the butter gets rubbed into the flour and sugar, which created beautiful layers within the biscuit. So I might experiment with this instead of the usual creaming that most of my biscuit recipes use.
    They also make me want to try more of Trine’s recipes. Have you ever? If not, then please, make a batch of these.

    As I usually do, I rolled the dough between two sheets of baking paper (but as I mentioned yesterday, it makes me miss the feuilles guitare I use at the restaurant, SO. MUCH. BETTER.) as soon as it gets made, and then go on with the chilling. I’ve found that resting the dough before rolling doesn’t improve the texture, and really, makes it so hard to roll that you have to 1) bash it with a rolling pin to make it somewhat workable or 2) let it outside to warm up a bit (hence, erasing all the benefits of keeping the dough cold at all times: making the water content of the butter less available for gluten to bind).

    Two or three important things though when it comes to rolling the dough.
    – always roll in different directions.
    – every now and then, lift the baking paper and smooth any wrinkles out. They tend to make the dough fragile and the biscuits less pretty.
    – before you cut out your biscuits, remove the top layer of baking paper, then place it back (it won’t stick as much), before filliping around and removing the second layer of baking paper. This way, as you cut out, the shapes will stay in your cutter, instead of sticking to the paper (hope that makes a semblance of sense at all?!).

    Also, re-rolling the trimming? I would usually say it’s a big no. But f*ck it, it’s home baking after all.

    Biscuits croustillants à la cannelle

    makes around 30-40 biscuits

    For the dough
    375g plain flour
    125g light soft brown sugar
    1 tsp baking powder
    1 tsp ground cinnamon
    1/2 tsp sea salt
    250g cold butter    , cubed
    one egg

    For the sugar topping
    one egg, beaten
    100 g demerara sugar
    4 tsp ground cinnamon
    gold shimmer powder    , optional

    Mix the sugar, cinnamon, and gold shimmer (if using) to combine.

    Place the flour, sugar, baking powder, cinnamon and salt in a large bowl, and mix to combine. Add the butter, and rub it in the flour mix until it resembles coarse oats. Add the egg and work the dough until just smooth.
    Roll the dough between two sheets of baking paper until it’s around 4-5mm thick.
    Place on a baking tray that fits in your fridge, if the dough is too large, you can cut through the paper to make two or more rectangles. Chill the dough overnight.

    The next day, cut out your biscuits using either a round 5cm cutter or different shapes, and place on a large sheet of baking paper. Brush with the beaten egg and sprinkle generously with the cinnamon sugar. Shake off the excess and place on a baking tray lined with paper. At this point you can either freeze the biscuits for a month or so, or bake them straight away.

    Preheat the oven to 170°C. Bake the biscuits for 14-18 minutes, depending on their size. They’re ready when evenly brown. Allow to cool down completely and keep in an airtight container. Trine says they’ll keep for a month. If so, my dreams of the perfect biscuit have come true.

  • Gluten-free chocolate fondant cake

    Gluten-free chocolate fondant cake

    I wish you were here with me. Sat on the patio. There is a wooden table which I’ve slowly taken over: notes, drawings of mushrooms, a mug holding watercolour brushes, a mismatch of cameras, and a cup of coffee hotter than what I would normally fancy.

    From where I sit, I can see the logs Karl brought from the little shelter down in the garden on the same wheelbarrow we used to collect the hay that his father – Svante – cut on the day we arrived. They’re neatly piled and possibly enough to keep the fire going for a good week.

    There is two pairs of rain boots – my new favourite, as they will take me anywhere.

    And then, there is the forest. All around us.

    This morning, we saw the same hare I fell in love with yesterday. Hopefully, he’ll stick around here a little longer. Svante told me he probably had his eyes on the apple tree that stands right in the middle of the garden.
    But secretly, I think we’ve become some sort of wild friends.

    Yes, right now, I wish you were here with me. Listening to the sound of the forest after a rainstorm.
    It’s, perhaps, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. The lightest raindrops hitting the moss. The cracking branches. The birds’ songs, and the happy merry-go-round of bumblebees. The wind going through soaked leaves.

    The house is quiet. Aside from an old timer ticking seconds like others tick boxes.

    You see, I have a gluten-free chocolate cake in the oven – hopefully cold enough by the time the boys will come back from their fishing expedition. The kind where coffee gets boiled over a bonfire and knee-high neoprene boots make you belong to the river. The kind where, when Karl will be here, he’ll smell of burning wood and will have too many stories to share.

    And just like the house smelled wonderful yesterday as I was baking kanelbullar. It now smells of chocolate. And rain.

    Now a few hours later, I went to pick – tiny – hallon [raspberries] by the pond. And all the times Karl told me to check for worms inside the berries finally made sense.

    I cut myself a thick slice of the still-warm cake, fudgy around the rim and slighty gooey in the centre. And with a handful of my rather small bounty and a tall glass of filmjölk, it was just as delicious as I had hoped for.

    Gluten-free chocolate fondant cake

    You could make this cake with ground almonds only, but I couldn’t resist to try the gluten-free oat flour I found at the supermarket a few days ago.
    The process is very simple. Not unlike a classic fondant cake.

    The eggs and sugar get whisked together for a few minutes, until the sugar has almost dissolved. Then the melted chocolate and butter get folded in. And finally the flours. A quick trip in the oven; and voilà!

    Gluten-free chocolate fondant cake

    200 g 70% dark chocolate
    250 g unsalted butter
    5 eggs
    250 g caster sugar
    50 g ground almonds
    40 g GF self-raising oat flour
    8 g sea salt

    Preheat the oven to 180°C, and generously butter a 26cm cake tin.

    In a heatproof bowl, melt the chocolate and butter; either in a microwave or over a pan of simmering water. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs and sugar for around 4 minutes, or until fluffy and almost doubled in size. You don’t want to overdo it, it’s just a matter of dissolving the sugar.

    Fold in the chocolate mixture, mixing well. And finally add the ground almonds, oat flour and salt. Pour into the prepared tin and bake for 24-28 minutes, until barely jiggling in the very centre of the cake.

    Allow to cool down completely before slicing. Or scoop while warm, like I did.

  • I’ll be left with cinnamon croissants

    I’ll be left with cinnamon croissants

    I guess like all good things, Sundays have to come to an end too.

    Today was a good Sunday. We went to bed late enough to wake up mid-morning. Crumpets happened. I might have eaten two with homemade raspberry jam from last summer.

    And we braved the rain – the mostest perfect excuse for a lazy day in – for a trip to the corner shop. In our basket: milk and butter, lots of. Yeast too. And strong flour. We also got a bottle of our favourite white wine and some salmon we knew we’d have for dinner tomorrow.

    Croissants were to be made.

    Find the recipe here.


    We moved the kitchen table by the window and took mostly blurry pictures. And in all measures, that’s more than fine by me. Since when did blog have to be so editorially perfect? Maybe, I miss the early days when it was more misses than hits.

    So yes, I made dough for cinnamon bun croissants. Or is it cinnamon croissant buns? I wanted to do a step-by-step. With – of course – gifs as tokens of my love for the old-school.
    It might happen. It might not.

    In the meantime, cross your fingers for me tomorrow. I have a book coming out and I can’t quite believe it! And it case it was all just a dream, I’ll be left with cinnamon croissants. Life isn’t too bad at the moment.

  • La rhubarbe

    La rhubarbe

    I remember the rhubarb my grand-père used to grow in the garden. It was thick and green; and would be turned into jar-after-jar of compote which my grand-mère always kept in that little cupboard in the garage. On top of my grand-père’s tools, always neatly organised.
    One day, I’ll show you that garage.

    We would eat the compote on top of yoghurt for breakfast. Or spoon it onto a tart case and cover it with a creamy custard before baking.

    Compote de rhubarbe

    Rhubarb compote is one of those staples you can never have enough of. Wash the stalks under cold water, then chop into 1cm pieces. Weight out the rhubarb in a large bowl and combine with 20% of caster sugar. So let’s say, for 1kg of rhubarb, add 200g caster sugar; and of course, the seeds and empty pod from a vanilla bean. Mix well, cover with cling film and leave to marinate overnight in the fridge.
    The next day or a few hours later (cheeky version), scrape the fruits into a large pan and cook over medium heat – stirring every now and then, more so often towards the end – until the rhubarb has broken down and the syrup has reduced.
    If you’re canning, transfer to sterilised jars, close the lids and turn upside down before steaming for 30 minutes. Otherwise, just transfer to a plastic container and refrigerate until cold. You’ll have to use it within 5 days.



    And then, I moved to London, where rhubarb is pink and only comes when the trees are snowing with blossoms. It’s my favourite time of the year really.
    And my favourite colours too.

    These days my favourite thing to do with rhubarb is to roast it in a vanilla syrup.

    Rhubarbe rôtie

    In a large pan, bring 300g of water and 300g of caster sugar to the boil, along with the seeds and pods from 3 vanilla beans.
    In the meantime, wash and cut 500g of rhubarb stalks into 3cm pieces and place them into a large roasting tray. Cover with the syrup and bake at 200°C for around 10-12 minutes. Allow to cool down to room temperature.


    I like to serve it on top of a cake. Perhaps with frosting, perhaps without.
    But in all measures, it should look messy and naughty. Because that’s what cakes are for.

    For the record – because I’m trying to learn Swedish, one food word at a time, and also because when we were there, I saw the biggest rhubarb bush I had ever seen before, in his dad’s garden, and also because it’s a good-mood word* – rhubarb in Swedish is:

    Rabarbrar
    Rabarber

    * Please tell me I’m not the only one who falls in love with some words. For the way they sound or look.

    What is your favourite way of using rhubarb? And any little stories we should all know about?

  • PS. We picked apples and made cider. Oh and an apple cake too!

    PS. We picked apples and made cider. Oh and an apple cake too!

    One morning, we woke up to lights through the wooden blinds barely covering never-ending windows. Coffee got made. And we sat on the steps overlooking the garden. Early signs of autumn, drawn to the earth in the shape of dew that made our feet wet as we walked to the apple tree.

    Apples as white as snow. His dad said they were called Transparentes blanches. And I really wanted to believe him so I proceeded to do so. I picked a few. Held them in my dress. Peeled them and cored them, with a small knife. Sliced them with the very same knife. And layered them with honey. I whisked eggs into butter and sugar. Eggs paler than the milky-way above our heads the night before. And added wholewheat flour and cinnamon just so. The cake went into the oven and we went fly-fishing by the river. We saw grown-up salmons jump, and tiny frogs too. I was taught how to say liten groda and it meant so much more. We picked blueberries, but you already know that.

    So yes, we picked apples and made cider. Cider for in a few months. And I made an apple cake. For dinner that night. It came with vanilla ice-cream from a tub. And I remember how we cut into it with a knife.

    RECIPE: A cider and apple cake, not unlike a tatin tart.
  • The dark side of stainless steel

    The dark side of stainless steel

    I received an email. Of a young pastry chef – L. – who was feeling like she didn’t belong to kitchens. We emailed back and forth. To me, there is nothing more magical than getting to do what I blindly love, and couldn’t even dream of a better place to be than in a too-hot, too-fast, too-stressful kitchen.


    But it’s only fair to also talk about the other side.


    When a daily job relies on boundary-less passion this much, the fine thread that keeps us going, that stretches far beyond strength we didn’t even know we had, can break.


    Yes, we’ve all – one day – lost focus. And this is what I told L.: it’s ok. Because deep-inside, you can’t help but have this unreal lovestruck feeling hitting you every morning as you enter the kitchen.

    I didn’t write this with the intention to discourage anyone or to bash any restaurant I’ve been lucky enough to work at (in fact, it’s all been just a dream; and if you don’t feel like it is, then maybe, your restaurant is not the one for you, it won’t mean you don’t belong to kitchens, not just to this one); but more as an encouragement. From me to you: shit happens, more often than not. And yet, I can still see you smile when you think you’re not.


    Also, please excuse my French – ahem – naughty words. Just consider it a warm-up to the world you’ll soon be breathing.



    At times, you’ll wonder why the fuck you’re doing this.

    It will be a morning.

    You’re setting up your section. Just like any other day. You slept for three hours. Just like any other day. You go in the veg/dairy/you-name-it-fridge and it’s world war seven in there. Just like any other day. You can’t overlook anything. Call it perfectionism, OCD, or care. And really, you don’t have the time. You never have the time, but you make it. Fridge is spotless again. Your never-ending mise-en-place list gets longer. Just like any other day. You have to call every supplier for second deliveries, as a d*ck put through the orders the night before. Just like any other day. Your chef casually rolls in. Just like any other day.

    Except it’s not any other day.

    Somehow you can’t take it anymore. You will cry. You will swear. You will become bitter.

    And you will hate it.
    For a second.

    Because then, when the check machine starts its merry-go-round, you’re trapped. Willingly or not, desserts are gonna have to leave this pass.

    And yes, some merry-go-rounds are scarier, harder, faster than others, but close your eyes and hold tight.

    Sometimes, you will feel like it’s unfair. How you’re the first one in and the last out. And no-one seems to give a damn. How you’re the only one to clean the oven or the dry stores. Or worst, doing the stocktake or HACCP.
    And really, you can take anything. The fights, the bollockings, the one-too-many joke.

    But injustice? No.
    And really, you have no choice but keep it quiet. Some things will never be different.

    All the time, you will be tired. In fact, you don’t even want to do the maths. But I’ll do it for you.

    You wake up at five thirty. Or at least, the first of your many alarms will go off.
    You’re at the restaurant by seven. Get changed. Ironed jacket, ironed apron. Need I mention the trousers? One torchon hanging from your hips and another one neatly folded behind your back.

    At ten past seven, you’re in the kitchen. A quick look at your mise-en-place list. First delivery comes in and disappears in an army of plastic crates hidden in the fridge. Coffee gets made. And also seems to disappear in a storm.

    There is the prep. And the problems. Freezer stopped working. Or perhaps it’s the fridge, or the mixer. Five trays of bread-rolls got burnt. The dairy hasn’t arrived yet and it’s ten. Shit happens. More often than not.

    Service happens too. It wakes you up. Makes you feel alive. Makes you connect as a team. As a family. Kitchen is cleaned down. Ready for another service.

    You send the last desserts. It’s already half-past midnight.

    Hot soapy water, more paper roll than you should use. Sanitiser. Then the floor. You scrub, you squeegee, you mop, you dry. Your turn the lights off. Together.

    You get changed. Except this time, forget the iron. Jeans need washing and that t-shirt is more than just wrinkled.
    You’re home by late one if you’re lucky. More two.
    You stick whites in the machine. Laundry powder. Softener. 60°C. You shower and fall asleep with wet hair. It’s two thirty and your alarm goes off in three hours.

    Have a good night.

    At least, you have days off to look forward to. Except, you can forget about those too. Someone calls in sick. Someone walks out. Someone is on holidays. Someone, you, need to wake up.

    Once a month, you’ll get paid. Don’t make a mistake. No, don’t. Never calculate your hourly wage. Under legal. Not that you care really. Because sooner or later you’ll find the answer to the question that’s been haunting you all day.

    Why the fuck are you doing this? You can’t stay away. You learn. You grow up. Perhaps too fast. You love what you do.

    I tend to sugar-coat almonds. Not words. You will feel broken. Once in a while. Kitchens are raw. Concentrates of life lessons.
    Of course, there is this side. There will always be this side.

    But just like there is a hidden world behind puddles, there is also one behind stainless steel. And it’s wonderful, and addictive, and you’ll never get enough of it.

  • Un gâteau aux pommes et au cidre

    Un gâteau aux pommes et au cidre

    [A cider and apple cake, not unlike a tatin tart]

    There was a night made of champagne, flickering candles, crisps and smoked salmon sandwiches, the last of the foie gras smothered onto big fat chunky pieces of baguette, an endless game of trivial pursuit where – as it turned out – the one person who refused to play (my father, apparently stuck to his mots croisés) became the one who knew all the answers, our joker – as we called him.

    Yes, there was no electricity in the house after a storm hit the lines, somewhere around Marseille. But we had us. And a dark Christmas tree. And some apple cake.

    Something I’d thrown together with things we had.

    Too-much-butter, as my mum always buys when she knows I’m coming.
    A lot of sugar.
    A touch of honey from this beekeeper my grand-mother became very fond of.
    And winter apples from M. Riouet’s orchard. And really, I say orchard when it really is just a couple of trees, but I can’t help it, his potager is the enchanted forest I grew up in.

    This cake was meant to be nothing but rustic. A mere snack after a day spent with Bruno and his goats in the mountains.
    And yet, that night, it turned into something special. Here is to power cuts! And to the new year too!

    Gâteau aux pommes et au cidre, un peu comme une tarte tatin

    While I wouldn’t necessarily force you to have this cake as a dessert, I must say it makes a pretty decent contender. Especially with a scoop of yoghurt ice-cream or a generous dollop of crème fraiche.

    But the way I see it is much more homely. The kind of cakes that’s eaten still warm from the oven, with fingers and a side made of tea in a pot. I think a light infusion of tilleul would do wonders here.

    It’s really quite simple to make. Slice three apples thinly, a knife and your hand are enough, but you can go with the mandolin too, although I didn’t. Layer them at the bottom of your tin and drizzle with honey. Top with the batter and bake. Oh, and eat too!

    Gâteau aux pommes et au cidre

    serves 8-10

    6 apples, peeled and cored
    100 g runny honey
    180 g butter
    300 g demerara sugar
    2 eggs
    245 g plain flour
    2 tsp baking powder
    1 tsp ground cinnamon
    1 tsp maldon sea salt
    180 g apple cider     (or apple juice)

    Preheat the oven to 190°C/fan 180°C.
    Butter a 24cm cake tin, line with baking paper and set aside.

    Thinly slice 3 apples and layer at the bottom of the prepared tin. Drizzle with honey and pack tightly with your hands.

    In a large bowl, cream the butter and sugar.

    In the meantime, chop the remaining apples into 2cm chunks.

    Add the eggs one at a time, mixing well after each addition. In another bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, cinnamon and salt.
    Then, alternatively add the dry ingredients and cider to the butter mixture in three times, starting with the flour.
    Finish the batter by gently folding in the apple chunks.

    Pour onto the sliced apples and bake for 45-60 minutes, or until a cake tester inserted into the centre of the cake comes out clean. Allow to cool for a few minutes, then invert onto a plate and peel off the baking paper.

  • Tarte à l’abricot et à la pistache

    Tarte à l’abricot et à la pistache

    [Apricot and pistachio tart]

    I had a pâton of pâte sucrée in the fridge. And a little bag of roasted pistachios a friend brought back from Lebanon. And of course, too many apricots sitting on the counter.

    An hour later, all this turned into a tart.

    The kind of tarts that are simple and rustic. And yet, ever so delicious. We had a piece still warm from the oven for lunch. And another for dinner, after a baguette garlic steak sandwich that was so good I want to remember it forever. Inside, thick slices of juicy steak with plenty of grated garlic, a dollop of cancoillotte, and salad leaves from the garden.

    With a glass of rosé and a few radishes we’d just picked, it was fairly close to the perfect summer dinner.

    A few hundreds kilometres away, my friend Anna-Sarah* is having her very own perfect dinner. On a péniche [houseboat] with never-ending glasses of champagne. It’s her birthday and I wish her the happiest one ever.

    And if I’m lucky enough, I might even join her on the boat next week-end. Just before I fly back to London. And step into whites again. At the Capital, to give a hand to my friend Richard Hondier who’s now running the kitchen and plating the most delightful dishes I’ve ever seen. And really, I can’t wait.

    * You might know that Anna-Sarah hates apricots, she’s already told me off when I posted this a few days after she’d left (of the I-see-you’re-waiting-until-I’m-gone-to-write-about-apricots kind), so sharing an apricot recipe on her birthday, let’s hope she forgives me!

    Tarte à l’abricot et à la pistache

    This tart is super-quick to put together. Especially if you have some pâte sucrée ready in your fridge or your freezer. I know I always do, and this way, dessert is almost always less than an hour away.

    There is nothing tricky. Pastry, crème d’amandes, fruits, and a little glaze. Ah, yes, just a quick word on crème d’amandes, a stapple in French pâtisseries. I forgot to include it in this list, and really it should be there. The mistake has been corrected since more often than not, you’ll find crèmes d’amandes that feeleither too buttery or too spongy. And most of the times, it even gets called frangipane, and trust me, crème d’amandes in no frangipane.

    To make a gorgeous crème d’amandes, you just have to make sure the eggs are at room temperature. I keep my eggs in the fridge, so they never are. If you add them fridge-cold to the creamed butter, the mixture will split and might leak butter during baking. The trick I use is so simple it hurts. I just place the eggs in hot water – of the tap kind – while I cream the butter and sugar for several minutes. And then, one egg at a time, with a good two minutes of beating in between to bind the emulsion, and make it smooth and airy.

    Now, enough words for such a doodle of a recipe…

    Tarte à l’abricot et à la pistache

    serves 8

    For the pâte sucrée
    130 g butter, at room temperature
    95 g icing sugar
    1 teaspoon sea salt
    1 teaspoon vanilla extract
    30 g ground almonds
    1 eggs
    250 g plain flour

    Cream the butter, sugar, salt and vanilla extract for a few minutes, until light and fluffy. Add the ground almonds. And the egg and beat well for around 3 minutes.
    Tip in the flour and mix until just combined.

    Flatten the dough and wrap in clingfilm. Chill for at least 3 hours – or up to 5 days – before using. Or keep frozen, for up to 3 months.

    On a lightly floured work surface, roll the dough into a 4mm-thick rectangle. Carefully wrap the dough around your rolling pin and place on top of a 10x30cm tart tin. Line the tart case with the dough, then trim the edges. Place in the freezer while you get on with the crème d’amandes.

    For the pistachio crème d’amandes
    80 g butter, at room temperature
    100 g caster sugar
    2 eggs    , at room temperature
    60 g ground almonds
    60 g roasted pistachio    , roughly ground
    30 g plain flour

    For the montage
    8 apricots, halved and stoned
    1 tablespoon apricot jam

    Preheat the oven to 180°C.

    Cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy, for 8-10 minutes, scraping the sides of the bowl every now and then. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well – at least 2 minutes – after each addition.
    Tip in the ground almonds and pistachios, then the flour and mix until just combined. Scrape the crème d’amandes into a piping bag fitted with a 12mm nozzle and pipe the cream at the bottom of the prepared tart case.

    Arrange the apricots halves, cut-side up onto the crème d’amandes and bake for 40 to 45 minutes, or until golden brown.

    In a small pan, place the apricot jam with a little water (around a tablespoon) and bring to the boil. Gently brush this glaze over the hot tart, and allow the tart to cool down at room temperature. Slice into wedges and serve, perhaps with a scoop of ice-cream or a dollop of whipped cream.

  • How to become a pastry chef? – The checklist

    How to become a pastry chef? – The checklist

    Being a pastry chef is most possibly the best decision I’ve ever taken. Everyday, I have no words to describe the bliss I feel when I’m busy making things. Yes, making. With my hands dirty, and more often than never, with my apron too.

    So yes, many say you can judge how good a pastry chef is by the look of his/her apron. In the books, it should be clean at all times.

    Well, let me tell you one thing. I strongly think that if you can tell every bits and pieces of mise-en-place that’s been made with just a look at a chef’s apron, then it’s a good thing. Perhaps, it’ll become a joke. But I will know deep-inside that this chef gets things done.
    And to me, that’s a very good start. The clean apron will come later, as every move will become smoother, faster and more precise. And if it never comes, you can always change it ten times a day (and I speak from experience on this point).

    So today, I’d like to focus on skills and techniques that are the very essence of what makes a good pastry chef, in a kitchen or at home.
    Because at the end of the day, I strongly believe it’s not about your position, or whether you trained in the most expensive schools, or simply love to spend your days off making pastries.

    It really gets down to passion. A passion with no boundaries.
    In fact, I know many passionate people who know more than the head pastry chef next door.

    And that’s really the matter. To know, to be curious, to strive to learn always and forever more. To experiment, to fail, to success.

    This is the very first step to becoming a pastry chef.

    The list is not exhaustive, but should be considered as a checklist. You want to become a pastry chef? Then do some research and learn about:

    doughs

    – pâte brisée
    – pâte sucrée
    – pâte à foncer
    – pâte feuilletée (perhaps, even inversée)
    – pâte feuilletée levée
    – pâte à choux
    – brioche
    – savarin

    Is you pâte brisée crisp and flaky? Is your pâte sucrée melt-in-your mouth?
    Do you know the difference between pâte brisée and pâte à foncer?

    And what about your puff pastry? Is it light and break into million pieces in your hands? Do you know how to caramelise its top?

    Are your croissants and pains au chocolat light with even layers and thin membranes? Do you see a honeycomb pattern when you slice into them? As for the technique, do you know a great tip that ensures even laminating?

    Are you choux puffs consistent and hollow? Not wet and yet not dry? Can you glaze an éclair, shiny even after a few hours in the fridge, neat around the edges? Do you know that technique for fondant, the one that involves freezing it into small disks then letting it defrost over a choux?

    Do you know brioche dough is an emulsion? Do you treat it as such? Can you knead it by hand or in a mixer without over-heating it? And which temperature should the butter be?

    Are your savarins and babas light as a feather, with holes just so?

    biscuit

    – génoise
    – pain de Gènes
    – dacquois
    – joconde
    – biscuit cuillère
    – macarons
    – crème d’amandes

    Do you know the difference between a génoise and a pain de Gènes? Is your génoise light and fluffy? Can you tell when it’s just baked, not overly so?

    Can your dacquois holds its shape? What’s the purpose of the many different ratios of caster sugar versus icing sugar?

    And the biscuit joconde. Why do you have to beat the mixture for so long? Can you spread it thinly enough in an even layer?

    Are your biscuits cuillère soft and spongy rather than dry? Is your batter firm enough to keep its shape when piped? Do you always dust it with icing sugar at a 10-minute interval?

    Can you tell when a macaron appareil has been macaronné enough? French or Italian meringue? Or even, as I now see it more and more, Swiss meringue? Which syrup temperature is best for the Italian meringue? Can you pipe macarons consistently? Are they shiny with a crisp crust and melt-in-your-mouth inners? Do they have beautiful feet? Do they crack in the oven, and why?

    Is your crème d’amandes light and fluffy? Does it split and feel too buttery once baked? Is it too spongey?

    chocolaterie

    – temper chocolate
    – ganache

    Can you temper chocolate so that it snaps into shiny shards? Can you do it without a probe? Without a marble? Can you spread it to make décors with just a palette knife?

    Do you know how to make a simple ganache? And how each ingredient works towards a smooth supple ganache?

    creams

    – crème pâtissière
    – crème mousseline
    – crème diplomate
    – crème Chiboust
    – crème anglaise
    – bavarois
    – sabayon
    – crémeux
    – crème au beurre

    Is your crème pâtissière super-smooth, not grainy? How do you do, just bring it to the boil or let it bubble for a few minutes to relax? Do you just pour the hot liquid over the egg mixture and let the magic happen?

    Does your crème mousseline feel light? Does it split? And do you know what to do in case it does? Do you add the butter to the crème pâtissière, or the crème pâtissière to the butter? What about that story that says half of the butter should be incorporated into the hot pastry cream?

    Do you know the right temperature to fold your whipped cream into the crème pâtissière to make a crème diplomate? How much gelatine is just enough to set it?

    When making a Chiboust, hould you use a whisk or a maryse when folding the Italian meringue into the hot crème pâtissière? In fact, how hot should the pastry cream be when you do so?

    Is you crème anglaise eggy? Is it smooth and just thick enough?

    As for the bavarois, two things: how whipped your cream should be? How hot your anglaise or fruit purée?

    Is your sabayon thick and glossy?

    What is a crémeux: lemon, chocolate or other fruits? Does it hold its shape and yet melts in your mouth? Is it set just enough or could you kill someone with it?

    Is your crème au beurre made with Swiss or Italian meringue? Which temperature do you need the meringue to be at before incorporating the butter? And how cold the butter should be? Why does it split? What to do if it splits?

    quenelles

    Can you make the perfect quenelle with one spoon? Always the same size, with a pointy tip and a round back?

    other techniques

    How to whisk, mix, combine, fold? Spread with a palette knife or an off-set palette knife? How to tell when a sponge is baked? How to whisk egg whites, fast or slow? And cream? Until which point for a mousse, a Chantilly?

    How to glaze an entremet, with no air bubbles and a shiny glaze?

    How, how, how… This is what should go through your mind every single second of every single day.

    I’ll try and make step-by-steps for each and every of the above items, but in the meantime, get your aprons out, find recipes and compare them to each other, and get dirty.
    Yes, definitely get dirty!

  • Les abricots

    Les abricots

    Yesterday, we found a basket on our fence. The third this week. It’s made of osier and hung by a metal hook.

    Inside, we could see apricots. And at times, cherries.

    Most of the fruits have been eaten already. Fresh, torn in halves, with their juices running on our fingers. Really, why mess with perfection?

    But we have still a few kilograms of apricots left. Golden plump jewels. I’ve made an upside-down apricot and camomile cake. It was all sorts of wonderful. A crumb loaded with camomile leaves. The juices of the apricots turning into compote with the heat.

    The recipe will be in the book of course, as most things that happen in my kitchen right now. Really I can’t wait to tell you more about all those words I write and all those cakes I bake. It should be all sorts of wonderful too!

    But in the meantime, I have a question or two. What are your favourite recipes with apricots?

    I have some gathered some notes already, in case you have more apricots that you can possibly eat (is there such thing?).

    – apricot crème crûlée tart.
    – baked apricots with limoncello, from the ever-gorgeous what katie ate.
    – apricot and chocolate baby clafoutis.
    – apricot tart with brown sugar and cinnamon pastry, from BBC goodfood.
    – grilled apricots with honey and olive oil, on Taylor’s beautiful blog.
    – apricot and matcha tiramisu, on – need I say more – my friend’s, Keiko, blog: nordljus which has been an absolute favourite for years.
    – and her roasted apricots with camomile too, a recipe I remember dreaming over six years ago now.
    – rosemary and apricot tarte tatin.

  • Custard-filled cornbread

    Custard-filled cornbread

    Yesterday, two am.

    Tonight, we ate al fresco. In our garden. Who said you’re not allowed to play make-believe anymore?

    I made dessert. One strawberry tart, only it’s so much more. Black olives, vanilla, and olive oil shortbread. White chocolate crémeux. Strawberries from the little patch that somehow resisted the month of May; or perhaps, I should say the month of rain. Strawberry coulis and jam, just so. I topped it with borage flowers, and basil blossoms. And it was pretty amazing. We had a slice each. And then a second.

    By that time, mosquitos began dancing around us. And every star started to rise into the sky, not unlike a slow-motion time-lapse.

    After dinner, I read. A lot. And sometime, between one and two am, I found the following quotation from We Girls: A Home Story about spider cakes:

    “Barbara got up some of her special cookery in these days. Not her very finest, out of Miss Leslie; she said that was too much like the fox and the crane, when Lucilla asked for the receipts. It wasn’t fair to give a taste of things that we ourselves could only have for very best, and send people home to wish for them. She made some of her “griddles trimmed with lace,” as only Barbara’s griddles were trimmed; the brown lightness running out at the edges into crisp filigree. And another time it was the flaky spider-cake, turned just as it blushed golden-tawny over the coals; and then it was breakfast potato, beaten almost frothy with one white-of-egg, a pretty good bit of butter, a few spoonfuls of top-of-the-milk, and seasoned plentifully with salt, and delicately with pepper,—the oven doing the rest, and turning it into a snowy soufflé.”
    Adeline Dutton Train Whitney (1870), We Girls: A Home Story

    A bit of a rabbit-hole, which Jessica Fechtor entered first, and I felt obliged to follow. Looking up the definition of spider cake seemed like an obvious first step, a word of U.S. origin meaning “a cake cooked in a spider pan”.
    Rather unapologetically, I began scouring eBay for spider pans, a sort of frying pan with legs. And delved into its history, a link shared by Jessica. But perhaps, most importantly, I fell asleep thinking about the custard-filled cornbread she’d made following Molly’s adaptation of a Marion Cunningham recipe. Perhaps, the most food-writing hall of fame-ish sentence I have ever written?

    This morning, eight am.

    I woke up with the sun through curtains so light they seemed to glow. And before coffee even begun to run through the maker, I buttered a 24cm-wide cake tin and turned the oven on.

    Coarse polenta got mixed with flour, sugar, and a lot of milk. And cream was poured with no other explanation than this spider cornbread I’d read about yesterday.

    I didn’t grow up on cornbread. But cornbread grew up on me.
    It might have been because of that guy with deep-blue eyes and the cutest American accent ever. He would make me peanut butter and honey sandwiches, and halve strawberries into salads. But that’s another story, one I will possibly never tell, and rather frankly, this cornbread cannot wait.

    While it was in the oven, I rolled puff pastry and made vanilla crème diplomate. I wrote a little too. And after an hour had passed, I took the glorious bubbling cake out from the oven and let it cool while coffee was finally being made.

    I had a slice, still warm, with plenty of runny honey. And trust me, I think all mornings should be like this.

    Custard-filled cornbread
    Adapted from Molly Wizenberg’s A Homemade Life.

    I did not know what to expect from this cake. Sure, knowing both Molly and Jessica, I knew it’d be good. Even with a picture in front of my very eyes, I couldn’t help but feel like magic is always involved when a batter separates into layers.
    When it was just baked, I could barely wait to slice it. And the cream was still on the slightly runny gooey side. Not that there is anything wrong with it. Now, a few hours later, it’s firmed up into a silky custard (yes, I totally had a pre-lunch slice).

    The edges remind me of canelés. The bottom is rich with corn. And the top feels like a pillow of creamy custard.

    Custard-filled cornbread

    Makes one 24cm cornbread.

    50 g butter
    140 g flour
    120 g coarse polenta or cornmeal
    1 1/2 tsp baking powder
    a fat pinch salt
    2 eggs
    45 g caster sugar
    480 g whole milk
    50 g butter, melted
    1 tbsp vinegar
    1 tbsp vanilla extract
    240 g double cream

    Butter a 24cm-wide cake tin, preheat the oven to 150°C/fan 170°C, and place the tin in the oven to warm up.

    In a large bowl, combine the flour, polenta, baking powder and salt. In a jug, whisk the eggs and sugar, add the milk, butter, vinegar and vanilla extract.
    Slowly pour the wet ingredients over the flour, and mix until just combined.

    Scrape the batter in the hot tin, then slowly pour the cream in the centre of the batter. Bake for one hour. Allow to cool for 30 minutes or longer, and serve in thick slices with maple syrup or honey.

  • Mastering white pâtissier fondant, step by step

    Mastering white pâtissier fondant, step by step

    One of the first things you see through a boulangerie-pâtisserie window in France is a herd of glazed éclairs and choux. Pretty in pink, brown, white, and more often than not, green too.

    Fondant can be bought in professional shops, most likely in one or seven kilo buckets. But did you know you can make it at home with just two ingredients?

    It takes around ten minutes to make a kilo of fondant. So get ready to glaze éclairs like there is no tomorrow, because you’re about to learn how to make fondant pâtissier.
    Here I’ve only made 250g because that’s all I needed for a recipe I’m developping for le petit cookbook, but the recipe can easily be doubled as fondant will keep in an airtight container in the fridge for up to a year.

    To make 250g of fondant, you’ll need:
    250g caster sugar
    100g water

    As for the equipement, nothing super-fancy: one large pan, a brush, a probe, a stand-mixer (or failing that, hand-beaters). A plastic scraper is handy too!

    01.

    Place the sugar and water in a large pan. Cook the syrup to 114°C over medium heat. The ideal temperature to make fondant is in between 114 and 116°C, so remove from the heat at 114 an the temperature will naturally reach 115-ish. Perfect!

    02.

    While cooking the syrup, brush the sides of your pan with a wet brush to remove any bits of sugar which might caramelise or even worse, crystallise.

    03.

    Fill the sink with 3cm of cold water and dip the bottom of your pan in it to cool the syrup to 75°C.

    04.

    Pour the cooled-down syrup in the bowl of a stand-mixer fitted with the paddle attachement.

    05.

    Beat for approximately five minutes, or until thick and white.

    06.

    Transfer to a clean work surface. Work the fondant, first with a scraper and then with the palm of your hand until cold. Don’t hesitate to really push it to remove any lumps. Form a smooth ball.

    07.

    Place in an airtight container. Clingfilm to the touch and close with a lid. Keep in the fridge. Use within a year. Ooh yes!

    Now I just have to show you how to glaze éclairs and choux. And perhaps even a millefeuilles! Next time…