Tag: French pâtisserie

  • Galette des rois

    Galette des rois

    [Almond king’s cake]

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    Galette des rois

    The galette des rois is traditionally eaten throughout January to celebrate the Epiphany. Although, the its origin can be traced back to pagan celebrations of the winter solstice. In these celebrations, a cake was baked with a hidden bean inside, and whoever found the bean was crowned king of the feast.
    These days, galette des rois is composed of two disks of puff pastry encasing frangipane – a cream made by mixing both crème d’amandes and crème pâtissière, with a ceramic fève [trinket] baked into it.
    A southern version, called brioche des rois is a rich orange blossom brioche adorned with gorgeous candied fruits.
    When making galette, I like to freeze the shaped pastry for an hour or so, and then ALWAYS turn it upside-down on my baking mat/baking paper lined baking tray to provide a nice flat surface for scoring.
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time45 minutes
    Cook Time45 minutes
    Total Time1 hour 30 minutes
    Makes 1 large galette, enough for 8-10.

    Ingredients

    For the crème pâtissière

    • 185 g whole milk
    • seeds from 1 vanilla pod
    • 60 g egg yolks
    • 35 g demerara sugar
    • 20 g cornflour
    • a pinch of salt

    For the crème d’amandes

    • 125 g butter at room temperature
    • 150 g icing sugar
    • 1 tbsp vanilla sugar
    • 200 g ground almonds
    • 2 eggs
    • 20 g cornflour
    • a generous pinch of salt

    To assemble

    • 600 g puff pastry
    • one egg yolk beaten, to glaze

    For the glazing syrupe

    • 50 g demerara sugar
    • 50 g water
    • a pinch of salt

    Instructions

    • Make the crème pâtissière. Bring the milk and seeds from a vanilla pod to the boil.
    • in a bowl, combine the egg yolks, sugar, cornflour and salt using a whisk.
    • Temper the egg yolk mixture with the just-boiled milk and return to the sauce pan. Bring to the boil over low heat, whisking constantly.
    • Pour the crème pat into a heatproof container and cover with clingfilm to the touch.
    • Refrigerate until cold.
    • When the crème pat is cold, get on with the crème d’amandes.
    • Cream the butter, icing sugar and vanilla sugar in the bowl of a stand-mixer fitted with the paddle attachement until light and fluffy.
    • Add the eggs one at a time, mixing well after each addition.
    • Add the ground almonds, cornflour and salt and mix to combine.
    • Then add the crème pâtissière, in three times, mixing well and scraping the sides of the bowl as you do so.
    • The frangipane is ready to be used.
    • To make a galette des rois, you will need around 600 g puff pastry. Roll into into two large discs, around 4-5mm thick. Pipe the frangipane in the center leaving a 2cm edge. If you wish, place a ceramic fève in the frangipane – the one who gets it in its slice will be crowned king/queen. Brush the edge with water and top with the second disc of puff pastry, pressing the edges together well.
    • For a perfect finish, cut around the galette – through both layers of puff pastry to create a neat edge. Use a large plate with the right diameter and a small sharp knife.
    • If you want, you can then freeze the galette as is for 1 hour, you just want the puff pastry to harden so that it creates a nice flat surface for scoring later.
    • Then pre-heat the oven to 190°C /fan 180°C. And prepare a baking tray lined with a silicon mat or baking paper.
    • Place the galette upside-down onto the prepared tray. Brush with a beaten egg yolk and allow to dry 10-15 minutes. Score using the tip of a small knife.
    • Poke a few holes as well to let the steam escape.
    • Bake for 40-45 minutes until golden brown.
    • In the meantime, make the glazing syrup: bring the water and sugar to the boil, with perhaps a pinch of salt. When the galette is ready, brush immediately with the syrup.
    • Leave to cool slightly and serve in wedges.
  • Cake week-end au citron, confit de clémentines à la vanille

    Cake week-end au citron, confit de clémentines à la vanille

    [Lemon weekend cake, clementine confit]

    Originally published on January 29, 2010

    This is a cake I’ve made so many times over the years that I could make it with my eyes closed.

    I remember the first time I posted about it. It was early 2010, and a thin mantle of snow had fallen overnight, just enough to cover the ground.

    I had just started working as a commis pastry chef at the Capital, a small boutique hotel that would become the road map of my seven years in London. Yes, many of the chefs I consider my mentors and friends have – at one point or another – worked in the kitchen where I did my very first service.

    This reminds me that I’ll have to tell you, one day, about the time where I traveled across town – from Islington to Mayfair – on a vegetable delivery van to meet Chavot for an interview, leaving loaves of sourdough proofing in the kitchen above John Salt, and came back just in time to bake them before dinner service.

    But… this cake. A gâteau de voyage [a travel cake]. It doesn’t translate well, but the name alone suffices to evoke the soft lull of a holiday; the carefully wrapped slice, eaten on the night train; the afternoons at the beach; perhaps even, the long drive through the Massif Central.
    All gâteaux de voyage have the particularity to keep well at room temperature over a week or so. And this weekend cake is no exception, with both butter and crème fraiche to keep it moist, I find that it tastes even better the next day.

    It starts by whisking the eggs and sugar, with just a pinch of salt. The flours gets folded in. Then a third of the batter is mixed with the fats, then delicately folded back into the remaining batter.
    Although, I now often make it by adding the fats to the eggs, then folding in the flour.

    For the sake of staying true to my original recipe, I will leave the former method – as written in 2010, but know that both work fine, the latter leading to a slightly denser crumb, which I like when having cakes with tea or more accurately – and dare I say it – I love when dipping a slice in piping hot tea.
    Please, tell me you also give in to this ritual or am I the only one?

    And although, I can never resist it unadorned, I am rather fond of serving it with a generous spoonful of clementine confit and a dollop of crème fraiche.
    There is something about the suave softness of the compote against the gentle bite of the cake.
    Sometimes I even make it with tea – finely milled to a powder – folded into the batter. Other times, I leave it plain, perhaps with a touch of vanilla or orange blossom water, and we eat it with softly whipped cream and warmed raspberries.

    Yes, more than a recipe this really is blueprint and should be used as such.

    Just a quick note on baking temperatures: while I often bake this loaf cake at 175°C for approximately 45 minutes, I can only remind you of my favourite method for baking loaf cakes.
    5 minutes at 200°C/fan 180°C, 10 minutes at 180°C/fan 170°C, and around 25 minutes at 170°C/fan 160°C.

    Cake weekend au citron, confit de clémentines à la vanille

    Makes one loaf cake.

    For the clementines confit

    350 g clementines, around 3 to 4
    200 g caster sugar
    half a vanilla pod
    100 g water
    20 g cornflour diluted in 40 g cold water

    For the lemon weekend cake

    4 eggs
    250 g caster sugar
    zest from 2 organic lemons
    200 g plain flour
    one tsp baking powder
    150 g creme fraiche
    50 g butter, melted

    softened butter, extra for piping

    To serve

    a generous dollop of crème fraiche for each serving

    Make the clementine confit: bring a large pan of water to the boil. Plunge the clementines in it and simmer for 3 minutes. Sieve, placing the fruits in an ice-cold water bath as you do so. Repeat one more time. Then chill the clementines until cold enough to handle.
    Slice finely, and place in a pan along with the sugar, vanilla pod and seeds, and water.
    Simmer for 30 minutes or until reduced and almost candied. Then vigorously fold in the cornflour mixture. Allow to boil for a couple of minutes, and transfer to a bowl.
    The confit will keep in the fridge for up to 5 days or in the freezer for up to 3 months.

    Make the cake batter: preheat the oven to 175°C/fan 155°C; butter and flour a loaf tin.
    Place the eggs, sugar, lemon zest, and salt in a bowl, and whisk until thick and doubled in size.
    In an another bowl, mix the flour and baking powder, and fold into the egg mixture.
    Pour a third of the batter onto the cream and melted butter, mix well, and transfer back to the main batter mix, gently folding in as you do so.
    Pour into the prepared tin. If you want an even crack in the center of your loaf cake, pipe a thin line of softened butter across the batter; and bake for 45 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the cake comes out clean.
    Allow to cool down 20-30 minutes before unmoulding.
    If not eating right away, place into an airtight container and keep at room temperature.

    Place a slice of cake cut in half lengthwise in a plate. Top with both a spoonful of confit and a dollop of crème fraiche.

  • Fromage blanc cake

    Fromage blanc cake

    There was a day spent in the garden. A rake in the hands, and dead leaves piled high on a wheelbarrow. That day, the sun was high and warm, just like the two eagles we’d seen earlier, right after sunrise.

    The following morning was an entirely different story. A story made of snowflakes and a crackling fireplace. Both lasted all day, for the record.
    I baked the sourdough bread that I had left to proof on the porch overnight. And although it turned out to be much too big for my cast-iron pot, it was restlessly devoured while still warm, with only a few slices left for the next day.

    I painted too. A dalahäst. Although I still need to draw on top of the watercolours, using ink, just like I always do.
    And in the afternoon, when it became clear we wouldn’t leave the house, I whipped egg whites and folded them into fromage blanc, to make the one cake that might have possibly been baked weekly in my kitchen for a little over ten years, which I’ve yet to tell you about.

    Fromage blanc cake

    This recipe is a classic case of natural selection.
    What started with the words tarte au fromage blanc, hastily written with a not-so-steady hand over twenty years ago has slowly turned into a cake – a term close enough, yet, hardly accurately describes the wonder that it really is.

    All it took, really, was to remove the pâte brisée base. And just like that, many childhood memories resurfaced. The tourteau fromagé du Poitou; the burnt crust, the pâte brisée I would leave out in favour of the insane texture of this fresh goat’s cheese “cake”. And perhaps also, the soft cake that came from a cardboard box at the supermarket; halfway between a mousse and a cheesecake.

    And maybe that’s what I should call it: Fromage blanc French cheesecake. But then, it’d sound much more flamboyant that what it is.
    Because it is not. It’s a plain, slightly sour from the fromage blanc (however, Greek yoghurt makes and excellent substitute) and warm with vanilla (by any mean, please use homemade vanilla sugar) cake.
    If eaten piping hot from the oven, it’s the softest thing you’ve ever had. And in the morning, after a night spent on the kitchen counter, it becomes firm and yet delicate; a form, which is without a doubt my favourite.

    You could also add the zest from a lemon or an orange. Or fold in a light jam right before you pour the batter into its tin. I often don’t. For the sake of its plain, unpretentious character.

    Fromage blanc cake

    Serves 8-10

    4 eggs, separated
    a pinch of salt
    100 g caster sugar
    500 g fromage blanc or Greek yoghurt
    100 g cornflour or plain flour
    30 g vanilla sugar

    Preheat the oven to 175°C (185°C for traditional ovens). Butter and line the bottom of a 22cm cake pan with baking paper, and set aside.

    Whisk the egg whites with a pinch of salt until foamy. Add half the sugar and keep on whisking until they reach hard peaks.
    In another bowl, whisk the egg yolks and remaining sugar until light and fluffy. Gently fold in the fromage blanc, cornflour and vanilla sugar.
    Then, using a rubber spatula, fold in the meringue until barely smooth: it’s absolutely fine to still have bits of egg whites in the finished batter.

    Transfer to your prepared tin, and bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until well-domed and golden-brown. The top might have cracked a little and it should feel firm to the touch.

    Allow the cake to cool down to room temperature in its tin, then unmould onto a plate. Serve dusted with icing sugar or with berries, just brought to the boil with a spoonful of caster sugar.

  • On pâte sucrée (and my favourite lemon meringue tart)

    On pâte sucrée (and my favourite lemon meringue tart)

    I intended for today’s post to be short – almost-wordless short. Really, it was just meant to be a recipe that I developed for a nut-free pâte sucrée.
    And that what it is, in essence. With a few notes around it.

    In France – or at least at the pâtisseries where I worked, and in books and magazines – pâte sucrée will always call for ground almonds (or some other kind of ground nuts, depending on the finished tart). This gives the dough a short, crumbly texture, and a wonderful roasted aroma. No questions asked.
    But here in Sweden, I’ve found that many people have food allergies, so I’ve had to improvise. And after many trials, I’ve finally worked out a nut-free recipe that I’m happy with, and that stands against the pâte sucrée I grew up making.

    Now, I could tell you a few stories about chefs that I worked with in London and their relationships with customers who have allergies or dietary requirements. But I think it would be 1) too mind-your-French kinda stories and 2) too long to tell them all.
    I must, however, share my favourite of all. Picture a couple of vegetarians asking about options in a very meaty menu. All I heard in response went along the lines of: “Do I go in a *insert swear-word of your choice* vegetarian restaurant and ask for a *insert swear-word of your choice* rib-eye?”.
    Of course, a beautiful vegetarian tasting menu was promptly made, but this sentence somehow stuck with me, and I love to remember it fondly every now and then, and of course, to tell it to anyone who cares enough (or not) to listen.

    The recipes

    Pierre Hermé

    This is the recipe that I started with. It’s absolutely beautiful – a given when it comes to Pierre Hermé, really.
    However, over the years, I’ve come to adapt it into an easier-to-work with dough; which to this day remains my standard and usual recipe.

    Pierre Hermé’s pâte sucrée

    300 g unsalted butter
    190 g icing sugar
    60 g ground almonds
    1 tsp sea salt
    seeds from 1 vanilla bean
    100 g eggs
    500 g plain flour


    My favourite

    This recipe, which I think stems from a combination of Pierre Hermé’s, Valrhona and a few tweaks here and there, is as its name reveals without a hint of suspense, my favourite.
    It’s one I can make with my eyes and my recipe notebook closed.

    Of course, I always make a much bigger batch, somewhere along x5.5, which gives me enough to dough to roll fourteen 28.5x45cm sheets (a format, rather than being practical, obeys the rule of the baking paper that we have in kitchens: 45x57cm, which religiously gets cut in half in the morning, forming large piles that fit into gastros and baking trays, and lasts us through the day).
    For those of you wondering about regularity of thickness between sheets, read further down to Notes, where you’ll find the answer.

    Fanny’s favourite pâte sucrée

    255 g unsalted butter
    190 g icing sugar
    70 g ground almonds
    1 tsp sea salt
    seeds from 1 vanilla bean
    100 g eggs
    510 g plain flour


    A nut free alternative

    When I realised many people here had food allergies, it made me question everything I had learn, heard or done in the past.
    In France, at least, back when I was living there, very few pâtisseries catered to dietary requirements; yes, [to be said with a French accent] eat the tart or don’t. It was not something I’ve ever seen anyone – chefs or customers – think about, let alone be concerned.

    In Sweden, it’s on the literal opposite of the spectrum, so much, that I always make sure to have at least three or four gluten-free options, two dairy-free alternatives, a couple of nut-free pastries, and a lactose-free crème brûlée (flavoured with tonka bean at the moment, because I think tonka and winter were always meant).
    And this is why I had to give up my favourite pâte sucrée. I started working on a recipe, with mixed results – from my perspective only judging by how quick the lemon tarts sell out every time I put them in the display.

    But after a few batches, I found the one that I’ve now been using for the past few months. A crisp, golden-brown crust that stays so.

    Fanny’s nut-free pâte sucrée

    280 g unsalted butter
    180 g icing sugar
    1 tsp sea salt
    seeds from 1 vanilla bean
    100 g eggs
    40 g egg yolks
    545 g plain flour

    The process

    If you’ve never made pâte sucrée before, I can only recommend you to head over to my old blog foodbeam, where you’ll find a detailed step-by-step.

    Or simply follow this process:
    1. In the bowl of a stand-mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the cold butter (see note n°1 below), icing sugar, ground almonds (if using), salt, and vanilla, until just smooth.
    2. Add the eggs (and yolk for the nut-free recipe) one at a time, mixing well after each addition, a minute or so. If making a larger batch, the eggs can be added a couple at a time.
    3. Mix in the flour (read note n°2 below if making a larger batch) and work on low speed until just combined.
    4. Divide the dough into three pâtons, roughly 350-360g each. Flatten each onto a feuille guitare (cf note n°3) using the palm of your hand and top with another feuille. Roll, always from the centre upwards, giving the dough a quarter turn every time, into a large disk, around 3-4mm thick. Place the dough onto a baking tray and set aside. Repeat with the other two pâtons; and either freeze for up to two months, or chill in the fridge for at least two hours or for up to a week.
    If making a bigger batch, please refer to note n°4.
    5. Line your tart ring and chill or freeze for an hour or two. Blind bake (see ressources below for a link to one of my posts “A few notes on blind-baking”).

    Notes

    N°1. The butter does not need to be at room temperature as many recipes might suggest. Yes, it makes for an easier mixing (especially by hand, which I suspect this rather obsolete step comes from) but it also makes the water contained in the butter more available to bind with the flour proteins, hence developing gluten more than cold butter would.
    The quick mixing of the cold butter with the sugar acts as a mechanical (as opposed to physical) softener. And before you know it, you’ll have a smooth paste, ready to receive the eggs.

    N°2. If making a large batch – larger than 5 kilograms in total weight – I’d recommend adding around 10% of the flour to the butter/sugar/egg mixture and working on low speed until incorporated; and then adding the remaining flour and mixing until just combined. Never overwork the dough as it would make the tart shell tough instead of crisp and crumbly.

    N°3. Feuille guitare, litterally guitar-leaf, is a transparent polyethylene/acetate film that is somewhat rigid. Although it can be replaced by baking paper, I would – if given the choice – always use it to roll dough. It prevents the formation of creases in the dough (which could later results in cracks during baking) and yes, it looks neat.
    They are also amazing for chocolate décors, which i could show you if you’re interested (let me know!).

    N°4. When I make a x5.5 batch, I divide the dough into 14 pieces, around 450g each. And then roll them into 28.5x45cm sheets, making sure to trim the edges into a neat rectangle. This way, I can store my dough in the freezer in an airtight plastic gastro, and take out sheets when I’m making a tart shell mise-en-place.
    By weighing each pâtons and rolling to the exact same size every time, I ensure an even thickness throughout the batch. This produces a dough that bakes uniformly, making sure all the tartelettes on one baking tray will be ready at the same time.

    N°5. My absolute favourite rings when it comes to tarts are not the traditional tart rings that have rolled edges. I like simple entremet rings from Matfer. They’re 35mm-high and are completely smooth, with no welding mark.
    I find that with 35mm-high rings, I get more use out of them. If I want to make a 2cm-high tart, then I simply cut a 2cm strip of dough that will become the edges of the tart. However, if I’d like to make a deeper tart, perhaps chocolate or pecan, then I simply line the ring up to its rim.
    I know DeBuyer has recently come up with perforated rings in collaboration with Valrhona; and although I’ve tried them a couple of times, with great results in term on crumb texture and even baking, I don’t really like the marks they leave on the outer edge of the tart case.

    N°6. I always bake my tarts onto Silpain – a variation oriented for bread bakers of the now-famous Silpat. I find that it gives the quickest and most even baking.

    La cerise Le citron sur le gâteau [The cherry lemon on top]

    Just like I did in Paris Pastry Club (almost its two-year birthday!!), I can’t resist to share the lemon tart recipe that has followed me for years – despite the MANY other lemon curds that I’ve tried to like. Of course, it’s from Pierre Hermé. And really, trust me, it’s the best you could, and will, ever make.

    The recipe will leave you with some extra lemon curd – that always tend to disappear on top of ice-cream if my mum and sister are around. Or you could also, divide what’s left in piping bags, tie them tighly and freeze for up to 2 months.

    Tarte au citron meringuée

    Makes one 24cm tart, serving 12-16.

    one 24cm blind-baked tart shell, using the pâte sucrée of your choice (or as I do in my book a lemon shortbread topped with a lemon sponge).

    For the lemon curd
    240 g caster sugar
    zest from 3 lemons
    200 g eggs
    140 g lemon juice     (around 3 large lemons)
    300 g butter, cubed, at room temperature

    Place the sugar and lemon zest in a large bowl, and rub the zest in the sugar for a minute or two. This step, although optional, diffuses the fragrant lemon oils into the sugar, resulting in a deeply flavoured and more complex lemon curd.
    Whisk in the eggs (I like to handblend the eggs before adding them to the sugar as I find it gives the smoothest texture) and the lemon juice.
    Set the bowl over a pan of simmering water and cook the lemon curd until it reaches 81°C, stirring every minute or so.
    remove the bowl from the bain-marie and allow to cool down to 55-60°C. Then whisk in the butter, one cube at a time. Handblend the curd for 6 minutes then pass through a fine-mesh sieve into a plastic container.
    Clingfilm to the touch and chill in the fridge for at least 4 hours or better yet, overnight.

    When ready to assemble the tart, make the Italian meringue.

    For the Italian meringue
    100 g egg whites
    1/2 tsp sea salt
    200 g caster sugar
    60 g water

    Place the egg whites and salt in the bowl of a stand-mixer fitted with the whisk attachment.
    Place the sugar and water in a small pan, and bring to the boil over medium heat.
    When the syrup reaches the boil, start whisking the egg whites on medium speed.
    Cook the syrup to 118°C and pour over the soft peaks egg whites, making sure to run the syrup along the sides of the bowl to avoid it from splashing around the bowl.
    Increase the speed slightly and keep on whisking until the meringue feels barely warm.

    In the meantime, pipe a generous layer of lemon curd into your blind-baked tart shell using a piping bag fitted with a 12mm nozzle.
    Pipe the meringue on top into a pattern, or simply pile it on and swirl. Burn using a blowtorch, making sure to rotate the tart to get every nook and cranny.

    Ressources

    – The way I roll pâte sucrée.
    – Where to buy feuilles guitare? They deliver in the north-north of Sweden, so I assume the rest of the world is ok!
    – A few notes on blind-baking tart shells.
    – My absolute favourite not-for-tarts-tart-rings: Matfer entremet rings (24cm for 14-16 portions or 8cm for indivdual tartelettes). For comparison: traditional tart rings. The DeBuyer/Valrhona perforated rings.

  • A brioche study, recipe: the “generic” brioche (control)

    A brioche study, recipe: the “generic” brioche (control)

    Analysing the impact of the egg-to-milk ratio in brioche formulas

    The formula

    The recipe shown below will make two 500g loaves. I chose, however, to make half a batch, yielding to a single loaf, which is something I’ll carry on doing over the next experiments, as the kneading time of a half-recipe takes longer when done in a stand-mixer; more on that to come in part two: the method (ingredient list, pastry chef tips and techniques on brioche).

    Brioche #1: Control formula

    quantityingredientBAKERS %
    500gflour100%
    70gcaster sugar14%
    15gyeast3%
    8gsalt2%
    180gmilk36%
    180gegg36%
    150gbutter30%
    1103gtotal weight

    Notes

    I haven’t finished writing about the method and techniques associated with rich doughs, so in the meantime, please refer to this article for detailed instructions on how to make brioche.

    I ended up making the control brioche twice: after I baked brioche 2, I was amazed by the differences in between the two batches. So much in fact, that I thought something had gone wrong with the control brioche (I mostly suspected slow yeast or underproofing). So I went ahead and made the control brioche again, only to find out the differences were the result of the formula substitutions; and in no way related to the other ingredients or the method.

    The difference in crumb colour on the pictures above is due to lighting (natural versus halogen) as I’ve just gotten an industrial halogen lamp so I would be able to take pictures at night – also known as 2pm here, hehe – and I’m still trying to figure it out.

    Results

    The oven-spring isn’t tremendous.

    The crust is very thin and soft. As the loaf cools down, it wrinkles.

    The crumb is light and soft, with a slight moistness to it. It’s has a beautiful texture and a lovely chew, almost reminiscent of a doughnut.

    This “generic” brioche turned out amazing. I fell in love with its crumb and soft crust. The loaf stayed beautifully soft on the second day too; as we topped it with a thick layer of hjortronsylt [cloudberry jam].
    I’ll definitely be making it again and again.

    READ MORE ABOUT THE BRIOCHE STUDY

    – Part I: the approach

    – Part II: the ingredients

    – Part III: the process – method, techniques and tips

    – Recipe: brioche #1, the control – this is where you are.

    – Recipe: brioche #2, the almost Chavot-brioche

    – Recipe: brioche #3, the pain au lait

    – Recipe: brioches #4 and #5

    – Part IV: impact of the egg-to-milk ratio in rich doughs

    – Ressources: Brioche in literature

    Explore the feature: A brioche study and follow our discoveries on instagram: #BRIOCHESTUDY.

    FROM THE 2016 ARCHIVES

  • A brioche study, part I: the approach

    A brioche study, part I: the approach

    Analysing the impact of the egg-to-milk ratio in brioche formulas

    In the first part of my forever-unfinished feature How to be a pastry chef? – the checklist, I asked you some questions about brioche with the aim to develop your curiosity and drive you to research important techniques. It went along the following lines:

    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?

    But although these points are fundamental in a technical approach, I’ve since had been absorbed by some other questions that belong to the food science realm.

    How do the milk and eggs respectively affect the texture of a brioche? Which kind of flour yield to the softest crumb? And how much butter is too much?

    As with any mixture experiment, we have to study each of these variables – liquids ratio, flour properties, butter quantity – separately in order to develop an understanding on how they each have an impact on the finished product.
    And for no other reason than it has obsessed me for years, I’ve chosen to start by examining the effect of the egg-to-milk ratio in rich doughs.

    Eggs or milk?

    If you ask Eric Chavot, a true brioche – or as he would say, une vraie brioche – is made using eggs as the only source of hydration.
    And while I’m certain many would agree, the subject of brioche – from its etymology to its formula – has always been a controversial one.

    In my kitchen, I tend to use a combination of both eggs and milk; with more or less of each depending on the texture I want to achieve. A knowledge that’s really more empirical than anything; and perhaps, relies a bit too much on wishful thinking.
    So today, we will stop counting shooting stars and start analysing percentages. It will take five different loaves. Over two kilograms of flour and perhaps a litre or two of milk. A box of eggs. Most likely two. And hopefully, a few worthy notes that will improve my understanding of rich doughs.

    The approach

    1. Develop a control formula that will act as a reference point during the experiment.
    2. Define the range into which the variables will fluctuate.
    3. Establish the method: ingredients (on both quantitative and qualitative – brand, temperature – points of view), process (order of incorporation, kneading time/speed, proofing time/temperature, shaping, baking time/temperature)
    4. Make successive batches of brioches, each with a different ratio of egg to milk. All other variables (see method above) remain unchanged.
    5. Record the organoleptic properties of each batch:
    – texture (our main focus point): thickness/hardness of the crust, crumb appearance and mouthfeel.
    – colour: darkness of the crust, tint of the crumb.
    – flavour and smell.
    I haven’t decided yet on whether or not to include objective qualities – such as: crust thickness in mm, loaf size, or even weight of the baked brioche – to measure the response. Yes, even though this is a matter of mixture design, I mostly want to document the results in a comprehensive yet accessible and home-practicable way.
    6. Analyse the results.

    Developing the control formula

    I could have used my favourite stand-alone brioche recipe, the one pictured above and which I told you about in Paris Pastry Club and the one I made tropéziennes with.
    But out of all my rich dough recipes, it stands out by its high hydration and high fat quantity.

    I thus wanted to create a generic rich dough recipe. To do this, I analysed my favourite recipes, ranging from brioche to burger buns, from challah to kanelbullar.
    On the table below, you can see the ones that I consider the more relevant, with BRIOCHE 2 being my usual, the one I just mentioned.

    Brioches: bakers percentage

    bullarbrioche 1brioche 2brioche 3burger bunsbrioche 4
    flour100%100%100%100%100%100%
    hydration64%58%65%60%64%60%
    eggs38%19%55%
    		60%13%20%
    milk26%38%11%0%51%40%
    fat28%15%58%40%19%16%
    sugar13%19%11%12%6%20%

    Note: the hydration values, although inaccurate since milk and eggs don’t hydrate the dough fully (respectively at 88% and 76.15%), could have also been labelled “liquids”. I did however choose to go with “hydration” for ease of understanding and recipe development.

    I then went ahead and calculated an average formula as seen on the table below. And by multiplying the bakers percentages, I got the recipe for two brioche loaves.
    As you can notice, some of the measurements would be quite difficult to put into practice, so I used this “average recipe” as a guideline.

    Brioches: average

    BAKERS %for two 500g loaves
    flour100%500 g
    hydration62%
    fat29%147g
    sugar14%68g
    eggs34%171g
    milk28%138g

    Brioche #1: Control formula

    quantityingredientBAKERS %
    500gflour100%
    70gcaster sugar14%
    15gyeast3%
    8gsalt2%
    180gmilk36%
    180gegg36%
    150gbutter30%
    1103gtotal weight

    The percentages I chose to keep are as such:
    – flour 100%
    – caster sugar 14%
    – milk 36%
    – egg 36%
    – butter 30%

    As you can see, I’ve increased the total liquids (milk+eggs) as when I first baked the control brioche, I realised that with only 62% liquids the dough was way too dry so I had to add 60g of liquids (30g egg and 30g milk), bringing the total hydration to 72% instead.
    This can be due to 2 factors:
    – I calculated the average formula using recipes from my French/English recipe notebooks, and thus missed to take into account the Swedish flour’s high absorption capacity
    – when making such a small batch of dough (I halved the recipe) the kneading can take twice as long as when making a larger batch, and the dough has more surface to loose moisture from

    I then added 3% of yeast and 2% of salt, and our control formula was done.

    This control formula is a perfect starting point as its egg-to-milk ratio is 50%-50%, which will allow us to really analyse its impact on the dough and on the finished brioche.

    The mixture design

    I have in mind to make 5 different “brioche” recipes. Yes, “brioche” in quotes, as our experiment will range from actual brioche to pain au lait [literally, milk bread].

    1: controlbrioche 2brioche 3brioche 4brioche 5
    milk50%0%100%33%67%
    egg50%100%0%67%33%

    Here are the different formulas, each associated with a number, which is used as both a name and a rank. We will start with the control brioche 1, move onto brioche 2, and so on.
    As you can see above, we’re starting with the most extreme formulas as we might be able to stop our experiment after brioche 3, in the eventuality that the results will have given us enough information about the impact of the egg-to-milk ratio in the dough.
    I will, however, most likely still decide to conduct brioche 4 and 5, with my personal recipe collection in mind.

    Ressources

    – A clear explanation of mixture design.
    – A few notes on brioche.
    – A five-minute brioche?

    TO COME

    – Part I: the approach – this is where you are.

    – Part II: the ingredients

    – Part III: the process – method, techniques and tips

    – Recipe: brioche #1, the control

    – Recipe: brioche #2, the almost Chavot-brioche

    – Recipe: brioche #3, the pain au lait

    – Recipe: brioches #4 and #5

    – Part IV: impact of the egg-to-milk ratio in rich doughs

    – Ressources: Brioche in literature

    I hope you’ll like this experiment as much as I do, even the most boring parts. Follow #briochestudy on Instagram for real-time science 🙂

    And, of course, I wish you all the happiest new year! To 2016 and brioches. X

  • Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon

    Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon


    [Brown butter and bourbon canelés]

    There are stories that never get old, no matter how many times you tell them. Here is a collections of the ones I never-ever want to forget.

    Every evening, we go to the pond by the house on the other side of the path. Just before the sun sets. From there, we overlook the far-away lake. But really, all I care for are the frog’s eggs floating on the surface not unlike tapioca or soaked basil seeds. For some reason I find them absolutely captivating, and I’m crossing my fingers for us to stay here long enough to see them turn into tadpoles.

    One morning, Svante asked me if I had woken up early. I had, but I very well knew that he meant 4am early. Yes, he’d heard some noise coming from the forest.
    After we’d had coffee, and a tartine of sourdough bread smeared with butter and topped with hard-boiled eggs and pickled herring, we put our gumboots on and walked through the moss and woods and snow.
    As we followed the tracks, dipper and dipper into the woods, the three of us knew one thing for sure. It was a lynx.

    Yesterday, as I was sitting on the front steps of the little house – my favourite morning spot to catch the sun and drink up that mug of too-hot coffee – Svante called me from the path. A few metres from us: two rådjur [deers, don’t ask me for the plural form of their Swedish names as I’m still very confused about it all] were eating the grass that the snow-melt made alive again.

    The shooting stars we see at night. When it’s so dark we can almost make out the Milky Way.

    Every morning, I wake up early. The oven gets turned on and the loaf of bread – of dough, really – that has been slowly fermenting in the fridge overnight, is taken out and left on the counter. Some days, I’ll make coffee. Others, I go back to bed with a book, and – more often than not – I fall back asleep for an hour or so.
    The bread goes in the oven and I patiently wait. One morning, we carried firewood from the shelter where it dries up to the main house. On a wheelbarrow. Another time, we went on the rock at the top of the road, where you can watch the sun rise, almost like no other place I’ve ever been.

    Bonus campagne tale: I’ve found out that it’s actually way easier to drive on snow and ice rather than mud. The rest should probably remain untold.

    Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon
    Adapted from Pierre Hermé.

    I didn’t grow up eating canelés. In fact, I can’t even remember the first time I ever had one. But if I was to guess, I’d say it came frozen, from a box of miniature ones found at Picard (and if you’re not French, I should add that Picard is a frozen-product shop found everywhere across the country).

    But somehow, they’ve always seemed fascinating. A crisp almost-burnt-but-not-quite crust and custard-like crumb.

    I can’t say I’ve tried a lot of recipes, as when I first tried the ones at Pierre Hermé – back in the summer 2007 during the three-month stage that would change my life – I never even wanted to look back.
    Yes, Pierre Hermé’s recipe is my favourite.
    I’ve made them traditional, with Tahiti vanilla and aged rum. Or at times, with chocolate in the batter too. Even some pumpkin and cinnamon ones, replacing the milk with roasted pumpkin flesh and a large tablespoon of milk powder, and adding bourbon and brown butter.
    I loved this combination so much that I’ve decided to make some simpler ones today.

    I’m not going to lie, it’s not quite easy to get them right. But here are a few notes that will help you get those beauties perfect every single time.

    1. The batter must be made in advance. In a pinch, I’ve made it rest for only an hour with great results, but they are considerably better if the batter is left to rest at room temperature for at least 12 hours or in the fridge for up to 3 days.

    2. As you make the batter, the milk should be around 55°C when you pour it onto your egg mixture. This will start to cook the eggs and the starch, and will prevent the canelés to form too much moisture when they bake, hence reducing the risk of them “growing” out from their moulds as they bake.

    3. No matter what I do, I’ll always have at least one canelé trying to escape from its mould during baking. If you let it be, you’ll end up with a white-topped canelé as the batter won’t be in contact with the mould; you do not want this, trust me. My sauve-qui-peut solution is very simple. As soon as the canelés are set enough – around 20 minutes usually – I’ll carefully take out the faulty ones out from the oven, then turn them upside-down – unmoulding them really – then place them back into their moulds. This seems to do the trick every time and they won’t try to escape again.

    4. Many people stress about using a mixture of oil and beeswax to grease the moulds. Yes it does give them a special matte finish, but more than that, I think the kind and quality of the moulds matter. I know they’re expensive but Matfer copper moulds make the difference for me.
    You see here, I didn’t use any beeswax, just melted butter, brushed inside the moulds, and they came out beautifully. You could also use some cooking spray, I’ve only ever tried OneSpray which worked great.

    5. The most fundamental part is – in my opinion – the baking. In professional fan-assisted ovens, I usually preheat to 210°C, then bake for 10 minutes at this temperature, before reducing it to 190°C to finish the baking for an hour or so. At home, in my traditional oven, I’ve found that they are considerably better if I preheat the oven to 270°C and bake them for 10 minutes then reduce the temperature to 200°C for another 45 to 55 minutes depending on the size of my moulds.
    I haven’t tried baking them in a home oven with fan, but I’m assuming that preheating to 250°C and baking at 190°C would work fine. Let me know if you try 🙂

    But mostly – please please please – have fun while baking. This makes all the difference.

    Canelés au beurre noisette et au bourbon

    Makes 20 small canelés (4.5cm wide) or 12 large ones (5.5cm wide).

    500 g whole milk
    50 g brown butter
    2 vanilla pods, sliced lengthways
    2 eggs
    2 egg yolks
    250 g icing sugar
    40 g bourbon
    100 g plain flour
    a pinch of salt

    q.s. melted butter, to grease the moulds

    In a medium pan, bring the milk, brown butter, vanilla seeds and pods to the boil. Off the heat, cover with a lid and allow to infuse for at least 15-20 minutes while you get on with the rest.
    In a bowl, mix the eggs and yolks with the icing sugar until smooth, slowly pour in the bourbon. Add the flour and salt.
    Then, pour the warm milk, a little at a time over the egg mixture, mixing as you do so – but trying not to incorporate too much air into the batter. You could pass the batter through a fine-mesh sieve, I don’t.

    Cover the bowl with clingfilm and leave at room temperature overnight.

    Preheat the oven to 270°C/fan 250°C (read note above).
    Prepare the moulds. No matter which kind of fat you’re using (read note above), brush a thin layer into the moulds (or in the case of the spray, spray it). Turn the moulds upside-down onto kitchen paper to allow the excess fat to drip, then place in the freezer. If using butter, I like to repeat this one more time.

    Mix the batter for a couple of minute to homogenise. Then fill your prepared moulds almost to the rim, leaving 2 or 3 mm on top.
    Bake for 10 minutes, then reduce the temperature to 200°C/fan 190°C and bake for a further 45 minutes for small canelés or 55 minutes for large ones.

  • Macarons au chocolat blanc caramélisé et aux noisettes

    Macarons au chocolat blanc caramélisé et aux noisettes

    [Caramelised white chocolate and hazelnut macarons]

    I’d like to tell you I’ve made macarons today. I had planned to. Really. Last week, we bought mandelmjöl [ground almonds] and florsocker [icing sugar]; mjölkchoklad [milk chocolate] and vispgrädde [whipping cream].

    But you see, we’ve been for walks everyday. At times, in the forest. Or by the river. And, always, in the snow.

    And the chocolate bars we wrapped in foil – along with kokkaffe and the old kaffekanna [coffee pot], perhaps a square or two of Tatin tart salted caramels too, and a few baconost [bacon cheese] sandwiches that K. loves to make with lingonbröd [lingonberry bread, which I’ve seen an amazing recipe for here, and I can’t wait to go pick lingonberries to make it] – well, they’re gone.


    Yes, I wanted to make moka macarons, but we’ve eaten all the chocolate before it even got the chance to be turned into a whipped ganache, just so.

    Instead, we made the most of last night snowfall. For K. and Kaiser, the not-so-puppy-anymore you’ve perhaps seen on my pictures, it most likely involved effortless runs over the ice. For me, it means that the one patch of slippery mud will land me somewhere I didn’t decide to. Repeatedly 🙂

    Macarons au chocolat blanc caramélisé et aux noisettes

    When I realised I had never posted a recipe for macarons, I couldn’t believe it. It’s not like I haven’t spent the last seven years of my life making some almost daily. Pistachio and vanilla were ranking high amongst all. But I’ve also made some with elderflower and champagne, fermented mango, coconut and lime, salted caramel, avocado and chilli, pumpkin and cinnamon, rhubarb and cream. Even beetroot and orange ones. The list could go on for – almost – ever, really.
    And that’s what I love about macarons, how versatile they are.

    These ones are made with caramelised white chocolate – a love of mine, and roasted hazelnuts.
    At times, I like to fill my macarons with a crémeux instead of a ganache to lower the sweetness slightly. However, macarons made with crémeux will only keep for a couple of days in the fridge before getting a bit too moist. They will keep beautifully frozen though, and judging by how many times I’ve seen our container in the freezer getting emptier and emptier, I’m sure some chefs – whose names will remain undisclosed – can vouch for it.

    The recipe for the shells is adapted from Andrew Gravett’s beautiful macarons. He’s an amazing pastry chef and person, and I couldn’t be anymore grateful to have followed him in one way or another during my six years in London.
    It’s super-foolproof. And trust me, this is something you want your macarons to be.

    The stages are quite simple really: start by making a smooth tant-pour-tant, for this I like to use extra fine ground almonds as they give a more flawless finish.
    Then make an Italian meringue, which you fold into the almond mixture and the extra egg whites.
    After all is incorporated, you’ll deflate the batter slightly. This step, called macaronage, can be done with either a maryse or a plastic scraper. I like to use a plastic scraper and push the batter against the sides of the bowl until I have the correct texture. Now, it’s quite hard to describe the texture of the finished macaron batter: it should almost form a ruban and when the batter drops, it should smooth out into the rest, leaving only the tiniest bump.

    If you’d like I could write a little post about macaron troubles and what they mean. Perhaps we’d call it the macaron doctor?
    In the meantime, here are a few notes on macarons:
    – flat and odd shaped macarons with bubbles mean your batter was over-mixed.
    – gritty macarons with a pointy top means your batter was under-mixed.
    – cracked shells can mean two things: too much humidity in your kitchen/oven or your oven temperature is too high.
    – shells that stick to the silicon mat: try to bake them a minute or two longer.

    Macarons au chocolat blanc caramélisé et aux noisettes

    makes around 40 macarons

    for the caramelised white chocolate
    100 g white chocolate

    Preheat the oven to 180°C/fan 160°C. Place the chopped chocolate onto a baking tray lined with a silpat. Bake for 8 minutes, or until the chocolate is golden-brown. Take out from the oven, and using an off-set palette knife, work the chocolate to even out the colour and smooth it out. Allow to cool down while you get on with the rest.

    for the hazelnut paste
    300 g blanched hazelnuts

    Preheat the oven to 165°C/fan 145°C and roast the halzelnuts for 20-25 minutes, or until golden-brown. Save 100g to chop for decorating shells. And blitz the remaining 200g in a mixer until you have a smooth paste, around 8 minutes.
    This will make more than you need, but you can keep it in a container in the fridge for later use.

    For the caramelised white chocolate and hazelnut crémeux
    1 g gelatine 200 bloom
    50 g hazelnut paste
    60 g caramelised white chocolate
    50 g milk
    50 g 35% cream
    a fat pinch of salt
    1 egg yolk

    Soak the gelatine in ice-cold water. Place the caramelised white chocolate and hazelnut paste in a bowl.
    Bring the milk and cream to the boil. Pour onto the egg yolk, whisking as you do so. And return to the pan. Cook over low heat to 80°C, stirring at all times with a silicon spatula. Off the heat, add the squeezed gelatine. Then pour onto the white chocolate in three times, emulsifying well to create a glossy core. Handblend for 3 minutes to emulsify further.
    Transfer to a container and clingfilm to the touch. Chill for at least 4 hours or up to 3 days.

    For the macarons
    150 g icing sugar
    150 g ground almonds
    55 g egg whites
    150 g caster sugar
    50 g water
    55 g egg whites
    15 g caster sugar
    100 g roasted hazelnuts, chopped and cooled down

    In a small blender, blitz the icing sugar and ground almonds for a couple of minutes, pulsing so it doesn’t overheat the nuts. Tip into a large bowl and add the egg whites. Mix to a smooth paste and cover with a damp cloth.

    Place the sugar and water in a small pan and cook over medium het to 118°C.
    When the syrup reaches 110°C, start whisking the egg whites on low speed. When soft peaks form, add the caster sugar, a little at a time, keep on whisking until stiff peaks form.
    Wait for the syrup to stop bubbling – around 30 seconds or so – and pour over your meringue, whisking as you do so, along the sides of the bowl to avoid splashes. Once all the syrup as been incorporated, increase the speed to medium and keep on whisking until the meringue is around 50°C.

    Add the meringue to the almond mixture and fold in using a maryse. Then deflate slightly until you get a ribbon.

    Pipe the macarons using a 9mm nozzle onto a baking tray lined with a silpat. Around 3cm wide. Immediately sprinkle with chopped hazelnuts.
    Leave the trays at room temperature for around 30 minutes, or until a skin forms and the macarons no longer feel tacky.

    Bake at 160°C/fan 140°C for 12 minutes.

    Allow to cool down completely, then turn the macaron and fill them with the crémeux using a 11mm nozzle.
    Freeze on a baking tray, then put away in an air-tight container.

  • La tarte tropézienne

    La tarte tropézienne

    There is the sound of the icebergs bumping into each other with every wave, not unlike a distant thunderstorm. There is the forest that I’ve walked through so many times before, now covered in a thick blanket of snow. There are lakrits [liquorice] cookies in the oven. And lights by every window we see.

    Yes, this is it. Sweden.

    And really, it’s just as wonderful in the vinter [winter] as it’s ever been in the sommar [summer].

    What’s up with the Swedish words? Well, I need to learn. And if I was ever able to speak English by writing about food back-back-back in the days. I’m hoping the same will – almost magically – happen with Swedish.
    But I’ve found some amazing companions. Just yesterday, I saw Donal on television. Perfect accent and all. And today, I went to buy Linda’s beautiful baking books, which I’m utterly in love with.

    In fact, I’ve been keeping an eye on every blueberry bush – how wonderful it is to walk surrounded by blåbär och lingon [blueberries and lingonberries] – waiting, very impatiently, for summer to make blåbärssylt [blueberry jam], blueberry crumble tartlets and Linda’s blåbärsrutor [literally, blueberry squares/boxes].

    The tartes tropéziennes here have barely anything to do with it all. Perhaps that’s why it took me so long to tell you about them.
    But when Karl ate one, he said they reminded him of semla. So there is that. And I might have to make some semla inspired tarte tropézienne very soon.

    La tarte tropézienne
    Adapted from Paris Pastry Club.

    Back when I was a child, you could only buy a tarte tropézienne in St Tropez. We would drive through les Maures, a natural reserve not unlike the savanna. The road meandered between cork oaks and arbousiers [strawberry trees].

    It was the late 80s and St Tropez still had a fishing village vibe to it. Nothing compared to what it once was, yet nothing compared to what it’s now become.

    We would walk along the port, and through the market. Sometimes, we’d go up to the fort, the best view over the gulf.
    And, before we’d leave, we’d always stop at the boulangerie to get a tropézienne. A brioche filled with crème madame – pastry cream with butter and whipped cream; delicately flavoured with orange blossom.

    When I wrote Paris Pastry Club, more than gimmicky or trendy recipes, I wanted to share my absolute favourite basics. Ones you can tweak endlessly, creating an amazing répertoire of recipes to call your own.
    And when I see all your beautiful creations on instagram or on your blogs, I’m blown away. And so so so proud to inspire you – at least a little, with my words.


    These tartes tropéziennes are just this.
    A tweak on two recipes from my book. The brioche, also known as the last brioche recipe you’ll ever need, and the crème mousseline, turned crème madame for the occasion, from the fraisier (and please, as soon as the strawberries will actually taste like they should, please, make one on a Saturday, and have it for Sunday lunch, trust me on that).


    A few notes on the brioche:
    – I made half a batch in my stand mixer without problems, but it did take a little longer than the usual double batch. If I were you, I’d make a double batch, use half for tropézienne buns and shape the other half into a loaf, which you can then bake, slice and freeze for instant morning happiness.
    – Here I’ve used T55 flour, but you could also use plain flour, although make sure the protein content of your flour is around 10-12g per 100g of flour.
    The higher the protein content, the stronger the flour is, which means it has more gluten. I’ve found that for brioche, I like to use flours with eleven percents of proteins.
    – When you knead the dough, I recommend doing the windowpane test after around ten minutes. It’s kneaded enough wuen you can stretch a walnut-sized piece into a very thin membrane without it tearing apart. This stage is called full gluten development, and for my brioche recipe, it’s usually reached after 10-12 minutes of kneading in the stand mixer on medium speed. If the dough tears when you try to stretch it, simply knead for a couple more minutes before testing it again.


    – Balling the dough isn’t only done to shape it. It’s an essential step to even the distribution of gluten strands, creating a tension layer, and making sure that no large air bubbles are formed.
    To ball the dough correctly, start by portioning your brioche in even piece (I like to weigh them out so that they will proof/bake evenly). Once you have divided your dough, dip the top side in flour and dust off any excess. Place the unfloured side down on a clean work surface and roll gently with the palm of your hand in a circular motion so that the outer layer of the dough stretches into a smooth ball.

    A few notes on the crème madame:
    – Crème madame is a crème pâtissière to which butter and whipped cream have been added. It should be firm and glossy, and will set into a rich cream.
    Really, crème madame = crème mousseline + whipped cream = (crème pâtissière + butter) + whipped cream.
    – I’ve been writing a post about basic pâtisserie creams which should be published very soon.
    – For a detailed step-by-step how to make crème pâtissière, please check this article.
    – When making crème mousseline, start by creaming the butter using the paddle attachment of your stand-mixer until light and fluffy. Then add the cold crème pâtissière in batches, beating well after each addition. If the butter has seized a little, simply place the bowl on top of a pan of simmering water for a few seconds before beating for a minute or two; or use a blowtorch to heat the sides of your bowl. Repeat until all the butter has disappeared and you’re left with a gorgeously thick crème mousseline.
    If you overheat the mousseline, it will become somewhat runny. Place in the fridge for a couple of hours, then beat for five minutes using the whisk attachment of your stand-mixer.

    La tarte tropézienne

    makes 8 individual tropéziennes
    For the brioche
    275 g T55 flour
    30 g vanilla sugar
    one tsp sea salt
    1/2 tsp instant yeast
    3 eggs
    30 g whole milk
    one tbsp orange blossom water
    160 g butter    , thinly sliced

    one egg, beaten, for egg wash
    200 g pearl sugar, to sprinkle

    For the crème pâtissière
    500 g whole milk
    3 vanilla pods
    4 egg yolks
    150 g caster sugar
    50 g cornflour
    1 tsp orange blossom water

    For the crème madame
    600 g crème pâtissière (above)
    150 g butter, at room temperature
    100 g 35% cream, whipped to stiff peaks

    For the syrup
    100 g water
    70 g caster sugar
    one tbsp orange blossom water

    If you have a stand-mixer, fit the dough hook and mix the flour, salt and vanilla sugar together on slow speed. Add the instant yeast. Then pour in the milk, the eggs and the orange blossom water.
    Switch to medium speed and knead for 10 minutes, or until the dough can be stretched without breaking. Scrape the sides of the bowl every now and then to ensure everything is amalgamated.
    Alternatively, mix the ingredients by hand then turn out onto a floured work surface and knead until the dough can be stretched without breaking.
    Now, add the butter, one piece at a time, and when almost all of it is in, increase the speed and knead until smooth (or knead by hand). The dough should stop sticking to the side of the bowl (or work surface) and should be silky and very smooth, although somewhat tacky.

    Transfer the dough into a plastic container, clingfilm to the touch, and chill in the fridge overnight.

    Make the crème pâtissière.
    Bring the milk and vanilla pods and seeds to a rolling boil in a medium pan set over moderate heat.
    In a separate bowl, whisk the egg yolks and sugar to prevent the egg yolks from clumping. Add the cornflour and mix well until combined. When the milk has boiled, remove from the heat and pour a third of it over the egg mixture, whisking as you do so. This step is key when making crème pâtissière as it loosens the egg yolks but also tempers them, avoiding any lumps .
    Pour all of the egg mixture back into the pan, return to the heat and cook slowly, whisking at all times until it starts to thicken and boil.
    Once it has bubbled for a few minutes, transfer to a plastic container and clingfilm to the touch to avoid the formation of a skin. Chill in the fridge for overnight.

    Make the orange blossom syrup. Bring the sugar and water to the boil. Allow to cool down slightly, then add the orange blossom water. Reserve at room temperature overnight.

    The next day, scrape the dough from the container onto a clean and lightly floured work surface, gently press to degaz, and divide in eight 75g squares.
    Ball each square, then roll into a 1cm-high disk, roughly 8cmm wide.

    Arrange the disks of brioche onto a baking tray lined with baking paper. Cover loosely with a lightly oiled double layer of clingfilm; and proof until doubled in size.

    Preheat the oven to 200°C.
    Brush the brioche with the beaten egg, then generously sprinkle with the pearl sugar. Bake for 15-17 minutes, or until golden brown.
    Allow to cool down completely.

    In the meantime, make the crème madame.
    Cream the butter until light and fluffy. Add the crème pâtissière, one third at a time, beating well after each addition. Once all of the crème pâtissière has been added, beat for 5 minutes. The mousseline should be firm and glossy.
    If the butter has seized a little, simply place the bowl on top of a pan of simmering water for a few seconds before beating for a minute or two; or use a blowtorch to heat the sides of your bowl. Repeat until all the butter has disappeared and you’re left with a gorgeously thick crème mousseline.
    Finally, gently fold in the whipped cream.
    Place this crème madame in the fridge to firm up slightly for an hour or so.

    Once the brioches have cooled down, slice them in half with a large bread knife and generously brush the cut-side with syrup.

    Transfer the crème madame into a piping bag fitted with a 10mm nozzle and pipe the cream around the rim of the bottom brioches, then pipe a large ball in the centre.
    Top each brioches with their matching “hats”.

    Keep in the fridge, loosely covered with clingfilm for at least 4 hours or overnight.

  • Kanelbullar croissants

    Kanelbullar croissants

    There was that weekend, many-many months ago. I had told you about the days when blogs were not so editorially perfect and how I miss them; about the two crumpets with raspberry jam that I had had for an early afternoon breakfast; and about how we’d moved the kitchen table by the window and took way too many pictures.

    Because, you see, my book was coming out the day after. And I guess that – as pretty much the entire universe – when I’m about to step in the unknown I like to delve a bit deeper in my comfort zone.
    It might be just a breath. Or as it happened, it might be croissants.

    There is this one thing I know for sure though. It’s that there are many rainy weekends ahead of us. And really, I thought I’d take you with me.
    A time machine of some sorts.

    Making the détrempe under the grey light of a drenched morning.
    Rolling turns later that day during the blue hour.
    And waking up to gold through our windows to finish shaping the croissants.

    By twelve, we had hot coffee – much hotter than I’d usually care for, and freshly baked croissants. And perhaps, you’ll have some too.

    This recipe doesn’t make traditional croissants. But more of a beautiful cross between a kanelbulle and a croissant. Soft and slightly flaky, as I only gave the dough two simple turns, as opposed to my usual croissant routine: three simple turns. In fact, a look at the insides will give it away: the membranes are thicker, and cinnamon speckles dot them throughout.

    Perhaps, if you want to, I could make some regular flaky croissants, just like the ones I grew up on, and show you too. Yes, croissants are nothing new. But I guess, in the constant chaos that surround us all, there is still some wisdom left.

    The ingredients.

    For the détrempe
    300 g strong flour
    200 g plain flour
    80 g caster sugar
    12 g instant yeast
    10 g milk powder
    10 g sea salt
    250 g cold water
    45 g butter    , melted and cooled down

    For the butter
    300 g unsalted butter, at room temperature
    2 tbsp ground cinnamon

    For the glaze
    200 g icing sugar
    boiling water
    seeds from one vanilla pod


    twelve pm.
    Mix the flours, sugar, yeast, milk powder and salt in a large bowl. Add the cold water and butter; and mix until a dough starts to form.


    ten minutes past twelve pm.
    Transfer the dough to a clean work surface and knead for around ten minutes or until the dough feels elastic and smooth.


    twenty minutes past twelve pm.
    Place the dough back in the bowl and clingfilm tightly. Leave in a warmish place for an hour or so, or until doubled in size.


    twenty-five minutes past twelve.
    While the yeast is working in magic, work yours with the butter. In a bowl, mix the soft butter (you could flash it in the microwave for ten seconds at a time until soft but not melted) with the ground cinnamon. Perhaps a pinch of cardamom too.


    half past twelve.
    Scrape the butter onto a piece of piece of baking paper and top with another one. Roll it until you get a rough 40x30cm rectangle. Transfer to a baking tray and chill in the fridge.
    Have a cup of coffee. And kisses. And maybe, even tickles down your neck. I highly recommend the latter. That’s what dream-Sundays are made of.

    half past one.
    The détrempe is proved when it’s almost doubled in size. When you take it, it will be very smooth and elastic.

    half past one.
    Place the détrempe onto a lightly floured work surface and roll into a rough rectangle. Wrap in clingfilm and freeze for twenty-five minutes to stop the yeast. Then transfer to the fridge and let it be for a few hours.

    five o’clock.
    Tea time for some. And feuilletage for others. I can’t help but feel a little sad for the former who’ll never know the calmness only rolling dough can bring.
    Take out the butter sheet on your bench to soften it ever so slightly. Place the détrempe onto a lightly floured work surface and roll to a 40x60cm rectangle. Flour more as needed but always make sure to brush off the excess afterwards.

    ten past five.
    Place the rectangle of butter on the lower half of the détrempe – patching it as you do so to cover any naked corner – then fold the upper half over.

    fitfteen minutes past five.
    Flatten the dough with your hands to get rid of any air bubbles, and rotate counter-clockwise so that you have a “book” its spine on your left hand-side.


    twenty minutes past five.
    Roll the dough before the first turn.

    For that, I like to press my rolling pin into the dough to create some indents. This step – if done gently yet with sufficient pressure – allows to distribute the butter evenly.
    I then start rolling the dough in long movements, from the centre up and then from the centre down. Those two techniques can be applied to any laminated dough.
    If the dough starts to stick, don’t hesitate to flour your work bench and reposition the dough.

    twenty-five minutes past five.
    Once the dough has been rolled to – ideally – around seven millimetres, brush off any excess flour, and fold in three, like you would do with a letter.
    This is a tour simple [simple turn].

    Wrap the dough tightly in clingfilm and chill in the fridge for at least an hour.

    twenty-five minutes past five (of the am kind).
    I went for another simple turn as I’ve told you before. Because fluffy meant something special to me that day, or so it seems.
    Of course Karl wouldn’t wake up, so pictures didn’t happen, but here is what I did: I rolled the dough to around seven millimetres thick, then folded it in three, exactly like shown above.
    After that, I placed the dough back in the fridge – again, wrapped in clingfilm.
    If you wanted a flakier texture, I would advise to go for another tour simple [simple turn] now.

    half past six (of the am kind).
    Get two baking trays lined with baking paper.
    Roll the dough on a lightly floured surface to a rough thirty-centimetre-wide rectangle. Cut the dough in half width-wise (if that’s even a thing) and place one half onto one of the prepared baking trays. Chill while you get on with the other half.
    This will make the dough easier to handle and roll thinner, while the other part stays cool.

    Keep on rolling the dough, maintaining a width of around thirty centimetres, until it’s about four or five millimetre-thick.
    Cut triangles using a sharp knife, making sure their base is eight to ten centimetre wide.
    As you cut the triangles, place them onto the prepared baking tray; and keep in the fridge until needed.

    Repeat the rolling and cutting process with the other half of dough.

    seven am.
    Get two baking trays lined with baking paper.

    Take out a couple of dough triangle out at a time. Gently stretch them, then roll without putting any pressure on the layers. And place them with the “point” underneath on the prepared baking tray, generously spaced out.

    twenty minutes past seven.
    Layer two large pieces of clingfilm, chasing any air bubbles and lightly brush with vegetable oil.

    twenty-five minutes past seven.
    Place the layered clingfilm – oiled side down – on top of your croissants, to cover them loosely. Allow to prove at room temperature for around two hours or until wobbly and doubled in size.
    If butter starts leaking, then you might want to find a slightly cooler place to prove your croissants. If I’m at the restaurant, then 26°C is the temperature I go for (with 65% humidity for the ones of you who are lucky enough to have a prover).

    Once the croissants have proved, brush gently with a beaten egg, making sure not to put any egg-wash on the cut edges, which would prevent the rise of the feuilletage.

    Bake at 200°C for seventeen to twenty minutes. Allow to cool down slightly, then transfer to a wire rack.

    ten thirty.
    Make the sugar and vanilla glaze: mix the icing sugar with enough water to form a pourable icing; stir in the vanilla seeds, and drizzle over the croissants.

    THE END. Of life as you knew it.

  • 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.

  • 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…