bahamian sky

gâteau st. honoré, or the dessert that almost defeated me

sometimes, desserts are both impressive and laughably easy to make. think tiramisu, crème brûlée, or baked alaska: guests are sure to ooh and ah over your creation as you conveniently forget to mention that it was so absurdly simple to throw together that even your pet rock could do it.

this dessert, however, isn't like that.

meet the gâteau st. honoré. it's named after the french patron saint of baking and pastry chefs (i am once again reminded of why i love that country), and an exhausting ordeal to make. one reviewer called it "an extremely complicated dessert not to be attempted by the faint-hearted."

this dessert is commonly used as a graduation test (!) for pastry chef students, since it contains basically every component that you can possibly put into a pastry: pâte feuilletée, pâte à choux, chantilly cream, pastry cream, caramel, and chiboust. if you'd like to show off, you can get even fancier and top it with spun sugar, caramel lace, meringue, chocolate tuiles, poached pears, candied rose petals, orangettes... or you could flavour the chantilly cream with matcha or strawberries, or pipe salted caramel into the cream puffs, or dip them into milk chocolate pastry cream. there really are no limits to the complexity.

the recipe reads like a novel. a russian novel. undaunted, naive little baking dilettante moi got it into my head that it would be fun to attempt this for a dinner party on christmas day. (not unlike how i thought it would be fun to take a class on tolstoy my freshman year)

oooh boy, this was a humbling experience. i've always considered myself decently competent in the kitchen, but this dessert spurred a mini-crisis -- ohmygod i can't actually cook i'm just a poser my camera has butter all over it i hope it still works i'm not qualified to be blogging!!

i was sooo close to giving up halfway through, especially after my second batch of pâte à choux once again turned into liquidy soup, the butter supply was running low, and i had been standing in the kitchen for 1 1/2 hours with little to show. i bow to you, saint honoré, i remember conceding my defeat, pouring a batch of failed batter down the garbage disposal. i, and everything else in the kitchen, was coated in flour and flecks of butter, and i felt like such a foodie failure.

not supposed to look like this. 

but miraculously... it came together. with a lot of improvisation and disregard creative adaptation of the recipe, two sinkfuls of dishes, and 3 hours of my afternoon, the gateau ended up looking pretty decent and tasting pretty phenomenal.

i christmas-ified it with raspberries and pistachios and took it to the party, where everyone was so awed that no one dared to cut into it. only after i butchered it with a steak knife did people dig in :)

recipe & more photos after the jump!

the best macarons in boston...

... are these, from sofra bakery. (trust me, i would know.) however, they are available only on special occasions -- this box was procured around mother's day.

a little birdie tells me that sofra has macarons right now. go.

cranberry & pear clafoutis

some of the best perks of being at home are the immensely well-stocked kitchen, three ovens to handle my culinary adventures, and having someone to help clean the mess that inevitably ensues (my lovely mother).

of course, i had to take advantage of this by making a special weekday dessert: cranberry and pear clafoutis.

clafoutis, besides being extremely fun to say, is a french country dessert with the texture of a flan-meets-cake. it looks quite rustic, tastes very comforting, and still exudes elegance. it's traditionally made with unpitted black cherries, sprinkled with powdered sugar, and served warm, but i improvised with what we had in the house: a single bruised pear standing on its last leg and a bag of cranberries.

p.s. click on the photos to see them larger!

the result completely exceeded expectations. warm custard studded with red berries and chunks of pear... then paired with vanilla ice cream and a dollop of crème fraiche. so decadent.



i was afraid of making the dish too sour with the cranberries, but the tartness ended up being such a nice contrast to the smooth sweet custard, and i wish i added more. also, my baking dish wasn't wide enough, and the batter ended up drowning the fruit, meaning the clafoutis lost its signature look of a golden moon studded with vibrant fruit.

but even so, this was imperfectly perfect.

Cranberry & Pear Clafoutis
Adapted from Ina Garten

• 1 tablespoon unsalted butter (I used Earth Balance)
• 1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
• 3 large eggs
• 6 tablespoons all-purpose flour
• 1 1/2 cups heavy cream
• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• 1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 2 tablespoons bourbon (Use pear brandy if you have it)
• 1 ripe Bosc pear (I would recommend using two)

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Butter a 10 by 3 by 1 1⁄2-inch round baking dish and sprinkle the bottom and sides with 1 tablespoon of the sugar.

Beat the eggs and the 1⁄3 cup of granulated sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer until light and fluffy. On low speed, fold in the flour, cream, vanilla extract, lemon zest, salt, and bourbon. 

Peel, quarter, core, and slice the pears. Arrange the slices in a single layer, slightly fanned out, in the baking dish. Sprinkle cranberries into the gaps. Pour the batter over the pears and bake until the top is golden brown and the custard is firm, about 40 minutes. Serve warm, with crème fraiche and vanilla ice cream.

how to look like you know what you're doing:
wear a gingham apron and wield a stick of butter earth balance

honey. luscious.

diminished rather rapidly, especially with a sweet-toothed little brother around :P

une fête de noël chinoise

being back at home means lots of "asian occasions" -- what my friends and i dub these gatherings of family friends to eat, drink, and gab :)

i will never, ever get tired of this season. or mulled wine.

happy christmas!

love,
li

did you know?

"Long before fast food chains invaded the city, New York’s favorite place to grab a quick lunch and a cup of Joe was the Automat.  

"If you were a working stiff in New York any time during the mid-twentieth century, there’s a good chance that your daily lunch breaks were spent at one of the fifty Automat restaurants around the city. At the height of their popularity, they served around 350,000 customers a day. With their vast walls of chrome-and-glass food-dispensing machines offering everything from Salisbury steak to cream spinach to apple pie, the Automats were famous for simple, hearty fare at a low price."

-- Automatic for the People: Remembering the Automat Restaurant

I'm in awe. Sounds a lot more fun than Seamless!

(h/t @alishalisha)

say hello to my newest love

this is saundra.

i met her at a christmas party (more on that later).

she's 7 years old, and so darn cute it's unfair.

but this is eased by the fact that she told me she loves me.

the best part? her mother said i could have her. lol!

chez l'ami jean, from my diary

paris, march 2011

it is close to 8pm, the time of our dinner reservation, as we plod down cobblestone streets. 

from la motte picquet grenelle we had transferred to ecole militaire, harsh lights of the underground clipped by cool night as we climbed to street level. ink sky brightens in moving patches, spotlighted by the cylindrical glow radiating from the eiffel tower.  

with our tattered map in hand, we stumble through the streets of the 7th arrondissement, passing doorways and signs, squinting at the foreign letters that darkness renders even more incomprehensible. along the street, potted windows glow with the warmth and ruddiness of wine-blushed diners inside, until we reach—aha!—l'Ami Jean. 

source

on the sidewalk outside a forlorn-looking young man is peering at the menu posted beside the door. just as we are about to duck inside he turns to us with a faint air of confusion and desperation. "hey, do you know if this place is any good?" 

his americanness is palpable even before the first word. i smile. "it's actually our first time here, too." 

he introduces himself as michael, an architecture student from boston ("no way!") who is studying abroad in florence for the semester and freshly (as of about an hour ago) and cluelessly arrived in paris for a week-long trip.

"this place is supposed to be really good," we tell him—no better place for a first meal.

"do you want to have dinner with us?" we offer, without really expecting him to say yes. but a moment later we are inside apologizing to an irked maître d' who is making a huff about providing an extra seat. 

"what's this yellow stuff?" [pops a wedge into mouth] "hm.... butter."

the three of us cram into a corner table meant for two, and a bounty of charcuterie arrives, the cutting board so large it nearly overthrows our wine glasses.  

leaves of marbled ham, thick slices of white baguette, niblets of pure pig fat, velvety goose liver terrine, and tiny cornichons that have to be fished out of their brine with little tongs. it is probably more food than those of the peasant class saw in a lifetime under louis xvi.

michael rifles through his backpack and pulls out an enormous dslr and begins to snap photos. i marvel, feeling quite intimidated clutching my pink p&s. [clearly, this was before i got my own dslr.]   

 

between gusty mouthfuls of charcuterie (do art students not eat unless someone feeds them?), michael explains that he had escaped to paris following a gut-wrenching breakup. 

"what happened?" i ask.  

"she got back together with her ex."

"fuck. forget her." 

"but she smelled so nice..." he sighs. i giggle as he waxes poetic. he is a charming caricature of un artiste emotif. he was definitely in the right city for wallowing in forsaken love.

my underage self is tipsy with the first glass, woozy with the second, and drunk with the third.  

  

 i am basically full by this time but, unbelievably, there is more food. 

the server brings out a tray of braised beef cheeks so tender it melts at the prod of our silverware, the glistening canvas of china prettied by daubs of coloured vegetables

soon we discover that the table adjacent to ours is also occupied by folks from les états unis—a trio of girls: mother, daughter, grandmother. we laughingly wonder if the restaurant segregated us on purpose, then shift our tables closer together. it rapidly becomes a party of introductions, shared dishes, "how do you know each other?"s, and more wine.

our waiter—ostensibly tipsy now as well—insists we order the rice pudding. "the best in paris!" he boasts. i'm dubious—how good could rice pudding be?, recalling the watery substance my mother always made with leftover sticky rice.  

but we acquiesce.

it appears in a huge white bowl, an oozy divine mountain of rice globules streaked with honey. it is so thick that the wooden spoon stands up straight. 

he spoons a cloud onto my plate, garnishes it with spiced granola and crumbled meringue, and finishes it with a drizzle of caramel au beurre sale.

a spoonful to the lips, a dream on the tongue. jesus. 

my eyes close involuntarily as i drown in the silky sweet crunchy perfect melange of flavours, textures, and colours. christ. 

 

three glasses of sauternes to finish. i drink it in one breath because... why not? 

a while later we bid our adieus and fetch our coats. on the street outside my head spins from the wine, tongue yet tasting lingering sweet. le garçon obligingly lights a cigarette for me. a draw sears my throat, restores my balance. i stick out an arm and a cab instantly appears. we hastily exchange contact information and promise to invite him for dinner tomorrow... 

from the window of the taxi i watch him saunter down the street, shabby backpack slung over his shoulder and cigarette perched between his lips. walking slowly, without any end or aim but to mend a broken heart.

—

we never did hear from michael again. i hope he was okay in paris by himself.

sometimes when i'm walking through the back bay and i catch a whiff of cigarette smoke i turn around, half expecting to see him.

—

p.s. names have been changed to protect the innocent :P
p.p.s. smoking is bad for you. [ETA: i don't smoke!]
p.p.p.s. you should check out the ulterior epicure's photos on flickr from his meal at l'Ami Jean! they are infinitely better than mine.

—

Chez l'Ami Jean
27 Rue Malar
75007 Paris, France
01 47 05 86 89

eastern standard

i adore eastern standard inside the commonwealth hotel. the food's not revelatory by any means, but it's comforting and always reliably good. the atmosphere is vaguely french and elegant, but still relaxed and cozy -- i don't really feel like i'm at a restaurant; instead, i'm just sitting down in a well-appointed room, and there just happens to be people serving me food (how nice!). there's also a cool photo gallery on the second floor. and last but not least, the drinks here are definitely some of the best in boston.

all in all, it's just a wonderful place to come to eat and talk and drink and repeat ... on and on for three hours, and never feel rushed. :)

"corio coupe"--reyka vodka, apricot puree and orange oil

offal du jour: crispy chicken liver!

camembert & tomato flatbread

egg cream; drowning my reading period woes

christmas decorations in the commonwealth hotel!