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Archive for October, 2010

Halloween “Shocktails” at Black Door

Posted in Fun Activity, Imbibing, tagged , on October 28, 2010 | Leave a Comment »

Black Door is a dark, no-frills Chelsea bar; a low-key hangout that few could find something to complain about. This bar is as unpretentious as they come, but with a classy crowd; the atmosphere is quiet enough for one to have a solid conversation, but the last way to describe this place would be stuffy or boring. And most importantly, down- and up-towners alike turn out at Black Door for one key reason – the drinks are flat-out delicious.

Black Door is a cocktail maven’s sort of bar; there are no beers on tap (though there are upwards of twenty available by the bottle, as well as a baker’s dozen varieties of wine), and so it was fitting that this was the bar I journeyed to last night for a quick lesson in cocktail making, just in time for one of the biggest drinking holidays in American culture, Halloween.

The Halloween Cocktails Class was being thrown by TastingTable.com, who provides a daily email newsletter rounding up the best of two epicurean realms – the NYC restaurant news circuit, and recipes provided by NYC’s celebri-chefs - making it the perfect newsletter for any Manhattanite foodie. The event itself was sponsored by Ketel One Oranje Vodka (oranje… for Halloween… hmm, wonder if that was on purpose…) And the best part was, this class was totally free to all attendees, who were chosen winners of an internet sweepstakes promotion run on a TastingTable newsletter a few weeks back.

As someone who is rather skeptical of most cooking and/or cocktail classes, usually assuming you won’t get quite as much as you paid for, my expectations for this free event were somewhat (realistically) low. But much to my delight, they were quickly blown out of the water by the very well done event that TastingTable had put together. Upon arriving at Black Door, my guest and I were escorted through the dimly lit main room to a much more elegant, brightly lit back room, where the doorway was flanked by hostesses with guest lists and many well-clad New Yorkers had already begun to mingle. One side of the room was lined by a fine wooden bar, backdropped by a large carved mirror upon which cocktails and prices were scrawled in white marker.

With the event welcoming guests at 6:30, and officially starting at 7, neither myself nor my friend had had time for dinner, and we were extremely psyched to find not just finger foods, but a veritable smorgasbord of charcuterie (an autumn staple) as a preface to the main event. There were thick hunks of soft country bread, a heaping platter of mortadella, prosciutto, salami, and Genoa, piles upon piles of various cheeses, including a triple cream brie, crumbly sharp cheddar, and tart pecorino. There were also crackers and bread sticks and teeny tiny pickles. All in all, I was impressed. All this, for free? In Manhattan, no less? As a well-dressed cocktail waitress handed me an orange Ketel One concoction, I thought to myself, I must be dreaming…

But the dream was only to get better! At 7pm sharp, our attention was drawn from the cocktails, cuisine, and conversation by the soft clinking of a knife against a glass, and we turned to find a man in a suit standing atop a chair, smiling down at the crowd. He welcomed us, expressing his excitement for the evening ahead, and providing TastingTable’s shameless plug. But really, he wasted no time in getting to the main event, introducing us to who was essentially to be our EmCee, teacher, and entertainment for the evening: Toby Maloney.

For those of you who don’t know who Toby Maloney is (which I certainly did not before last night), apparently this guy is a bit of a bartending legend in NYC. Once the beverage director at the Rusty Knot, Maloney has also whipped up cocktails at famous New York watering holes such as Milk & Honey, Pegu Club (and who doesn’t love their Champagne Opportunities!) and now, Black Door. He also opened the famed bar, The Violet Hour, in Chicago a few years back, seriously upping the ante on Chi-town’s haute-cocktail culture. He is mixoligist meets Alton Brown meets Neal Cafferty meets your neighborhood Irish pub bartender, and as he spun bottles and dazzled the crowd last night, I got the feeling it wouldn’t be long before he had his own Food Network show. For more on the magic of Maloney, click here. But now, onto the tremendous lessons and recipes in cocktail making that he imparted onto us!

The first lesson that Maloney enforced on cocktail making was to always taste as you go. Seems simple, and pretty obvious, right? This is something that I do all the time with cooking – how else can you know if you’re on the right track before you create your finished product? – but a rule I rarely put into place when mixing drinks. As such, Toby took the opportunity to taste all the various liquors he was working with as he went, throwing back half-shots of Oranje Vodka, peach and ginger liqueurs, and smiling as he said, “Yup – that’s how that tastes!”

The second lesson he taught us, which goes hand in hand with the “taste as you go” mantra, is that ice is water. Again, simple. Why didn’t I think of that? Okay, everyone knows that ice is water, but what most of us don’t consider is that when you make a drink, the way it tastes before you pour it over ice is not the way it’s going to taste in ten minutes. The ice will melt, and the drink will evolve, and unless it’s a shot, chances are good that you’ll be enjoying that cocktail for a while. So in tasting your recipe, ebb on the side of stronger and more flavorful, even if it seems a bit too much in the moment. In about five minutes,  your drink will have achieved a perfect balance.

Maloney also taught us some good stuff about batching drinks, using various types of sodas or sparkling beverages to provide effervescence and complexity to our cocktails, not to mention indulged us with a little bartender showmanship. But the best part of this lesson was that after each demonstration, we were instructed to break into small groups, head to our own personal cocktail making station, and get to work putting our newfound knowledge into action. And of course, we got to “sample” (read: drink full glasses, topped off more than once, of) the finish products. All of these cocktails were made with Ketel One Oranje Vodka, which was really quite delicious and would be great on the rocks or with a splash of soda, but if you prefer another brand you could certainly sub in any orange-flavored vodka.

That being said, here’s what we learned to make, listed in order from good, to great, to un-freaking-real. Keep in mind that all these recipes are for “batches” of drinks, so if you want to make one for just yourself (I don’t recommend this, mostly because whoever you serve these to will love you forever if you make these for them), just divide all the proportions by the number of people the batch will serve, and you’ve got just enough for one.

Ketel One Fizz – Serves 8 imbibers

  • 1 1/2 cups of Ketel One Oranje
  • 1/2 cup of fresh lime juice (this must must must be fresh. Toby will come kick your ass if it’s not)
  • 1/4 cup of simple syrup (1 part sugar + 1 part water = 3 parts delicious. Mixologist synergy, if you will)
  • Club soda (we used one can for the whole pitcher, and that was plenty)
  • Lime and orange wheels, for garnish.

Fill a pitcher with ice. Add the lime juice and simple syrup (Taste!) and then add the Ketel One. Stir well, taste some more. Pour into ice-topped collins glasses and top with club soda. Garnish each glass with one lime and one orange wheel, and serve. Or drink yourself. Either way.

Reformation Day – Makes 10 drinks

  • 1 1/4 cups Ketel One Oranje
  • 1/2 cups Stirrings Peach Liqueur
  • 2 cups of orange juice (freshly squeezed is preferred, no-pulp is a must)
  • Lemon-lime soda (a can of 7-Up will do)
  • Lime wedges for garnish

Fill a pitcher with ice, then add the Ketel One Oranje, peach liqueur, and orange juice. Stir well, taste test, adjust ingredients as needed. This should taste strong in the pitcher, as the soda will dilute this significantly. Pour into ice topped low-ball glasses and top each with soda. Garnish with lime wedges and proceed to get very happy.

The Bite – Makes 12-14 drinks

This drink is a bit drier than the others, making it the ideal follow-up to the first two cocktails, which were on the sweeter side. It’s got a great complexity of flavor from the combination of ginger and Angostura bitters, and is definitely the way to go if you’re looking to wow your Halloween guests with your new-found mixology skills and sophisticated palate.

  • 2 cups of Ketel One Oranje (yep, 2 cups. Get in there!)
  • 1 1/2 cups of Stirrings Ginger Liqueur
  • 2 tablespoons (1 ounce) of Angostura Bitters
  • Ginger ale
  • Lime wedges, for garnish

You know the drill – fill a pitcher with ice, add the Ketel One Oranje, Stirrings Ginger Liqueur, and bitters. I’ll say this – our team went a little heavy on both the vodka and the bitters, and in the pitcher, one taste of this made all our eyebrows go up. But, since it was our third drink, we decided to go with it, and once we poured the pitcher’s contents over ice and topped it off with ginger ale, this drink was unbelievable. The sweetness of the soda balanced the bitterness of the alcohol, and all that was left was a light, somewhat savory ginger flavor that none of us could get enough of.

Garnish with a lime wedge, and enjoy the fact that getting older means you can replace Halloween candy with treats like this one :) Hope everyone has a very Happy Halloween!!

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Banana & Candied Pecan Maple “Pan-Crepes”

Posted in Recipes, tagged , , , on October 25, 2010 | Leave a Comment »

There’s a reason you always hear people saying that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Whether it be your parents who have recited these words to you nearly every morning since childhood, engraining in your mind to eat your cereal or scrambled eggs before school, or some cheery-faced TV star smiling at you from a Kelloggs Corn Flakes commercial, it’s undeniable. Breakfast is perhaps the most innately human of all meals, kickstarting our bodies and brains and easing us into our action-packed days in a culturally comforting way. One NYU Food Studies professor has even found that when immigrants arrive in America, breakfast is the first meal in which they assimilate to our culture – immigrants from Bangali abandon their traditional Indian breakfasts in exchange for Corn Pops and orange juice, subconsciously revealing that breakfast readies us for the outside world in more ways than just provide energy – eating an American style breakfast actually served to socialize these immigrants to our particular culture. So, it rather goes without saying that if any meal holds the utmost significance, it is this one.

And if any city’s residents hold this to be true, it’s New Yorkers. In fact, most Manhattanites choose to spend their day of rest worshipping at the alter of Sunday Brunch, rather than some more traditional houses of worship. Sunday provides an opportunity for indulgence, and whether you brunch at a five-star restaurant, on the sidewalk aside a quaint cafe, or in the comfortable confines of your own breakfast nook, one thing is for certain – Sunday is one day to set the whole oats and skim milk aside, and give in to your sweetest, most satisfying food fantasies.

In keeping with this week’s theme of improvisation, the following post recounts a journey into how a Sunday morning of proposed pancakes evolved into a quite serious crepe situation, which was possibly the best surprise of all. As with the Acorn Dumpling improv, epic quantities of butter were involved, and glorious results were achieved. It is perhaps symbolic, if not ironic, that when double-zero-flour is used, I can be certain that some cooking curve balls will be headed my way.

“Pan-Crepes” with Banana Maple Filling

For bliss, you’ll need:

  • 2 cups whole milk
  • 3 eggs
  • 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
  • 2 1/2 cups of finely milled “double-zero” flour (note – this can also be made with all purpose flour, but I would use about half the quantity and then add more until the desired consistency is achieved. It should be much thinner than pancake batter).
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
  • 1 teaspoon baking soda
  • 1 pinch salt
  • 4 tablespoons sugar
  • 1/2 stick unsalted butter, melted
  • 3 bananas, peeled and sliced in 1/4-inch circles

To start, combine all the wet ingredients in a large mixing bowl, whisking the milk, eggs, and vanilla together so they are well combined.

In a separate bowl mix the flour, baking powder, soda, salt, and sugar. Combine the wet ingredients with the dry and stir with a spoon to get rid of the lumps. Then stir in most of the melted butter and whisk until batter is smooth.

Heat a large, flat round skillet over medium low heat and swirl around a little melted butter to keep the crepes from sticking. Using a ladle pour the batter into the pan, cover the entire bottom of the pan with a thin layer of batter – just enough to coat the entire surface, like so:

As depicted above, the batter will start to puff up and bubble – once it looks nearly cooked through, this is the time to flip, just to get a nice golden crust on the other side. While I’m sure experienced crepe-makers have the skills to do this with a flick of the wrist, my fellow chef and myself found that sliding the crepe onto a round plate and then inverting it back onto the pan works well to get an easy flip.

When the crepe is done, it will look like this:

Slide the crepe gently onto a plate, and top with your sliced bananas and maple syrup (please pleaasssee use the real stuff, no Mrs. Butterworth here. This really makes a difference).

Now, for the good stuff…

Candied Pecan Topping

Candying pecans (or any type of nuts, for that matter) is a culinary technique that will instantly make your meal look, feel, and taste more gourmet, but is actually incredibly simple to do. Want to wow some dinner guests, but don’t want to break the bank? Serve some rich vanilla ice cream and then whip up a candied pecan topping on the stove a few minutes before your serve dessert – your guests will undoubtedly be impressed as you whisk a steaming saucepan of sugary goodness off the stove and drizzle the delicious topping over each sundae.

These nuts make just about anything taste good, but atop the maple-banana crepes, they were sort of addicting. It was a real blessing that we only whipped up about a half cup of these, or full-fledged diabetic shock would have most likely ensued. Just keep that in mind when making these – a little bit goes a long way ;) Also, it pays to have some help in the kitchen so one cook can make the crepes while the other makes the pecans – that way, when they get drizzled over your breakfast, they’re still steaming hot.

First, add about half a cup of pecans to a small sauce pan. Then, top with equal parts water and granulated sugar – about two tablespoons of each should do.

Stir the pot to dissolve the sugar and then bring to a simmer over medium heat, and simmer for about five to seven minutes, or until the sugar starts to carmelize and form a syrup that coats the pecans, turning them golden brown.

Once the pecans are done, they should look slightly dry and sugary – like candy!

Once these are done, wrap up your crepe blintz-style, top it with these pralines and some more maple syrup (if you dare!) and proceed to lapse into a sugar coma. And really, what better way is there to spend a Sunday, anyhow?

What’s your favorite Sunday Brunch?

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“Corinne-Acorn Dumplings”

Posted in Fun Activity, Recipes, tagged , , , on October 21, 2010 | 2 Comments »

Things don’t always work out in the kitchen. Sometimes, even the best laid plans go awry, and all the preparation in the world can’t save you from the inevitable doom that comes with this thought: you’ve invited guests over for dinner, but dinner might just not get served.

Such was the scenario that faced me last night. With three hungry dinner guests at my back, I struggled with the absolute reality that the meal that I had planned for – the one I had spent hours preparing in advance, fantasized about serving, knew would be the best thing I made this season – was literally turning into kindergarten paste in front of me, and there was very little I could do about it. And hungry friends were waiting.

Let me back track.

About a week ago, I bought a squash. Remember me?

After letting the under-ripe squash hang out on the counter for a few days, I decide it was prime time to roast this baby, and I sliced it in half and tossed it in the oven. If you’ve forgotten how easy and magical it is to roast a squash, you can get a quick refresher here.

After finalizing plans for a small, casual dinner party at Cara and my apartment for last night, I began scheming. What to make with another roasted acorn squash? I could make my soup, but that took all the fun out of experimenting with a new recipe. Not to mention, I had two one-pound bags of double-zero flour collecting dust on top of my refrigerator, a relic of my father’s post-Italy baked goods obsession. But what to make with flour and squash… Squash bread? Not quite fit for a main course. Squash pizza? Despite the beauty of Keste’s pizza with butternut squash cream, it just felt a bit outlandish. Then, it came to me.

Handmade Acorn Squash Ravioli. An autumn dish that was simple enough to make – I already had the electric pasta maker, after all – that would work well as a main course and showcase both ingredients. I was sold, and immediately set to work researching various recipes for the perfect pasta dough, squash-based ravioli fillings, and a light sauce that would compliment but not overpower the dish.

With so much preparation, how could so much go wrong? Well, that’s lesson number one of the kitchen: be ready for anything, because just a few seconds could turn your whole plan upside down.

But that was the last thing on my mind two nights ago when I set out to prepare the ravioli in advance. I already had the acorn squash roasted, so I quickly pureed it and added it to some butter and garlic that I had sauteing over medium heat.

The squash sauteed until it was thick and dry, and then the remaining filling ingredients were added; soft, creamy ricotta cheese, sharp parmesan reggiano, a few drops of balsamic vinegar, and some grinds of fresh cracked black pepper and sea salt. I whipped and stirred the filling over the low flame until it became thick and creamy, letting most of the liquid cook off but leaving the mixture still somewhat moist.

While the filling cooled on the stove, I assembled the pasta maker, measured out my double-zero extra fine flour, and dumped it into the vast cavity of the machine. In went two whole eggs and a drizzle of olive oil, and I snapped the cover into place. With one hand, I reached around the machine to flip the mixing switch into the “On” position, and eagerly peered down to watch my dough begin to come together. Only one problem – nothing happened!

I figured the outlet must be blown, and I tried four more outlets before realizing the problem must be with the machine. After adjusting the switch several times, the pasta maker remained completely immobile, utterly lifeless. In my exasperation, I began to unscrew the front of the cavity that held the flour and eggs so I could remove its contents to mix by hand.

And with that, the yolks of the eggs broke and spilled onto the counter as a puff of flour flew up into my face. Sticky yolk dripped angrily over the grating of the pasta maker and onto my countertop.

Now, it was on. Me versus pasta machine. I tilted the entire device onto its side and dumped the contents onto the counter, placed the machine, which was still dripping with egg, into the corner of my kitchen, and began kneading the dough furiously. Soon enough, a fairly ragged but resiliant ball of pasta dough had come together, which I quickly threw some plastic wrap around and stowed on the counter while I proceeded to scrub down my mess and reboot.

Like I said, kitchen improvisation should be relished.

Not so long later, I had rolled out my dough, cut it into 30 equal rounds using a measuring scoop as a stencil, and begun to fill each circle with the acorn squash – ricotta mixture. Everything began running seamlessly, and it went a little something like this:

Step 1: Roll out your dough until it is super thin and slightly transparent – we’re talking an eighth of an inch here.

Step 2: For square ravioli, cut long thin strips of dough about two inches wide, which will be layered around the filling and cut into squares. For half-moon (or round) shaped ravioli, cut circles using a glass or measuring cup as a stencil.

Step 3: Pause to admire your handiwork. This is a crucial part of the process, for the record.

Step 4: Add some squash filling to the center of the ravioli dough and using your finger, gently wet the rim of the dough with some water so the dough becomes slightly sticky.

Step 5: Fold the dough over the filling, press the edges down to bind them, and use a fork to seal the deal.

Step 6: I would imagine this step includes sprinkling the surface that you lay the ravioli on, and the tops of the ravioli themselves with some semolina flour. This prevents sticking. I did not do this. Read on….

With 30 perfect ravioli lined up neatly on wax paper, I wrapped my works of art in some more plastic wrap and placed them in the fridge for safe keeping until they would be served up tomorrow.

The following evening, things started off well…

There are few things in life that I believe cannot be fixed with butter (high cholesterol and weight issues, withstanding), and while I didn’t realize this little pot of heaven could be my saving grace at the time, melting up a stick over a nice, low flame is never a bad thing. Especially when you have this to pair it with:

Can you think of anything that goes better with butter than sage? I can’t. In fact, I’d even go so far as to say that if butter were a plant, it would BE sage. This herb has such a rich, smooth flavor and velvety texture that is the perfect mate for the creaminess of butter, adding earthy low notes that elevate just about any dish sauced with this to the next level.

That’s right. Browned Butter Sage Sauce.

Making this is really as simple as melting a stick of butter over low heat, adding the torn up sage leaves, and then continuing to cook the butter at an extremely slow rolling simmer (and I mean barely simmering – I yanked this off the heat several times) until the butter begins to become a dark, rich caramel color. I was worried I wouldn’t know when it was done, but once it’s finished, trust me – you’ll know.

With the sauce ready, the water boiling, and my friends’ stomachs growling, it was go-time. I pulled the acorn-squash ravioli from the fridge and removed the plastic wrap with a flourish while my fellow-foodie-friend, Corinne, watched eagerly. But something was wrong…. The ravioli looked, well, wet.

I reached out to pick one up and place it as a tester in the boiling water, and my fingers sank right through the dough into the gooey filling beneath. Frantic, I began to struggle to scrape the soggy ravioli off the wax paper and quickly get them cooking, but it was fruitless. The ravioli were melting faster than polar ice caps in an Al Gore documentary, and there was nothing I could do to salvage them.

I glanced sheepishly at Corinne, and was about to say something about the great Thai place around the corner, when she said, “Well, what if we do this…”

And with that, she set to work, sprinkling the messy dough balls with flour and rolling them up into what could only be referred to as “dumplings.” She asked for brown sugar, and showed me how to sprinkle it out and roll the newly formed dumplings in it, then in flour, and then drop them into the boiling water to quickly puff up and cook. As we stood recovering the messy remnants of our soon-to-be supper, Corinne talked easily about what else could make this dish even better – a drizzle of honey over the dumplings; a soft sprinkle of toasted breadcrumbs and more dark brown sugar right before serving; raisins added right into the filling, next time.

And with this, I learned one of the greatest lessons any amateur home cook can learn – Improvisation.

This might seem obvious, but I’m usually a cook with a plan. I have my ingredients laid out, and a recipe in my mind, if not on paper. I follow the instructions I’ve set for myself, and execute the dish the way I’ve come to understand that it should be made. When things fall apart in the kitchen and I’m the only one eating, I suck it up and make the most of the meal. But when cooking for others, if things go wrong, I claim defeat, and it’s usually the take-out menus I’m reaching for.

In the end, our dinner wound up being absolutely delicious. Our “Corinne-Acorn Dumplings” – a name only two girls fueled by several glasses of Pinot Noir could come up with – were smothered in not only the browned butter sage sauce, but sprinkled with brown sugar, breadcrumbs, and a small douse of honey. Next time, nutmeg and cinnamon will make it even better. As we ate slowly and gratefully, Corinne suggested we do this again next week, so we could take a stab at really perfecting the recipe. It wasn’t getting it right that mattered most, but enjoying the process of experimenting along the way.

In that moment I had thought, this sauce saved the dish. But really, Corinne saved the dish – and that in and of itself is a tribute to how optimism and improvisation are the two best tools any chef can take into the kitchen.

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Torta Di Finale – A Cake-Baking Tale

Posted in Just for fun, Recipes, tagged , , , , on October 14, 2010 | 2 Comments »

The final dish of the Techniques of Italian Cooking class was, not surprisingly, a cake. Rules of modern dining say that nothing seals a meal (or a deal) better than dessert, and no dish epitomizes dessert more than the classic, round, epitome of sweets – the cake. And, because good things come to those who wait, this final cake was a Torta Di Amaretti – a low rising cake that is better eaten the second day, rather than just hours after it comes out of the oven.

But like all good finales, the baking of Anna Teresa Callen’s Amaretto Cake was not without a good dose of drama and some finicky foreigners. I have no idea who Anna Teresa Callen is, but I’d imagine she must have been one hell of a woman to have a cake that could cause such a ruckus named after her.

Were this not the last day of our five-week course at ICE, perhaps the Tale of the Torta would not be quite so dramatic, but because this was to be the last dish of the last class, during the eating of which we would no doubt celebrate our newfound culinary skills and reminisce about the anecdotes of our time in the kitchen, there was a fair amount of pressure. On this last day, our class was surprisingly two members short, down to just nine members from our usual eleven. The quiet, cold Bulgarian couple that often came and went as they pleased had apparently forgone the last hurrah.

As such, my particular team was reduced to two members – just I and a middle-aged, red-haired woman whose behavior, especially when it came to desserts, was somewhat questionable. Let’s just say there had been a lot of suggestive moaning and murmurings when it came to enjoying the week-three-tiramisu, during which I had the “pleasure” of sitting next to her. When I was paired with Ginger to make the Torta, my eyebrows went up. But working in the kitchen requires one to keep a constant open mind, so with a smile, we headed over to our station.

We were in the midst of picking apart sticky amaretti cookies and dumping them into a food processor when in waltzed the Bulgarians, airy and aloof as ever. Chef Loren, our thorough-bred Italian and fully gay chef-instructor, rolled his eyes and

with a flick of his wrist, waved them over to our station. I too conducted a mental eye-roll; the Bulgarians were notorious in our class for botching recipes – and not just the ones they were responsible for.

Let’s take a small break for a side story: In our first week of the course, some veal required for a Pasta Incaciata went missing. After several minutes of most of the classmates and Loren searching high and low for it, the Bulgarian husband finally asked what everyone was doing. We explained that we were missing about a half pound of veal, and suddenly the Bulgarian husband shifted his weight and stared at the ceiling, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. Chef’s gaze immediately went to a bubbling pot of Bolognese sauce at the Bulgarians’ station – a pot that looked way too full, with way more meat than tomato, rather out of proportion. At that moment it was clear – and when Loren questioned the Bulgarian on how much veal the Bolognese sauce called for, he responded defensively at nearly a shout, “What?! It calls for veal, I use veal! I don’t see problem!”

So, it was with a tentative hand that I forked over a container of eggs for the couple to separate, practically flinging a small glass bowl at the wife to prevent her from cracking the eggs directly over the already creamed sugar and butter. I’m fairly certain that a few small fragments of eggshell were tossed into the cream along with the egg yolks, but I decided I’d rather keep her secret than ruin our last supper.

It wasn’t until we gave the wife the task of beating the egg whites that any trouble arose (the husband had been relinquished to the stove to “take care of” another dish, which required exactly ten minutes of aiding several pounds of spinach in wilting). Despite all of the wife’s furious whisking efforts – and in her defense, she was certainly putting her back into it – the egg whites refused to whip up into soft peaks, let alone stiff ones. Loren was once again to the rescue, seizing the bowl from Bulgarian’s hands, adding a dash of Cream of Tartar, and whisking vigorously as the mixture started to condense and fluff. The wife’s face only darkened as she watched Loren’s success, and she eventually skulked away to the pantry in the corner, where she busied herself under the pretense of finding confectioner’s sugar for garnish.

I have to say, I thought it nearly a miracle when the entire cake batter seamlessly came together, was poured into a buttered tin, and set in an oven without a single hiccough. The cake was left to bake for 45 minutes, and we were able to tell it was cooking perfectly from the delightful aroma that oozed from the oven in the last ten minutes of baking. As they say at ICE, “You know the cake is done when it is done.”

So out it came. Ginger and I tag teamed the effort – I held the oven door open while she retrieved the smoking hot tin, now filled to the brim with a moist, golden brown cake – and we retreated back to our station. There, we had a cooling rack ready for  our masterpiece, and we placed the cooling rack on top of the hot pan, turning both over together, so that the cake came easily out onto the rack with as little disruption as possible.

Upon setting the rack and cake down, Ginger, the Bulgarian Wife, and myself studied it. The fact was, it didn’t look all that pretty – but it was upside down, after all, and we were sure that once we turned it right side up and topped it with a snowfall of confectioner’s sugar, it would look as pretty as the picture we imagined it to be. We could be damn sure from that smell that it would taste good, I thought to myself as I headed back to the pantry to get a serving plate that we would eventually flip the cake onto.

Just then, I heard a woman shrieking.

“No! No! Stop, what are you doing?! Stop!” For a moment, I just paused. I big part of me didn’t want to know what “she” was doing, for I had a good idea of who “she” was. But then, I woke up and grabbed the dish off the shelf, spinning on my heel and breaking back into the kitchen. As I headed for our station, I saw Ginger with her hands on her forehead, shaking her head and moaning (not the same way she did for the Tiramisu, I promise you). And there, the Bulgarian wife stood, with a slightly dazed expression on her face. Her fingers were sunk deep into the amaretti cake, which now lay in several jagged pieces on – and below – the cooling rack.

The cake was essentially ruined. Anyone could see that – and everyone did, as Ginger’s shouting had roused the whole class and Chef Loren from their concentration to see what was the matter. Some people were shaking their heads, others were glancing around awkwardly as if to say, “Should we get back to work and pretend that didn’t just happen?” Loren started for our station and then stopped several times, as if he thought better of it. Finally, he threw up his hands, spun on his heel, and retreated into the pantry (for a cigarette, I’d guess).

All I could do is say, “Why? Why did you try to move it?” The Bulgarian, now channeling her husband’s defensiveness, shrugged and said, “I wanted to flip it over like we said, so it would look pretty. I didn’t know it would break.”

I grimaced. “It’s a hot cake. It’s extremely soft, it has to cool before you can move it.” She just stared back with a blank expression.

“Okay,” I said. “It’s okay, we can fix this. It’ll still taste good, it doesn’t matter what it looks like…” and I moved in, starting to gently retrieve the fragments of cake and place them on the plate, piecing them together like a puzzle. The Bulgarian wife dove back in, haphazardly grabbing pieces of cake in what was, undoubtedly, her attempt to right a wrong, but she did more harm than good as her rough movements caused even more crumbling of the cake.

“Stop, just – stop,” I said, suddenly stern. I looked at her. “This is a mess, just let me fix it. I’ve got this.”

In retrospect, perhaps I was a bit harsher than I should have been. Perhaps I should have let her clean up her own mess. But the thought of serving a pile of amaretti crumbs alongside Loren’s homemade limoncello as our last dessert of the class was more than I could stand, and so I intervened. The Bulgarian wife stared daggers at me, and then finally backed off. Later, I spotted her frantically copying recipes from Loren’s master binder into her own notebook at the long family table we would later dine at, speaking to know one and sporting a fierce expression. The cake has been put back together again, and with a dusting of powdered sugar, it almost looked whole. I sighed, and carried it delicately over to the serving table, where it sat, stoic and alone, as the rest of our dishes came together.

The Bulgarians didn’t stay for supper. As soon as the last dish was plated for service, they vanished quietly, quickly, disappearing into the hallway while we were all busy photographing the food, not saying any goodbyes. After they left, we toasted to them and the entertainment they had brought us over the past five weeks – it was the least we could do.

And when we finally arrived to dessert, Loren retrieved an unlabeled bottle of limoncello from a cabinet, launching into a tale of how he had traveled to New Jersey to purchase the grain alcohol so he could brew it himself in his home. The process took months, he explained as he poured us all a small liquor glass full. We sat, sipping it slowly, eating our puzzle pieces of torta di amaretti with our hands, savoring the absolutely complementary flavors of the limoncello and this cake, which was sweet, yet comforting – like a hot cup of spicy tea in the winter. At that moment I knew, that for someone who does not particularly like limoncello, I would never serve this cake without it. And I must say, it was the most delicious dessert I’ve ever had.

Anna Teresa Callen’s Tora Di Amaretti

Amaretto Cake – This lovely, low-rising cake is better the second day

Makes 8 servings

Ingredients:

  • 10 amaretti (Italian Macaroons)
  • 4 ounces of semi-sweet chocolate
  • 1 cup unsalted butter at room temperature
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 6 eggs, separated
  • 1/2 cup of all purpose flour
  • 1 tablespoon of Aurum or orange-flavored liqueur
  • Confectioner’s sugar (for garnish)
  • “Amarettini” or Miniature amaretti (for garnish)
  • Orange marmalade

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a 10 inch cake pan and line the bottom with parchment paper (to prevent sticking, which is what left our cake “less pretty” than we imagined).

In a food processor or blender, combine the amaretti and chocolate and process to pulverize. Set aside.

Cream together the butter and sugar. Add the egg yolks one at a time. Beat for four minutes to incorporate air bubbles. Should be a frosting consistency.

Gradually add the flour and the amaretti mixture, beating after each addition on the lowest possible speed. Add the liqueur and mix.

Beat the egg whites until stiff and fold into the amaretti mixture. Pour into the pan and bake until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out dry, about 45 minutes, maybe less. The cake should be firm, golden brown, and pulling away from the side of the pan. In other words, it should be “done.” Let the cake rest for five minutes in the pan (our crucial mistake) and then let completely cool.

Before serving, sprinkle the torta with confectioner’s sugar. Spread a little orange marmalade on the bottom of the amarettini and place them around the circumference of the torta. Place one amaretti in the middle. Serve with a small glass of Lemoncello, and of course, eat with your hands.

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