Coffee percolates on the stove top. I inhale the caffeine cloud. I breathe in the chocolate aromas that sharpen my senses, the nutty scents that liven my synapses, those citric notes that jar my nerve endings. I am a tea drinker.
Saharan sand has dusted the trees with a cocoa coating, a finger-swipe layer of earth, turning green leaves brown. Nature’s attack sparks my feeding needs. Chocolate earth. Chocolate mud. Chocolate flurries. Chocolate powder. You will see.
I have two whisks, four bowls, some spatulas, sieves and spoons, and various ingredients placed behind. Tools to the engineer. An assembly line as organised as I am chaotic. No pans, no oven. I am not cooking, although I have seen it done in part over a hot pan. Save energy people, this is a strong-arm event.
Bowl one.
I pour the bubbling contents of my Bialetti nonchalantly into a bowl to cool, too cool, as if caring was unimportant. It isn’t. I do. The clear Pyrex its bottom scratched from use tints tan. The unbunging plop sound of a cork and glug as the coffee liquor is released into the muddy liquid. Sweetening it. Fortifying it. I do like coffee. At the right time and in its place.
Alcoholic steam thrills the nostrils and relaxes the atmosphere. This is real coffee. Real coffee liquor. As a child Camp Coffee, a British brand of flavouring with a colonial Raj styled label, ruled coffee cakes. I did not enjoy coffee flavoured food until I was an adult when real coffee beans were used in cooking. No Camp Coffee here. Nothing camp in my deserts.
Bowl two.
I take the coolest, freshest of eggs. Another shade of brown. A crumpled gash, a Halloween pumpkin´s smile, in its brittle shell from my light tap. A jug beneath my hands, I ease the shell in two. Pouring out as much white as I can. The yellow sac must not break on the calcific crust as I slowly juggle the yolk into each half. Left. Right. Left. Right. Until the once captive yolk is completely freed from the viscous fluid. It drops into the bowl, a Cornish ware white and sky-blue bowl, striped on the outside, brilliant white on the inside. I repeat this three more times.
The yolks sit centred together like the holes of a button. I lift a storage jar high as sugar tumbles out over them. A waterfall of sweetness. A whisk, smaller than the twelve looped monster next to it, is ready for its arduous task of turning sugar and egg into a sticky, pale paste, my arm at the end of it. The friction created by the sugar crystals should “cook” the yolks. I start the circular motion.
I cradle the bowl as I whisk the mix, holding it tight. Tighter. My arm tiring from the beating process. I place the bowl on top of a tea towel on the surface, to ease the ache. I swap hands. The effect is clumsier and slower, but I get respite. I place the bowl back against my ribs and use the slightly rested arm again. My muscles tiring from the beating process. I put the bowl down. Lift it up. Swap hands. Stop. Pause. Mop my brow. The fire running up from fingers to shoulder must be cooking the egg mix, right? It is nearly there. Up. Down. Sideways. I howl. I scream. It should not feel like this, I go to the gym. Liquid is pouring from me. I stop. I use the age-old method of writing my name in the sticky mix with the tip of the whisk. I count to five. It stays until seven. I am done.
I try to open a tub of mascarpone cheese. I can flick off the plastic top but struggle with the neat lipped tab that pulls off the foil underneath; the arm, still jelly. The contents drop in one lump onto the paste. Tentatively stirring again. Slowly. Carefully. Barely a bicep protest. The egg mix quickly melds with the creamy cheese. The white, silky sheen disappearing as egg and cheese become a rich custard. The slightest of shimmies with the whisk to get rid of stubborn white clumps. I move on.
Bowl three.
I pause to make myself a cup of tea. It is late afternoon. I have rituals. I stare into space as the orange perfumed black tea infusion takes me out of the kitchen to another place. Bergamot is Italian, so is this desert.
Pouring cream, coating the sides of the bowl as it rides up one side, then the other before settling down at the bottom of the bowl, breaks me out of my day dreaming. I put the carton down, tap it, wait, then tilt out the last droplets. So rich the glossy cream it is reluctant to let go. The bowl, another heirloom, Cole and Mason, buff and ivory. Cracked glaze hinting at its age.
Another task, another whisk. I hit the loops on the surface and hold the handle down piano tuner style to hear the jarring notes that come out. Every time. Another ritual.
A tablespoon of powdered sugar is sifted, shaken. The particles perceptibly sit on the cream´s surface waiting to be incorporated. Whipped cream without a hint of sugar can taste cheesy, sour, distracting from the overall pleasure of whatever dish it belongs to. Admittedly, this is already a sweet desert. But. I. Do. Not. Take. Risks.
I begin the whisking (the arm giving me a warning twinge). The liquid sloops around, slowly starting to thicken. Slowly forming a lightly skinned ripple. The whisk, my twelve-loop super whisk, quickly changing that ripple to a soft standing cream. Delicate peaks that barely turn on themselves. I stop before it seizes completely. Before it becomes a soft crumbly mass.
Bowl four.
This the final flourish, those egg whites have been waiting patiently. Warming to their optimum potential. It is their turn. I pour them into a copper bowl, its brilliant burnt orange patina ironically cleaned with an egg white and salt mixture. No cleaning here with these whites. I start with the smaller whisk, cleaned, working to form the froth, a frog spawny, big bubbled, half-set froth. I add a heaped spoonful of sugar. More sugar. This is a desert; you cannot avoid the epic sweetness. The sugar will turn frothy eggs to a white, silken, uncooked, desirable soft peaked joy. As with the yolks, it will “cook” the egg.
At cookery school, we had a class on sugar. Meringues. I was asked if I liked the crisp, gooey centred treats. I said I did not have a sweet tooth. I was caught, child-like, my mouth, chin and cheeks covered in the raw concoction. I lied. I lied because I don´t like sugary things. Because, for me, sugary things are addictive. One nibble becomes a thousand more. Meringues. Chocolate. Candy coated confections. I. Cannot. Stop.
With a large metal spoon, the whipped white mousse is folded into the cream. Figures of eight like an ice skater in practice, until hen merges with heifer. An enriched, luxuriant filling.
The dish.
I have removed a clear, cut glass, square dish from the dresser. An Edwardian treasure rarely seen. It´s angles and bias cuts will give a kaleidoscopic sparkle to this sweet, moreish desert. Teasing the eyes into seeing beyond what is, in effect, beige food. The original desert in Le Bicchiere, Treviso, in 1969, was round. I hold dearly to tradition. But not that dearly.
The rustling plastic wrapping of Savoiardi biscuits being removed shatters a reverential moment to the inventors of this dish. Brittle and crumbly they snap easily. I bring the dish towards the coffee, now cold. I take a ladyfinger and dip it in the liquid, flip it over and push it down again. The need for speediness is vital. The biscuit can turn from a cockily bobbing crust to mush in seconds. One bob a second each side is enough. I place this biscuit in the corner of the dish and make a brown liquor baptism of the next one. And the next. And the next. The temptation not to lick my fingers becoming more and more difficult. I work from the outside in so that broken biscuits can fill any ill-fitting spaces in the middle and remain unseen. The base layer is done.
The mascarpone custard pours from the Cornish ware bowl over the soaked ladyfingers. The alcoholic coffee aroma slightly smothered by the creamy smell. Using a silicone spatula, I even it out, the tool´s colour, a narcissus yellow overwhelming the yolks´ own shade.
The just whipped meringue cream is dolloped on with the large metal spoon, then spread, carefully, delicately. The layers need to remain separate. They need to be identifiable when served.
Layer one is done. I pause. The dish is turned around, so the biscuits can sit in a crisscrossed direction to the first layer. I repeat the process. Dunking. Laying. Evening. Spreading.
Pick me up.
A spatula glides along the top of the desert. Forcing flatness. No ripples. No waves. No lumps, bumps, dips or pits. No.
On a saucer I fill a confectioner´s sieve with chocolate powder, carefully lifting it over the desert. Although my hands shake enough with the pressure to evenly coat the surface, the lightest of taps from the knife in my other hand releases a cocoa flurry as it turns white to brown.
Some chefs grate chocolate bars, the tiniest of shaved curls. Some chefs add espresso powder to the cocoa dusting, emphasising the coffee flavours. I think there is enough for the palate to play with in mine.
I transfer the dish to the fridge to settle. To meld. To let flavours merge. In a couple of hours, three hours, maybe four, it will become the highlight of my meal. A course, as rich as it is filling. Served on a saucer sized plate. Only a neat, small portion is necessary... A Tiramisu.
Excellent read! I could eat the lot ???xx
Or am I just being greedy lol ???xx