I'm Here, but Not Really - Gateau Basque aux Cerises Noires

After graduation, my husband and I did a whirlwind tour of three weddings in two weeks and then flew out to Guéthary, France for six weeks, where his parents are now spending half the year. Needless to say, it's hard to be back, especially in the face of economic crisis and joblessness. Oh well... or, rather, tant pis. I promised my father-in-law that when we meet for Thanksgiving, I would make what we enjoyed eating so much during our six weeks en famille: un gateau basque aux cerises noires. Thanksgiving is, incredibly enough, right around the corner and so I thought I'd better get practicing.

I'm not a good baker. My husband hates my cookies and my passive-aggressive way of handling this is to just not make them anymore. (There, take that, Asshole!) But, my love for this amazingly buttery, almondy, shortbready cake filled with dark, sweet Itxassou cherry preserves prevailed and I was determined to be able to enjoy the comforts of French Basque country in my own home in New York. Before leaving Guéthary, I stocked up on four pots of cherry preserves and brought them over to my tiny, but temporary city apartment.

I did some research on recipes and collected about eight of them. Most recipes were for the creme version, which, to be honest, just doesn't do it for me. I prefer the cherry version and the recipe is easily corrected by ignoring the cream part! According to Mark Kurlansky, in his The Basque History of the World, the cherry version is original, anyway.

Once I was ready (about two months after first starting the study), I dove in. The cake dough was too loose and did not roll out well, leading to a mini disaster with the top layer crumbling into the cherries. I, being stubborn, wasn't about to give up. I picked out the broken crust pieces and re-kneaded with some more flour to hold it together. The finished top was a bit purple, stained by the lust of its cherry affair, but I threw it in the oven anyway. When it came out, it looked pretty darn close to what I gorged on over the summer.

The cake is pretty hardy and resilient, just like the Basques. I was told repeatedly in France NOT to refrigerate it and that it should last five to ten days at room temperature, wrapped in plastic. I've actually never seen a cake last for more than two days, so I cannot verify truth. The cake pictured here ended up withstanding a crowded train trip out to the Hamptons for a weekend. It never came back. I hope you'll try this (corrected recipe, below) and see why I'm hooked and why this traditional cake has been around for generations and can be found today in every bakery in the southwest of France.

Recette: Gateau Basque aux Cerises Noires

Ingredients:
2 ¾ c. Flour
¾ c. Almond Flour
1 c. Butter, chilled
1 c. Sugar
1 tsp Baking soda
1 tsp. Salt
1 Egg
3 Egg Yolks
Zest of one lemon
1 pot Confiture de cerise noire d’Ixtassou


Directions:

Preheat oven to 375ºF. Butter and flour a 9-in cake pan.

In medium sized bowl, mix flour, almond flour, baking powder and salt together. In food processor, blend butter, sugar, and lemon zest until just blended. Add egg and two yolks one at a time, incorporating fully. Add flour mixture (1/2 cup at a time). Once flour is fully incorporated and dough starts to fall away from sides of processor, empty out dough onto a well-floured work surface.

Divide dough into two, with one portion slightly larger than the other. Mold by hand into discs, cover in plastic wrap, and chill for at least 30 minutes. Take chilled, larger disc and hand press into bottom and sides of the buttered and floured cake plan. Place pan in refrigerator while rolling out smaller disc on a floured work surface with a rolling pin into a 9 inch circle. Pour entire jar of black cherry preserves into cake pan and then cover with rolled out dough. Pinch bottom and top dough together. Make egg wash with remaining yolk (beat yolk and blend a tablespoon of water) and brush on top crust. Make grooved design with fork.

Bake in oven for 30 to 35 minutes, until golden brown.

Cool on cooling rack. Do not refrigerate! It will last for five days covered in plastic wrap, but I highly doubt it will be around for five days.

The Wharton Palate: Mastering Brew (Part Two)

As many of you know, before we left for winter break, I started making my first batch of homemade brown ale. After many trials, tribulations, and questionings of faith, I am proud to announce that Amni Brew is drinkable and – barring any long-term carcinogenic properties yet undiscovered – safe. The last I wrote about it, my beer was sitting, quietly fermenting in a plastic bucket.

After a week in that bucket, the liquid was transferred to a glass carboy (“kahr-boi, noun. –a large glass bottle protected by basketwork or a wooden box, used esp. for holding corrosive liquids”), where it sat for another week. The purpose of this transfer, I learned, was to have the brew undergo a second fermentation and to clear it of dirty, sludge-like residue (what was left in the plastic bucket looked like watery, bubbling cement mix).

On bottling day, the beer was moved back into the plastic bucket. And just to put a picture in your mind, each time the liquid is moved from one container to another, you can’t just pour. You have to set up a siphoning system, utilizing some plastic tubes and our good friend Gravity to get the beer flowing from the container on top of the counter to the empty one on the ground. What a pain.

From the plastic bucket, more siphoning was established and each bottle was filled. I had my husband help me as the official capper.

And then we waited. Again. For a week.

I talked about it constantly with my friends. I was a nervous, type-A Wharton student afraid of failing. I was an expectant mother, waiting anxiously to look into her baby’s eyes for the first time to try and find signs of who the father is.

Finally, it was time to drink. I carefully took a bottle and placed it in an ice bath. I dusted off the never-been-used engraved beer mugs I received as a wedding gift and placed it in the freezer to frost over. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Then, I took the mug out, uncapped the bottle and slowly poured the dark brown liquid into the tilted mug.

The first sign of a good beer appeared before me: I had head. Meaning, I had achieved an appropriate level of carbonation, leaving a nice layer of foam at the top.

At this point, I brought the mug out to my husband and yelled, “Look at the head!” He lifted his head from both ESPN Sports Center on the television and ESPN on his laptop (the only time he can multi-task) and uttered some supportive words.

I sniffed first. It smelled a bit like caramel—another good sign. I brought the mug to my lips, and drew in a slow, small sip. As the liquid swirled around my mouth, I tasted the familiar, bitter ambrosia I know so well. It was only when I swallowed and was left with the flavors on the back of my palate (i.e. the after-taste), that I realized my baby was a bit deformed. What was that stank? I passed the mug to my husband, who took his first and last sip. It wasn’t hops. Was it too much malt? Our untrained tongues were so confused.

We were hopeful, though. We had heard through the underground homebrew society that a beer’s peak ripeness varies—sometimes its best fresh, sometimes its best with additional weeks of aging. So, we waited another week. Amni Brew definitely got better, but the stank was still there.

Since then, we’ve offered the beer to friends as a form of entertainment, with lots of warnings and cautions prior to first sip. Most have been very polite, struggling over hours to finish, refusing to let go of their glass when I tell them they don’t have to finish. Friends—what would I do without them?

But, Amni Brew is really a beer only a mother could love. When my husband is at Huntsman until later than me, I come home, open a brew and take the quiet, solemn, introspective moment to taste, make mental notes on any changes from the last one, and savor. I’ve slowly worked through the batch, and only have a dozen left. I know already that I’ll feel empty, alone without Amni Brew. I don’t offer tastes to guests anymore. It’s just me and the brew now.

I learned a lot through the beer-making process and feel that I have become a better leader because of it. I’ve honed my OPIM skills by figuring out how to make beer with literal and figurative bottle necks that arise from the limited capacity of an apartment kitchen. I’ve worked on Wharton Leadership Program points of patience and decision-making during times of great uncertainty. And as I steadily work through two cases of beer, I have truly understood the meaning of perseverance.

The Wharton Palate: Tasting Tinto

It seems that every new restaurant that opens is antithetically and unoriginally themed with “small plates meant for sharing”. Small plates meant for sharing? It’s a tired-out trend (like, so late-90’s) that I personally find utterly frustrating. I mean, seriously. When I am hungry or when I like what I’ve ordered, the most annoying thing is to have to cut a tiny, fried ball of potato croquette in half so that I can share with my dinner dates, who inevitably order things I would not have prioritized.

I know, I know. I’m a bitch… at least when it comes to my food.

The thing is, avoiding small plates in Philly is like having to cut out carbs or go vegetarian: nearly impossible for the true omnivore. And then we social MBA butterflies sometimes have very little choice over our playing fields. Sometimes we must succumb to small plates, such as when the birthday girl chooses Supper for her birthday dinner or when the visiting sister who had done her restaurant due diligence chooses to take me out to Amada. That birthday dinner at Supper was fantastic (despite my having to share my small plate of brilliant Sriracha deviled eggs… yum!), but Amada nearly killed me with not only annoying dishes that I had to cut and mangle in order to share but also with the amount of cream, butter, oil, and salt. Everything tasted the same. Amada was a disappointment and when I discussed this with my trusted Philly Foodie Advisory Team, the responses were nearly unanimous. I had to try Tinto.

So, I went to Tinto last semester. It was one of the first cold nights of the season and even though I almost walked past 114 South 20th Street (between Sansom and Chestnut Streets) because of its unassuming entrance, I entered and was immediately warmed by the glitter of wine glasses reflecting the low votive lights and the wine racks serving as the major design element. I was, in some senses, on a business dinner. I was meeting our very own Journal Publisher, whom I found already a bottle deep at the bar. Aggressive, yet admirable. He wasn’t chosen Publisher for nothing.

We sat down, immediately ordered another bottle of whatever he was drinking, and concentrated on the menu. I panicked for a second. How many of these little dishes would we need? How many pieces were included in each order? Does Mr. Publisher have any dietary restrictions (turns out he’s a rather picky eater… no seafood, no vegetables)? What do these words (“pintxos,” “montaditos,” “banderilas”) mean? Where is our wine? God, I need a drink.

And then my eyes gravitated to a box on the page. “Chef’s Tasting / 55 per person”. Bingo.

The beauty of Tinto is that they make tapas the opposite of annoying. Everything, except a delicate turbot, came in individual portions. Our server did not even wince when all of a sudden Mr. Publisher had a “seafood allergy.” She said it was absolutely no problem and that the chef would substitute a non-seafood portion for him. I couldn’t tell at this point if I was falling in love with her or with the restaurant.

The tasting menu started out with Tinto’s famous Marcona almonds, warmed, coated in oil and salty-sweet goodness. They were addictive and my mouth waters as I write about them. With the almonds came a plate of various cured meats and cheeses. All were delicious, but the exact varieties are fuzzy in my memory and when it comes down to it, such a plate could be closely replicated with a quick trip to Di Bruno’s.

The true highlights were the brochettes. The first was chicken with garbanzo puree and truffle jus. The second, Kobe beef and lobster (“Mar y Tierra”). The chicken, beef, and lobster were each perfectly juicy, tender, flavorful. The chicken in particular, though, was fabulous—the brochette was inverted into an elongated shot glass, which was filled first with the creamy, mild savory-ness of the garbanzo puree, and the sweet, more pungent truffle jus—a perfect marriage of tastes and textures that I look forward to ordering again when I revisit.

The turbot, as mentioned above was the only thing we had to cut ourselves and dole out, which was pretty easy to do considering it was fish—fresh and bursting with citrus flavor (the plate was beautifully decorated with slices of various citrus fruit that ranged the color spectrum from green to yellow). Our publisher avoided the fish and was given instead a personal serving of another chicken dish.

The food kept coming. And almost every small plate was fresh, innovative, and downright delicious. This dinner put Tinto up there next to Mercato, which has been one of my go-to favorites.

I’m a traditional kinda gal. I like rituals. I especially love the dinner ritual; you know, cocktails before dinner, an appetizer, entrée, and then dessert. This whole movement to change the way we eat scared me. I resented “small plates meant for sharing.” But, restaurants like Tinto make me believe in change and the good that arises from jumping out of routine. Our meal was amazing and I’m looking forward to tasting Tinto, small plate by small plate, again sometime soon.

Next Time: The results of Amni’s homebrew are revealed. Be sure to read The Wharton Palate in two weeks to find out if her homage to beer bowed in honor or slapped disrespect.