2¼ cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
½ cup hot water
4 ounces unsweetened baking chocolate, chopped into pieces (about ¾ cup)
1¼ cups granulated sugar, divided
¾ cup unsalted butter, softened
½ cup lightly packed light brown sugar
3 large eggs
⅔ cup buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2½ cups Wellesley Fudge Frosting (recipe follows)
1. Position a rack in the center of the oven; preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease and flour 2 round 8- or 9-inch cake pans; line the bottoms with parchment paper.
2. Sift the flour, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl. Set aside.
3. In a small saucepan over medium heat, bring the water, chocolate, and ½ cup of the granulated sugar to a simmer, stirring constantly until the mixture has melted. Remove from the heat and cool until lukewarm.
4. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and remaining granulated sugar on medium-high speed until light and fluffy, 3 to 5 minutes.
5. Reduce speed to low and beat in the eggs, one at a time, until incorporated, pausing to scrape down the sides of the bowl between additions. Beat in the vanilla.
6. Reduce the mixer speed to low and add the chocolate mixture to the butter mixture and beat until fully incorporated.
7. Continuing on low speed, add the flour mixture alternately with the buttermilk, in 2 to 3 additions each, ensuring that each addition is fully mixed in before adding the next. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula after each addition.
8. Divide the batter equally between the 2 pans, using an offset or rubber spatula to smooth and level the batter. Lift the pans and let fall onto the counter to ensure one last spread to settle the batter.
9. Bake the cakes for 25 to 30 minutes, rotating the pans halfway through the baking time. A toothpick inserted into the center should come out mostly clean. (It will be difficult to detect doneness by the color of the cake, as it will be quite dark.)
10. Let the cakes cool for about 10 minutes. Run a small knife around the edges of the cakes to loosen the sides, then flip them out onto a wire rack. Peel off the parchment paper, turn the cakes right side up, and let them cool completely. If the cakes have formed domes during baking, level them by using a large serrated knife before frosting.
11. To assemble the cake, place one cake on a serving platter. Use about ¾ cup of the frosting and spread it evenly over the layer. Place the second cake layer on top. The weight of the top layer will cause the frosting to spread.
12. Generously frost the sides and top of the cake. Serve in large wedges. The cake will keep, covered, at cool room temperature for about 3 days.
WELLESLEY FUDGE FROSTING
Makes about 2½ cups frosting
8 ounces unsweetened chocolate, finely chopped (about 1 cup)
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
Dash of salt
½ cup evaporated milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 to 5 cups confectioners’ sugar, sifted
Whole or 2% milk or cream (optional)
1. In a large saucepan over low heat, melt the chocolate and butter, stirring frequently until smooth and melted. Remove from the heat.
2. Add the salt, evaporated milk, and vanilla; stir until smooth. Let cool to lukewarm, stirring occasionally.
3. Gradually stir in the sugar, cup by cup, until an ideal spreading consistency has been reached. (You may not need all of the sugar). If needed, add a small quantity of milk to thin the frosting.
FOREIGN AFFAIRS
TRAVEL SPEAKS TO OUR SENSE OF ADVENTURE, curiosity, and romance. It piques our imagination and induces daydreams. After all, who wouldn’t love to take a moonlit stroll along the Seine, to explore the narrow streets of Vienna, to traipse along the outback of Australia—or at the very least see in what direction the toilets flush on the other hemisphere?
While physical travel might not always be within our means, desserts that originated on foreign soil provide an opportunity to get a delicious taste of different cultures—and in this case, to hear some interesting stories too.
TO CUT RIGHT TO THE CHASE: ANZAC biscuits are a simple, crispy cookie made using oats, flour, coconut, butter, and golden syrup (I know you were wondering). It wouldn’t be hard to imagine them in the role of the oatmeal cookie’s crunchier, coconut-studded cousin. But their humble appearance should not imply that their story lacks dimension or complexity.
This biscuit’s starring role in the culinary world began in the era of World War I, when wives and girlfriends would send them to their fellows in the army because they were easy-to-stock items that wouldn’t spoil in transit.
To begin with, the funny name: What does ANZAC mean? ANZAC is an acronym for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. But why name a cookie (“biscuit,” down under) after the armed forces? Well, because this biscuit’s starring role in the culinary world began in the era of World War I, when wives and girlfriends would send them to their fellows in the army because they were easy-to-stock items that wouldn’t spoil in transit.
During the war, in a surge of patriotic pride, many recipes both sweet and savory were labeled ANZAC: think ANZAC casserole, ANZAC sandwiches, and the like. But after the war, the name stuck with these cookies in particular. Perhaps it’s because the biscuits were somewhat similar to an item that was regularly featured in soldiers’ rations, called ANZAC Tile—a sort of hardtack that I’d warrant probably tasted about as good as it sounds. The cookie-like version has remained in heavy rotation ever since; throughout Australia and New Zealand, it’s ubiquitous in coffee shops, bakeries, and as a prepackaged snack item.
But while Australia and New Zealand are quite content with sharing their armed forces, they’re not quite so nice about sharing this baked good: both locations insist that they invented the biscuit. This isn’t the first time they’ve butted heads over the lineage of a baked good, however: they also fought over the origin of Pavlova, an angel-light meringue dessert (New Zealand ultimately won). However, determining who “owns” the ANZAC is a bit more difficult. While they’re largely considered Australia’s National Biscuit, it’s possible that they evolved from Scottish oatcakes, which gained popularity in New Zealand following the arrival of a large Scottish immigrant population in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.
In Australia, however, a certain level of authenticity is demanded of these biscuits. “ANZAC” is protected by Australian law, and misuse can be cause for legal action. In 1994 they adopted a general policy to allow the common usage of the name “ANZAC biscuit,” but warned that it had better be used properly. The official government policy reads as follows:
“It should be noted that approvals for the word ‘ANZAC’ to be used on biscuit products have been given provided that the product generally conforms to the traditional recipe and shape, and is not used in association with the word ‘cookies,’ with its non-Australian overtones. For instance, an application for ANZAC biscuits dipped in chocolate would not be approved as they would not conform with the traditional recipe.” Well.
And they’re not fooling around: In 2008, the international chain Subway began selling something called ANZAC Biscuits, but they were not made following the original recipe. Deemed inauthentic, the Department of Veterans Affairs demanded that for Subway to continue selling them, they’d have to adhere to the original recipe. Subway declined on the grounds that it was too hard to duplicate the recipe in a cost-effective way.
Following is a recipe that will please people on all continents. They still ship well, too.
ANZAC Biscuits
ONE OF THE KEY INGREDIENTS IN THIS RECIPE is golden syrup, a thick, sugar-based liquid with a color and flavor somewhat similar to honey. If you can’t find golden syrup, substitute one tablespoon of Karo syrup plus one-and-a
-half teaspoons maple syrup or light molasses. Or take a little shopping excursion to England, Australia, or New Zealand, where you’ll find it in nearly every neighborhood market!
Makes 3 dozen cookies
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup sugar
1 cup old-fashioned rolled oats
1 cup unsweetened desiccated or dried coconut
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 tablespoon golden syrup, such as Lyle’s (available at specialty grocery stores)
2 tablespoons boiling water, plus 1 to 2 tablespoons more as needed
1 teaspoon baking soda
1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper and set aside.
2. In a large bowl, stir together the flour, sugar, oats, and coconut until well mixed.
3. In a small saucepan, melt the butter and golden syrup over medium heat, stirring occasionally.
4. In a small bowl, combine the boiling water and baking soda, stirring until the baking soda dissolves. Stir into the butter mixture. Enjoy watching the bubbly reaction!
5. Transfer the butter mixture to a large bowl, or to the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Add the dry ingredients, mixing until fully incorporated. If the dough seems overly dry or stiff, add another tablespoon or two of hot water.
6. Drop the batter by heaping teaspoonfuls onto the prepared baking sheet; leave 1 inch around each biscuit to allow for spreading. Bake for 12 minutes, or until golden brown.
7. Remove from the oven; allow the biscuits to cool on the tray for a few minutes before transferring them to a wire rack to cool completely. These biscuits will keep well for up to 2 weeks stored in an airtight container at room temperature.
WHEN IT COMES TO FLAMING DESSERTS, Bananas Foster gets the biggest blaze of glory, but really, this bananarama might not even exist were it not for a dish called cherries jubilee, as jubilant a dessert as there ever was. It’s a beautiful concoction of deep red cherries heated with liqueur, which is flambéed and served as a warm, syrup-like sauce over vanilla ice cream. A show like that kind of puts hot fudge to shame, don’t you think?
Then, like now, the goings-on of royalty were of great interest to the public, and cherries jubilee was widely celebrated and embraced.
Cherries jubilee is credited to Auguste Escoffier, a sort of culinary superstar of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries who, to list a few bullet points on his resume, is credited as the father of modern canning, the inventor of the first à la carte menu, and a revolutionary for paring down and streamlining the modern restaurant kitchen. Though he had a knack for simplification, cherries jubilee is proof that he clearly wasn’t averse to a bit of flashiness.
To set the stage for the invention of cherries jubilee: it’s 1887. Queen Victoria is visiting the French Riviera to celebrate the fiftieth year of her reign, also referred to as her Golden Jubilee. Escoffier is chef de cuisine at the Grand Hotel in Monte Carlo. Cue the party planner: Victoria’s son, the Prince of Wales, knows that Escoffier is the go- to guy in the area for fancy food. Armed with the knowledge that Victoria is very fond of cherries, he hires Escoffier to create a dish suiting the occasion. Everyone loves it! Then, like now, the goings-on of royalty were of great interest to the public, and cherries jubilee was widely celebrated and embraced.
Original recipes call for syrup-poached sweet cherries to be poured into fireproof dishes, then combined with warm brandy and set aflame at the moment of serving. Oddly, the one thing that is missing from many versions of the recipe is the accompaniment of ice cream. It’s possible that originally the dish was meant as a more all-purpose dessert sauce, but soon after its invention, the recipe was being served to dignitaries as a delicious ice cream topping. So it seems that even if not the original intent, serving the dish in this manner quickly became the favored delivery system.
Of course, it’s fun to ponder whether the ice cream omission was intentional, as suggested in the somewhat racy historical novel inspired by Escoffier, entitled White Truffles in Winter. The story says that the Queen found such a sensual pleasure in the cherries alone that any accompaniment would be an “insult” to the decadent dish.
Following the invention of Bananas Foster in 1951 by Chef Paul Blangé (at the legendary Brennan’s Restaurant in Louisiana), flaming sweets enjoyed a period of popularity as a flashy dinner-party and restaurant dessert. For the cherry-averse, other variations were available: Mangos Diablo (mangos flambéed in tequila) and Pêches Louis (peaches flamed in whiskey), and of course, Crêpes Suzette. Though not as popular in restaurants today as they were in years past, these dishes remain an easy and extremely fun way to entertain and delight party guests. But please, do not set yourself on fire.
Cherries Jubilee
AT YOUR NEXT DINNER PARTY, why not try this ultra-simple combination of sweet syrup-like sauce drizzled over classic vanilla ice cream? If you want to get a little creative, you could try different flavors of ice cream—dark chocolate might be amazing, or maybe lemon. Add a buttery shortbread cookie or wafer on the side and you’ll have created a dessert that your friends will be talking about for a long time.
Makes 6 servings
One 15- or 16-ounce can pitted black cherries in juice
2 tablespoons sugar
1½ teaspoons cornstarch
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into ½-inch pieces, softened
¼ cup kirsch, cognac, or brandy
2 pints vanilla ice cream
1. Drain the cherries, reserving the juice.
2. In a large sauté pan over medium heat, combine the cherry juice, sugar, and cornstarch; stir occasionally, until the sugar has dissolved and the mixture begins to thicken, about 5 minutes. Add the butter and stir until completely incorporated. Add the cherries to the pan and stir gently until warmed.
3. Bring the mixture to a boil and add the alcohol of your choice. Using a long-handled match and leaning back from the pan, set the mixture aflame. It will go out on its own in a few moments; once it does, serve immediately on top of 6 bowls of ice cream.
AH, THE CROISSANT. Could there possibly be a Frenchier thing on the planet than these crescents of delectable, flaky butter pastry, lightly crunchy on the outside, ethereally soft on the inside? You might not think so, but here’s a curious fact: while certainly most strongly associated with France, they are really an Austrian creation.
Could there possibly be a Frenchier thing on the planet than these crescents of delectable, flaky butter pastry, lightly crunchy on the outside, ethereally soft on the inside?
There are several colorful tales surrounding the origins of the croissant, including one that celebrates Austrian bakers for foiling a plot by the Turks during a war between the two countries, and one that credits Marie Antoinette herself with bringing the treats to Paris from her native Austria. Unfortunately, as delightful as these stories are, they’re simply not true. So how did it really go down?
Croissants were preceded by something called kipferl, or “pointed little loaves of white bread,” a sort of dowdier, simpler version of the croissant that hailed from Austria. (If you want to get really technical about it, crescent-shaped breads preceded even Austria, where in ancient Greece, moon-shaped cakes were considered offerings to the Gods—but for now we’ll stick to kipferl.) The birth of the croissant itself dates to the mid-1800s, when an Austrian artillery officer, August Zang, founded a Viennese bakery (cleverly named Boulangerie Viennoise) in Paris.
Importantly, Zang is credited with introducing yeast into the butter pastry form, and his methods quickly took off. The pastry began to resemble what we know today, and it was named croissant for its crescent shape. The croissant was adopted by the French: production took off, and the word quickly entered the everyday vocabulary. In the 1860s, it was recognized in esteemed French dictionary Littre, and in 1872, Charles Dickens even mentioned it in one of his articles—at the time, sort of like hitting the pop-culture jackpot for pastry.
Today, the image of the croissant has firmly attached itself to France, and with good reason: while perhaps it was not born there, it spent its formative years and truly came into its own there. Many of the flavor variations we now consider classic were developed in France, too. One is the croissant aux amandes, or “almond croissant”—the cleverest use of day-old bread ever: a croissant split, filled with almond cream, and baked again. The pain au chocolat, or “chocolate croissant,” is another. Merci, merci.
Croissants
MAKING YOUR OWN CROISSANTS is something you should do at least once in your life! The resulting moon-shaped shards of pure pastry pleasure will leave you feeling almost absurdly accomplished and brimming with pride at your pastry prowess (and probably covered with flour and butter). Note: Not only will you want to clear out some time in your schedule to make these, but to make your life easier, also have ready a nonstick mat, a ruler, and plenty of counter space. Huge thanks to Jennifer Lee of Jen7714.wordpress.com, who kindly let me use her croissant method.
Makes 12 croissants
3½ cups all-purpose flour, divided
1 cup warm water
1 teaspoon active dry yeast
¼ cup whole or 2% milk
½ tablespoon unsalted butter, melted
1 teaspoon salt
1¾ cups (14 ounces) cold unsalted butter
1 large egg plus 1 tablespoon water, for egg wash
1. In a large bowl, mix 1 cup of the flour with the water and yeast, just until the flour is incorporated. Set the bowl aside; let the dough rise for 1 hour.
2. Add the remaining 2½ cups flour, milk, melted butter, and salt. Gently knead the mixture for about 1 minute to combine the ingredients. Cover the bowl with a clean, moist towel and let sit for about 20 minutes.
The Secret Lives of Baked Goods Page 10