Mother's Day and Baked Chocolate Pudding with the Works

A few weeks ago, my mom flicked someone off. It was entertaining and mildly embarrassing. She was driving and we were leaving a busy plaza. At a two way stop sign, she slowed down when a lady in a van signaled to turn into our narrow path. My mom stayed put, there was another car coming behind us, giving us little room to move. The other lady began to make frivolous hand gestures, motioning us to back up but we didn’t budge. Soon, she began honking and even her daughter who sat in the passenger seat joined in, yelling through their window. Other cars crammed the intersection, impatiently honking. The lady finally surrendered and as they drove off, her teenage daughter, faced us and with a cold glare, twirling a forefinger to her temple, the universal sign for crazy. In prompt fashion, my mom gave her the middle finger. I beamed and couldn’t have been more proud of her.

My mom is the sweetest, gentlest person you will ever meet. She’s a great shopping companion, never refuses ice cream (especially when offered a Magnum bar), and she’s always there to comfort me whenever I need a hug. She’s my biggest fan of this blog and always willing to sample any of the sweets I make. For Mother’s Day, I took her to L’Avenue Bistro for dinner. We stuffed our bellies till we couldn’t move, I regretted not wearing stretchy pants. This is my third time eating there and definitely remains as one of my favourite places to eat in Toronto. It’s a cozy restaurant with exceptional service and consistently serves memorable dishes.

To start, there was yellow gazpacho and salted cod beignets with truffle mushroom mascarpone cream. The latter didn’t look too appetizing but I could have licked my plate, looks can be deceiving. I convinced my mom to have the buttermilk fried chicken, knowing she would fall in love with the crisp, crackly chunks of chicken. It was served in a citrusy slaw with a little chilli, a good balance of heat and acid. I had the duck confit in a ridiculously good blood orange beurre blanc and green beans. I ate it all, even picking at the bone with my hands and licking my fingers. 

Without missing a beat, our server brought us the dessert menu. We settled on the triple chocolate terrine, which was milk, dark and white chocolate whipped with heavy cream and then frozen. To my surprise, the white chocolate had the most pleasing texture, much smoother and lighter than it’s counterparts. 

As if we weren’t big enough gluttons, I made baked chocolate pudding the following night. It reminds me of a dense chocolate cake with a gooey centre, sort of like a molten lava cake enriched with extra eggs and butter. I topped it with Speculoos ice cream, dulce de leche sauce and crushed nuts, pretty much the epitome of indulgence. Mom and I ate it with our feet propped up on the ottoman, watching tv and satisfying our inner fat child.

I actually finished my portion in three (!!) sittings, it’s insanely rich with a truffle-like texture and big chocolate flavor. I even ate my leftovers cold, straight from the fridge and liked it more, it makes me think of crumbly flourless chocolate cake, something you just can't say no to.

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Speculoos Ice Cream

I realized the other day I’m constantly surrounded by food. At work, I help feed seniors in nursing homes, giving recommendations to help them stay healthier, sometimes I revise their menus too. On the commute home, I usually have one hand on the wheel, the other hand dusting off the cracker bits on my lap from my afternoon snack. Even after dinner I snuggle on the couch flipping through cookbooks while watching Chopped or Top Chef. Before bedtime, I nibble on chocolate or a little fruit (depending how healthy I want to be). I just really like food.

Sometimes my mind gets obsessed with a particular food that it begins to evade my dreams. I had a craving for donuts recently and during one restful sleep, a giant fried cruller appeared, taunting me with its cinnamon-crusted sugar and juicy apple flavor. I blame Donut Showdown, the furious rush to create outrageous, over-the-top donuts with unpredictable flavor combinations are bound to seep into my bedtime consciousness. I kept planning to go to Tim Horton’s for a chocolate-glazed donut but refrained. Finally, I walked into a grocery store and a thick waft of fried dough hit me, a kiosk that made sizzling hot donuts was set up strategically at the store entrance. That did it for me. I bought a small box of plain donuts dusted with only icing sugar, splitting the loot with my friend. It was awesome. Melt-in-your mouth awesome. Donuts stay out of my dreams now. 

A dessert I’ve been brainstorming for months now involves my all time love, Speculoos. I’ve tried to remake them in cookie and cake form, and thought it was time to up the ante and use it in ice cream. If I could use adjectives to describe it, I’d use profanity, specifically a four letter word starting with F. Not only is the flavor well preserved, its texture is irresistibly silky. It's hard to find anything wrong with it.

I used a basic peanut butter ice cream recipe and substituted the peanut butter with Speculoos. The technique couldn’t be easier, you just cream the spread with sugar, slowly add cream and then more cream. Chill it till it’s cold enough and pour it into an ice cream machine. I’ve long been a fan of cookies and cream ice cream, and applied that same idea in this ice cream, adding plenty of crushed Speculoos cookies. The result isn't cloying sweet, the flavours of cinnamon, pepper, nutmeg, ginger, and cloves are pronounced. I helped myself to a generous bowl after taking these photos and proceeded with a second serving, I don't regret it.

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Chocolate Cinnamon Gelato with Speculoos

When I was young enough to only appreciate the flavours of toffee candies and M & M’s, my parents made the hard decision to move from Toronto to my birth place, Hong Kong, this was already my second move across the Pacific, something I had to learn to get used to. My dad got a new job in Hong Kong and my mom couldn’t leave her work in Canada, so my dad, grandpa and I packed up to go back to Asia. In the past twenty four years, I’ve endured too many painstakingly long flights, eaten bad airplane meals more times that I’d like to remember, but little did I know this would be the toughest move ever. 

We were all packed and ready to go, having arrived at the airport early with plenty of time to kill before boarding. We ate some breakfast, I double-checked that my toys were packed safely in my carry-on and went to the bathroom for the umpteenth time at my mom’s insistence. Finally, with my dad’s rough hands clasping mine and my other arm suffocating my stuffed animal, we walked to the departure gate.

I looked back at my mom behind the barrier, she looked sad, lonely and far away, questions ran through my mind: What if she forgot to lock the door? And the house got robbed? My mom would be in danger. Who would take care of her? What would happen? Who would buy me white frilly socks then? The thoughts were too much to bear, I couldn’t help but burst into tears.

But this was no ordinary crying. Oh no, I had a meltdown. It started out as trembling then tears spilled out, progressing into deep sobs and as I strugged for breath, loud, obnoxious screams exploded, “Mommmyyyy!!! MOMMMYYY!!!! Don’t go!” I was uncontrollable, my dad tried to pull me towards the horrified customs officer, but I glued myself to the rail, proceeding with hysterical and desperate cries. This went on for minutes before my dad finally pried my hands apart and my mom disappeared behind the partition.

My grandpa bought me an ice cream cone to calm me down, apparently this worked, my sobbing slowed, I found my breath again and was soon licking the ice cream dripping down my fingers, my broken heart healed. My parents love telling me this story just to prove how much I love ice cream and all things sweet. It’s still holds true, give me a box of chocolates and I’ll crown you my best friend.

I’ve been very good at bookmarking ice cream recipes but not so good at making them. With the hit of two heat waves in Toronto, nothing seems to tame the humidity but greedy scoops of milky gelato. This recipe uses only six ingredients: cream, milk, sugar, chocolate, cinnamon and cookie crumbs. It comes together in a breeze, you will wonder, like I did, why you don’t make ice cream more often and resume eating spoonfuls straight out of the container.

As you know, I’m a big Speculoos fan, it’s warm, spicy flavours of cloves, ginger and cinnamon marry well with chocolate. It’s much more subdued in this ice cream though the cinnamon helps to heighten its flavour. This is very thick gelato, much less airy than your traditional ice cream, but if you like flourless chocolate cake or chocolate mousse and other  intense chocolatey desserts, this will sure to win your heart and cool you down lest another heat wave strikes.

 

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Paris

For years I've been dreaming of visiting this glorious, romantic, mysterious and beautiful city. The fantasy of sitting at a cafe, sipping a café au lait and littering the table with shards of croissant left me breathless. Tearing off the end of a baguette so fresh that I can hear it. Bread so enticing that I have to stop in the middle of the sidewalk so I can concentrate on that crusty piece of baguette and ingrain the flavor forever in my memory.



And those little fantasies did happen.

We sat at a cafe right under the Sacré Cœur somewhere in Montmartre. We sipped wine in the early afternoon, underneath a shady row of trees, smearing cheese onto baguette slices. We must have spent more than an hour there; it felt so good to feel the soft breeze and the first signs of summer in the air.



Another day, on a grassy patch by the Sèvres-Babylone metro, we peeled off our sweaters to substitute for a picnic blanket and laid out our goods: croissants and chocolatines.


On a chilly rainy day we made a trip to Maison du Chocolat on Rue Sèvres. Outside, we ripped open our box of treasures and ate squares of roasted coconut and hazelnuts enrobed in dark chocolate ganache. I could feel the cold wind seep away from my bones, replaced with the warm truffle melting in my mouth.


We were mesmerized by the enormous chocolate sculptures in the Patrick Roger boutique on Boulevard Saint-Germain and left with 34 euros of chocolate (sadly, not for us). Upon exit, the kind cashier offered samples. I picked up a green marbled orb, took a little bite, and my eyes widened as luscious caramel sauce oozed out. There was a kick of citrus in the truffle--I only wish I wasn't so caring, since I gave the rest away to Milos.


Guided by David's trusty recommendations, we made it a mission to have gelato and/or ice cream everyday. First off was Amorino, with locations scattered all around the city, most of which we judiciously visited. Unfortunately, Amorino's foreign customer service needs serious improvement. While we were greeted with impatient rudeness each time we went, our friend -a local - flirtatiously chatted with the servers and got a custom, tulip-shaped, gelato for his efforts. If I had been born a handsome French male, I would have turned up the charm as well, but as it was the interactions between server and customer were perilous during our stay in Paris*.

Strolling through Le Marais, we found Pozzetto. It's small shop compared to Amorino, so small that anyone could easily miss it (but we didn't thanks to our sensitive gelato radar). We gingerly carried our towering cups of pistachio and hazelnut gelato to a nearby bench and sat in hungry silence.



But the award for Best Ice Cream in Paris goes to Berthillon. We made a trip to the Île Saint-Louis in the middle of the Seine, where the first Parisians are said to have inhabited. The streets are small here, the sidewalks narrow and an even tinier shop on Rue St. Louis sells ice cream (Berthillon is also sold in cafes everywhere in Paris--how convenient!). Berthillon opened its first store in 1954 and prides itself for not adding preservatives, artificial sweeteners or stabilizers to its ice creams.


There's a menu posted outside the shop with a diverse selection of flavors. We ordered two scoops for each of us, paid about 9 euros (the most I've ever paid for ice cream), and walked along the cobblestone streets. I licked my praliné aux amandes crème glacée and then something happened.

Fireworks went off, jingles rattled, gold nuggets fell from the sky, Cirque de Soleil acrobats did flips in the air—really. No joke. I couldn't walk. I couldn't focus on any other motor movements aside from my ice cream. It was wonderful. Floral notes sang outloud, mixed with the aroma of roasted nuts, it was sooo yum.

I tried Milos's raspberry gelato, which was just as bewitching. It was like the genius minds of Berthillon hand-picked ruby red raspberries from their own garden, dumped them into a mixer, added a handful of sugar, a dash of love and called it a day. It tasted fresh and summery. Even that tartness so characteristic of raspberries remained. My neurotransmitters finally found their synapses and I continued walking, savoring every bit of my praliné aux amandes.


But Paris is more than just a place with for gluttons. Everyday Milos and I stumbled on something new and gorgeous. We found grand churches, lush trees lined up in the enormous and oh so magnificent Jardin des Tuileries.




We walked along the Seine flowing languidly in the heart of the city. We people-watched for hours in cafes despite being suffocated by the ubiquitous chain smokers.


We discovered adorable postcard shops in Les Halles and picked up a few souvenirs. We roamed aimlessly at night, along streets illuminated by the soft glow of lampposts, and past the Seine disturbed only by quiet ripples.


Paris was my favorite city of our Euro trip. There's so much to see, so much to do, I need go back and eat more Berthillon. So if you're heading to Paris and looking for an ice cream guide, do send a plane ticket my way, because declining your offer would just be plain rude.



*That last paragraph was written by Milos who thought it was best to intervene in matters of handsome men and ice cream (and he's a terrific writer).

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Budapest

Let’s start with Budapest. Or as Milos who insists on pronouncing it like Magyar way: Buda-pchest.

We were darn lucky to have rented a prime spot in the heart of the city, the apartment was right next to the subway, steps away from supermarkets, close to a major shopping district. In the lazy afternoons, the sexy tune of a saxophone drifted into our apartment from the square nearby (I must add, Airbnb is a très cool concept. I was iffy about using it at first for safety reasons, but our host was friendly, very hospitable and made sure we were comfortable. If you haven't heard about it yet, hop to it!).

The most fascinating part of our neighbourhood was Deák Ferenc Square, named after the famed Hungarian Minister of Justice. Every night whether it be a weekday or weekend, this square was crowded with people in their twenties and thirties, lounging on the grass or sitting by the wooden decks on the pond, their hands grasping cold beers.

We joined the locals one night, bringing our own drinks. As we sat on our bench, a small group of young girls in miniskirts and high heels strutted by, two guys on short bikes rolled past us, a cigarette in their mouths. A bearded man stopped before us to scour through the garbage can for recyclable bottles.

The lamp posts dimmed the marble sidewalks with an amber glow, the friendly chatter and laughter mixed with the two piece guitar band strumming away gave the air a sense of bubbliness and excitement, like you were missing out on the all the fun if you weren't here.

And that’s what Budapest felt like. Everyday there was something to do; we visited the Gellert Hotel and Baths twice on our trip, soaking up more than healthy doses of UV rays.


We crossed Liberty Bridge and watched the golden sunset cast a magical sheen on buildings facing the Danube.


We ordered wine in the early afternoon at Művész café. Then we couldn’t bear to pass up these colourful sundaes: a mixed berry sundae for Milos and a lemon sundae for me. I nearly fainted with joy at my first bite; it was delightfully tangy and refreshing.



Never once did it rain in Budapest. For six days, we were blessed with skies so blue, it looked like the sea.


One night on Andrassy utca, we sauntered through wide sidewalks passing fashion boutiques and tall apartments, it almost looked like Paris. Then we stumbled upon a grandiose building, ornately flourished with statues and pillars, glowing by yellow spotlights. There were groups of formally dressed men and women in stilettos milling about; it became clear that we were standing before the Opera House. To the left was Callas, a café with outdoor seating, so without hesitation, we settled at a table facing the main street and ordered drinks and dessert. It was a quiet night, motorcycles zipping past and dark leaves rustling in the nippy wind.



We showed up again the next night for dinner. I ordered ravioli sheets with seared goose liver and truffle sauce. To be honest, liver scares me. It doesn’t have the most attractive name in the food world—liver. It brings to mind a red slab of glistening organ. Sometimes it tastes overpowering, too iron-y. But then again, it is considered a delicacy like foie gras and pate, so it gotta be good no? And surprisingly, it’s popular in Budapest; its usually found on restaurant menus. So being the adventurous eater that I am, I ordered it anyway, it can’t hurt to try.


My dish was pure bliss. The goose liver was mild, slightly crispy on the surface and dissolved pleasantly on the tongue. The pasta sheets were succulent, each doused in earthy sauce. After five bites however, my dinner became overwhelmingly salty. But overall, it was delicious.

Milos’s veal paprika with bacon wrapped cottage cheese wasn’t bad. Chunks of veal was hidden underneath a coat of thick orange stew, served along side some pickled cabbage salad.


As we ate, there was a little band playing jazz. The violinist, clearly the leader of the group, is a funny character. On my way to the ladies room, he held up his hand, stopping his colleagues mid-song, allowed me to pass, then resumed playing the cheery tune.

We walked home in the spring breeze full and happy. Seeing all my pictures of Budapest still makes me chuckle. There were unforgettable moments with Milos that just made the trip a thousand times better than I could have ever imagined it to be. That freeness of drinking beer, wine, vodka or what have you out at Deák Ferenc Square under the glittering starry night really tied up my vacation. Europe (or most of it) carries itself with a sense of freedom, the I Can Do Whatever I Want Attitude. Though I could just have easily gotten this muddled up with how relaxed I felt on vacation, no work stress, no financial stress. It just felt good.

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