Crème Brûlée

If you know crème brûlée, I’m going to assume you also know Amelie Poulain, specifically this scene where she's breaking the hard shell of baked custard. If you've had crème brûlée a.k.a. burnt cream, you should skip ahead to the recipe. If haven't tried creme brulee, you skip to the recipe anyway. 

I first tasted the wonders of crème brulee in Shanghai. My parents took me to a French restaurant that had just opened, suitably called Le Seine. At lunch, they served a buffet, complete with platters of salmon salad, foie gras, and roasted duck bathed in orange sauce. The best part though, was the dessert table. It looked like the Willy Wonka factory blew up and spit out glorious petit fours: chocolate ganache bars, strawberry cheesecake squares, a tiramisu bowl, pineapple soufflés, trays of financiers, fruit tarts filled with pastry cream, and of course, little ramekins of crème brûlée. As soon as we were brought to our table, I threw down my jacket and rushed past the lunch table, went straight to the desserts and swooped up as many creme brûlées as my greedy arms could hold just in case they ran out later on. Clearly, I was well versed in dessert buffet dining.

Breaking the layer of burnt sugar and scooping out chilled, lusciously smooth custard definitely ranks among my Top 20 of Life’s Most Pleasurable Experiences. I think Nigella Lawson describes it best, “[There] a few puddings are as voluptuously, seductively easy to eat”. I did some serious reading before making this for Valentine’s Day last week and even though I don’t have a blowtorch, crème brûlée is equally easy to make at home. Once the chilled custard is ready, sprinkle evenly with sugar and stick them under a broiler, soon enough, the sugar will bubble and squeak. Do what I did and share a ramekin with your loved one, I swear it tastes even better.

Tweet

Recipe here!

Vanilla Bean Bundt Cake

When I grew up, my family occasionally bought a tri-colored ice cream sold in a oval plastic container, how three flavours managed to comfortably fit in a box always bewildered me as a kid. When you peeled back the lid, a dull chocolate sat on your left, pallor in flavor and left a bitter alkaline aftertaste in your mouth. To that wash away, you could have a spoonful of the fairy-pink concoction to the right, its taste screamed artificial, but its label said Strawberry. Finally, sandwiched between the two was plain ol' vanilla, which was no better than it's neighbors.

I typically dived into the chocolate and strawberry ice creams first, devouring their exciting, albeit cheap, airy tastes. The container was no longer pristine, there was a mudslide on one end and a cotton candy disaster on the other, the vanilla sat untouched in the middle. I left it for later use, like thickening my milkshakes or dolloping over waffles.

Vanilla just didn't do it for me. The flavour, to me, was something better suited for wimps too scared to try exhilarating tastes like dark swirls of chocolate fudge dotted with chunks of nutty clusters, or speckles of strawberry, cold but chewy on the teeth. Even now, if given the option between chocolate or vanilla cake, I'd give you a disgusted look, roll my eyes and serve you a hefty dose of sarcasm, “DUH. Chocolate. Stoopid.” Vanilla to me is a bland, white sheet of paper.

Initially, I wanted to make this chocolate expresso bundt cake, but since I already spoiled you with this tart, I thought vanilla would be a nice change. Despite using my own vanilla extract for months now, I've never used the nitty black vanilla seeds before. So I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the wrinkly pods, their dark, enchanting, musky scent overwhelming my nostrils.

Just when I thought the scent of vanilla beans was overpowering, it's magnified 238 times when baked in a cake. Within minutes after sliding the pan into the oven, a heady sweetness filled my apartment, from the front door all the way to the balcony on the other side. It was nearly impossible to concentrate on anything else but deep breaths of warm butter and sugar.

The worst part was not being able to taste it until much later, at my family's potluck dinner. I had to wait nine (9!!) hours to take a bite of this sucker, but boy, was it worth the wait. The golden ring surrounding the yellow cake was pure beauty, the grain (those little holes) was smooth and uniform. You could even see the vanilla seeds freckling each buttery slice. If there are angels, I imagine they would have this cake to accompany their afternoon tea, exclaiming how undeniably moist, light, and fluffy it is. They will dreamingly sigh how the cake glows with charm, its taste is simple and clean, not bombarded with other conflicting flavors, and then they will dainty pick up the remaining crumbs on their plates, lick their fingers and call it the Best Vanilla Cake on Earth.

This is the kind of dessert you want to enjoy with legs tucked underneath you, surrounded by a family that you adore because they share the same sense of humor with you, and it's just the thing to settle your aching heart after a long, hard week. I suppose vanilla isn't so bad after all (it's so good in fact, I had to change my blog header, so it could strut its stuff).

Tweet

Recipe here!