Cake trouble

Ever since I read about Moskin v. Severson in Wednesday's Times, I've been thinking about gingerbread. I'm on a constant quest for the perfect recipe. I like gingerbreads that are dark and molassesy but not bitter, with the perfect blend of sweetness and spice. And, of course, they must be distinctly gingery, so in general I've come to the conclusion that I prefer recipes that include fresh ginger root. This also helps the cake taste brighter; sometimes cakes like these which rely so fully on pantry staples and dried spices can taste dusty and muted.

In years past the main recipe I've turned to was from a family cookbook, which contained loads of fresh ginger. It's very good, but sometimes the stringiness of the ginger root bugged me a bit, and I can't forget that one time I served it to a guest who seemed to find it distasteful. I suspect that some sloppily-grated ginger reminded him of clumps of hair, which is what it sort of reminded me of, when I really thought about it.

Since this past Thanksgiving I've been making a gingerbread pear cake from Gourmet, which has turned out successfully a number of times. I don't use as much fresh ginger as it calls for, in part due to a fear of my terrifyingly sharp box grater which has drawn blood on more than one occasion. But also, the consensus of my test audience (mother, sister, husband) was that it was in fact too gingery. This recipe also felt a bit weighed down by the fruit, and ultimately I decided that I don't like stuff in gingerbread, or cakes in general, for that matter. I find I'm always trying to eat around the debris to get to the cake.

So I thought I would try this one, which contained no fresh ginger and no fruit. I felt optimistic that it might be the quick, simple, deeply-flavored gingery cake I've been searching for.

Unfortunately, this recipe was a complete dud. I'm not an expert, but I'm a good baker, and this recipe just fell flat. For one, it called for no sugar. As I was assembling the cake, I knew this could turn out to be its fatal flaw, but I like to do recipes by the book, at least the first time around. The second and very significant problem with this cake is that as I was whisking the water and melted butter into the dry ingredients, the butter completely seized up and the batter turned rapidly into an unruly, thick paste. At various points I had to push the dough through the whisk, as it was started to form a giant ball inside the wire strands. Nevertheless, being the rule follower I am, I persevered, whisking in the beaten eggs and molasses (yes, this seemed wrong to me that the eggs would be incorporated so late in the game), trying my best to whisk until the batter was smooth and lumpless, while worrying increasingly that my poor cake would turn out tough from overmixing.

Finally I scraped the hideous brown batter into a pan, stuck it in the oven, and hoped for the best.

Sadly, the cake was everything I hoped it wouldn't be, except for tough. It actually turned out with an odd, soft, and almost spongey consistency (which Kim Severson did allude to, so this is no fault of the recipe), with pale, unappetizing, pea-sized clumps of flour and butter running neatly through it. The cake was also very bitter--I should have trusted my instinct and added some brown sugar. And, perhaps worst of all, it didn't really taste like gingerbread. The miniscule amount of ground ginger --even good Penzey's ginger--failed to fight beyond the oppressiveness of the molasses.


Like most desserts, this one was partially remedied by Hagen Daz vanilla bean ice cream, and it was certainly to my advantage that we were consuming the cake while watching the next-to-last episode of "Dexter"--conversation of any topic was completely halted. Also, the lighting was dim. So, the poor quality of the cake was thankfully muffled a bit by external circumstances. Anyhow, I'm back to square one on the recipe front. But next time, I've got some ideas for my own recipe--it's about time I got braver on the baking front.

Pan Bagna at Cafe de la Presse

I had to get downtown today for a workshop, and was able to fit in lunch afterward at Cafe de la Presse. It's at the corner of Bush and Grant, across from the gates of Chinatown. It's a combination of a cafe and a newsstand, which happen to be two of my favorite things lumped into one. Who doesn't want to eat a croissant while paging through Australian Elle?

It appears that everyone who works at Cafe de la Presse is foreign, and at least half the people that go there are too. I'm 100% Californian and not well traveled, so when I go there I feel a little sheepish, as if for some reason I should be more cosmopolitan just to go there. But the staff is very friendly and warm, and I always shake that feeling quickly. Today I got waited on by a 20-something waiter with an ambiguous foreign accent and the appearance of having just finished skiing the Alps; he was very tall, tan, and blond, but not in a California way--a French or Swedish way. His smile was blinding. I felt a little like a hobbit.

Hobbit or no, when I'm there, I take care of business. They do a great croque monsieur and the loveliest, saltiest cornet of fries, but I usually get the pan bagna, which is olive oil-poached tuna on ciabatta, with butter lettuce, sliced fennel and cucumber, red peppers, tomato, egg, green beans, and very light pesto. It's like a salad Nicoise, but layered into a stunning and delicious sandwich, the primary lingering impression being of really good olive oil and good, crunchy vegetables.

The sandwich reminded me that as much as I like strong flavors, some of my favorite things are very delicate, like cucumber and celery. Celery! I could put celery in everything! I love its mild, grassy taste and pale, watery color. In my head, I lump these vegetables together, mostly for that summery, washed out shade of green, but also for having a very distinct but delicate flavor. I also include fennel in this group, and to some extent artichokes. (Incidentally, I just about lost my mind when I discovered cardoons, which, just like the Internet said, look like celery but taste like artichokes.)

No photo of the pan bagna, though. I guess technically I can take photos with my phone but I don't know how to get them from my phone to the computer. Ultimately, my technical abilities are pretty geriatric--I can type, and that's about it. But, I'm planning on changing this, starting this weekend. The husband and I are in search of some camera equipment. So, stay tuned.

How to cut up a chicken

One of the many things I regret not listening to my dad explain to me was how to cut up a chicken. Now that he's not around, I've had to figure it out myself. I'm not the type of person who's very good at looking at the wispy little drawings in cookbooks and translating that into my hands and the chicken on the cutting board. So it's taken a number of years and countless chickens until I finally feel I can do a respectable job of cutting one up.

The fact that we now roast a chicken almost every week has helped, although my poor husband had to listen to quite a bit of swearing over the last few years as I struggled to teach myself. The thigh was always my nemesis. Wing, drumstick, no prob. But the thigh was always tricky to outline and inevitably I ended up hacking into the joint, either resulting in a very tiny thigh or a weirdly large one carrying with it part of the bone that connects the thigh to the back I guess (do chickens have hips?).

Anyhow, I finally figured out a few things that really make it easier. 1) Let the meat rest. I knew this from a cooking standpoint--let the juices redistribute etc-- but letting it cool makes it much easier to handle and the parts become more distinct. 2) The order that works best for me goes: drumstick, breast, wing, thigh. And here's the secret with the breast: remove the entire breast off the bone, which is easy, but takes a bit of practice so you don't lose much of the meat, then slice cross-wise. I used to just slice it straight off, but I have to say, not only does it end up looking much prettier, but the cross-cutting makes for more tender chicken. Slicing it straight off results in unnecessary shredding. 3) Do not cut into the thigh until you find the joint. This is basic, I know, but it has generally been a problem for me, as I would get frustrated and end up angrily hacking through something or other just to get it done. But if the chicken isn't too hot and you're careful, you can find the joint and remove the thigh so it turns out intact.

I should have taken a picture of the chicken cutting procedure but juggling the chicken, knife, and camera seems tricky. The husband has been interested in helping me with the picture taking business so next time I will enlist his skills.