The Invention of Albertine: Confession of an Epicurean

―by guest writer AlbertCAN

“Indeed, my roving mind was busy with a thousand projects: a novel, travel, a play, marketing a fruit cocktail of my own invention. (Don’t ask for the recipe; I have forgotten it.)”
 ~Jean-Dominique Bauby, «Le Scaphandre et le Papillon» (1997)

Lucid intoxication is the best tease: a demure wink, the deft nudge. L'Art de la séduction interdite. With verve and panache, an exquisite intrigue is truly a meeting of the minds, for the transcendent provocation can only be mischievous when done right; any more or less the pas de deux of sensuality goes awry.

Regina Lambert: Oh, did they do that kind of thing way back in your day?
Peter Joshua: Sure. How do you think I got here?*

Source: Uploaded by user via Cheryl on Pinterest

Thus the psyche was in full epicurean swing when putting together my new signature champagne cocktail one recent morning, which took all but one nifty trial. Elena initially half-jokingly referred to it as Albertini—lovely idea, but the recipe’s lack of gin and vermouth called for a slightly different signature, so Albertine it was christened.

I have the recipe below, and true to my style it’s deceptively simple: always get the best quality ingredients one could afford when effortless chic is called for.

photo copyrighted by AlbertCAN

Albertine

One 750 mL bottle Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin brut champagne, well chilled
One carton (1 L) of unsweetened pineapple juice, well chilled
One bottle of orange blossom water
Twelve classic 6 oz. champagne flutes
Serves twelve: In each flûte à champagne add ¼ teaspoon of orange blossom water and ¼ cup of pineapple juice. The flute should be half full at this point. Top off with brut champagne. Serve immediately.

Vierge Albertine: Non-alcoholic variation. Substitute the champagne with equal part unflavoured sparkling water. (I prefer Perrier or San Pellegrino.)

Of course, the recipe in practice has plenty of savoir-faire in spades: get a 350 mL bottle of brut bubbly to halve the serving for an intimate six, or multiply thereafter according to one’s entertainment needs. Even compatible with all champagne glasses so long the master ratio below is followed:

¼ teaspoon orange blossom water for every ¼ cup unsweetened pineapple; half juice, half champagne in each glass.

I selected Veuve Clicquot because the aromatic bouquet is exceedingly smooth and intricate—not to mention beautifully priced in my end of Canada —yet frankly any dry sparkling wine of quality shall suffice. The operative words here being, of course, quality and sensibility: a delicate Prosecco could easily step in, but anything too cheaply priced is probably just, well, too cheap in taste. As for the exclusive editions of Perrier-Jouët, Louis Roederer Cristal and Dom Pérignon are definitely not expected—but who am I to say no to Dom Pérignon at a perfect moment?

Now a word of caution: Albertine, not unlike the eponymous heroine in Proust’s «À la recherche du temps perdu», goes down smooth and lingers on. An undisciplined can easily glean over six servings at once! So please experiment responsibly.

The champagne cocktail is dedicated to Jean-Dominique Bauby, whose memoir “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly” honed my aesthetics many moons ago.

"My diving bell becomes less oppressive, and my mind takes flight like a butterfly. There is so much to do. You can wander off in space or in time, set out for Tierra del Fuego or for King Midas's court. You can visit the woman you love, slide down beside her and stroke her still-sleeping face. You can build castles in Spain, steal the Golden Fleece, discover Atlantis, realise your childhood dreams and adult ambitions." -Jean Dominique Bauby, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

* Quotes from “Charade” (1963)

Festive Aromas: Pork Carré with Dried Apricots and Prunes

Nothing spells holidays like a gathering around the hearth, on the festive table, with good company of loved ones and sensuous food and drink to make mortality seem like an afterthought. Although many roast a turkey for the holidays, the traditional dish for Christmas in Greece has always been pork, prepared in a variety of ways. Since the pantry is so rich in dried fruits and herbs that hint at the summery pleasures nostalgically preserved for the solstice, I prefer to make the following recipe. It's very easy and quick and truly delicious, as the intermingling of flavors oscillates between savory, sweet and umami.

Ingredients

16 small cutlets of tender pork with bone (2 carrés, reserved at your butcher's)
28 dried apricots (without pits)
28 dried prunes (without pits)
8 onions, peeled & cut in halves
800ml (2.5 cans) lager beer
2 teaspoons dried thyme
1/2 teaspoon cardamom (powdered or very finely chopped)
8 spoons extra virgin olive oil
salt and pepper to taste

For the sauce
100ml white wine
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard


1.Preheat the oven at 170C.
2.Place onions, apricots and prunes in a bowl soaked in the beer for a quarter of an hour. Then drain and keep the marinate liquid.
3.Place the pork on a heatproof pan and drizzle oil and marinate over it. Sprinkle the herbs and spices and put in the oven for 1.5 hours.
4.Then add the marinated onions, prunes and apricots and let it sit for another 40 minutes, taking care so as not to let it dry (you can add spoonfuls of water if it starts having no liquid).
5.When done, transfer into pretty flatware and serve with the cooked fruits around the edges. Keep a little of the liquid off the pan at hand for the sauce.
6.Put the liquid in a small pan on the stove, add the wine and the mustard and let simmer for 5 minutes. Check for taste/saltiness. Pour over the meat and serve on the table.

It accompanies rice pilaf (preferably prepared with pine nuts and roasted chestnuts) or baked potatoes perfectly!

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate and a happy time for all!

pic via gastronomos.gr

Lemon Verbena Cream with Blackberries & Blueberries Tart: The Taste of Early Autumn Prolonged

The flavor of verbena, lemony tart and yet with a slightly bitter, herbaceous edge to it, is incomparable when used in haute cuisine. It lends the freshness of lemon without the resinous facets, while on the other hand it has a refined and uncommon profile. It's enough to use it in panacotta or crème brûlée once (or indeed as an enhancer of the meatier edges of meat or fish) to get hooked. The small, uppermost top leaves of verbena are the most tender, as are the small blossoms, handy when homegrown for the kitchen, easy to find in the grocer's, farmers' market and specialty super-markets or dried in spices & fine tea stores. 

The joy of early autumn and of the harvest season is encapsulated in a filling and eye-catching crust tart, so different than the expected pumpkin pie, hereby filled with the pillowy lemon verbena flavored cream and strewn with blackberries and blueberries: the contrast between sweet and sour is a play on the taste buds like no other.

It would be wonderful to accompany this culinary duet with the iconic, classic L'Artisan Perfumeur fragrance Mûre et Musc (Blackberry and Musk) which juxtaposes the tartness of berries with the fruity facets of a specific musk ingredient. So here's to the perfect pairing of food and perfume!

via phillymarketcafe.blogspot.com

Here is an appetising, gorgeous looking recipe adapted from pastry sous-chef Michael Brock's (of Los Angeles's Boule) Mara des Bois Strawberry Napoleons recipe:

Ingredients:

0.5 pound/ 0.220kg cold, all-butter puff pastry dough
2/3 cup whole milk
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup loosely packed fresh or dried whole lemon verbena leaves
1/2 vanilla bean, split, seeds scraped
2 large egg yolks
1 1/2 teaspoons cornstarch
2 teaspoons all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon unflavored gelatin
1 tablespoon water
1/2 cup heavy cream
2 cups approx. of fresh blackberries and blueberries

Preparation:

1. Preheat your oven to 375°F/190°C.

2. Prepare the pastry: Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. On a lightly floured work surface, roll out the puff pastry and then transfer to sheet. Chill for 10 minutes in the fridge. Then cover the pastry with parchment paper and top with another baking sheet (to prevent the pastry from puffing when baking). Bake for about 35 minutes. Remove sheet and parchment on top and let it cool completely off while you prepare the cream.

3. Make the cream: Bring the milk and sugar to a simmer in a saucepan. Add the lemon verbena leaves and the vanilla bean and seeds. Remove from the heat, cover and let stand for 15 minutes. Strain into a measuring cup. In a bowl, whisk the egg yolks with cornstarch and flour and slowly whisk in the hot milk. Pour the mixture into the saucepan and cook until the pastry cream is thick and comes off the sides of the pan. Transfer the pastry cream to a bowl.

4. In a glass bowl, sprinkle the gelatin over the water and let stand until it becomes soft. Heat the gelatin on bain-mari until melted. Whisk the gelatin into the warm pastry cream until they're mixed well. Now chill the cream in the fridge.

5. Use your electric mixer to beat the heavy cream until it stiffens. Fold the the remaining whipped cream with a rubber spatula into the refridgerated lemon verbena cream and put in the fridge again for a few minutes.

6. When thoroughly chilled, pour the cream over the pastry and decorate with fresh blackberries and blueberries and a twig of verbena leaves.

 Bon appetit!

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Aromatic Cuisine, scented recipes and epicurean adventures

Eggplant: Colour and Aroma of the Season

Eggplants (or aubergines as they're also known in the UK, the word derived from from the Arabic al-baðinjān) are a summer delight at the farmer's market and in my kitchen: Their varied colours and shapes (long and more rounded, in an endless spectrum) are sorely tempting, almost pleading with me to buy a few of each as I pass through the open-air market stalls with my basket in hand. One variety's really dark purplish colour almost resembles the shade of my hair in the sun and had thus always attracted me.
The exotic genus of Solanum melongena, part of the Nightshade family with its dangerous reputation, bears something of the dark attraction of India and Pakistan where the plant originates from; and also some distant relation to other solaceae plants such as the tomato and the potato. The little seeds inside the eggplant fruit, containing nicotinoid alcaloids (related to tobacco) burst forth with a bracing bitterness which is testament to the power of the human mind to find beauty in difficulty and hinder. Now that eggplants are still sticking around a little while longer, before the first frost makes them only available through the hothouse (not my choice if I can possibly avoid it!) this post is trying to capture the last rays of sun on their glistening, slick backs and bid them farewell till next spring.

The earthy, tangy and bittersweet aroma of eggplant had been my initiation rite from childhood onwards to the mystique of "grown up food" and its acquired taste delights. Luckily for myself my father loved his "meat and potatoes" meals which ~quite contrarily, as any church boy can tell you their family is probably atheist~ had the amiable effect of making me love just about anything apart from meat and potatoes from a very early age. Mother was bragging at elementary school meetings how I consumed my vegetables and legumes not only with tolerance, but actual glee! Aubergines especially were among my very favourite, an unusual trait for a child, as the vegetable is bitter by its nature. But my mother was savvy to exquisite kitchen arcana that involved little tips to be divulged at a later date: One of them is she used to salt them meticulously before broiling on the stove making the roasting aroma of eggplant one of the most beloved and nostalgic pangs I can feel in my heart of hearts even now. The whole house was aromatized by it and coming back from school I knew there was melitzanosalata on the table (aubergine paste, basically, although "salata" means salad in Greek); it's still one of my favourite goes-with-everything accompaniments on the table (Just try to resist spreading on roasted fresh bread and then we can talk). She used the pulp of the roasted eggplant scooped out with a spoon to prepare it, some crumbled feta cheese (the salty flavour again rounding off the bitterness admirably), a couple of teaspoons of extra virgin olive oil and a little finely chopped fresh garlic and blended them in a hand mixer. It was utterly delicious!

We also used to mix the roasted pulp with fresh Greek yoghurt, the paste/dip becoming a bit blander, for when there was another spirited, fiesty dish on the table and we didn't want them to antagonise; or prepared melanzana alla parmigiana and the French classic ratatouille niçoise for when we were hungrier. My grandmothers customarily prepared a main course with aubergines originating in the Near East: Either Imam bayildi (a Turkish dish literally meaning "the imam fainted", infered by pleasure of course, in which eggplants are roasted in the over, cut in half in olive oil, covered with lots of chopped onion, chopped garlic and tomato slices on top until they sweeten) or the classic moussaka with its sautéed eggplant and tomato-sauce-minced-meat layers under the thick, golden crisp béchamel sauce . I make Sicilian involtini myself nowadays. But la crème de la crème of aubergine dishes in my opinion is the Levantine baba ghanoush (بابا غنوج bābā ġanūj), a similar to melitzanosalata paste of light brown shade with so dense a smoky aroma that it is as much hypnotizing to the senses as the sound of a flute is to a cobra. I certainly can't put the spoon down!

According to the Arabs, who first brought eggplant to the West during the early Middle Ages and indirectly gave it its botanical name, "If your future wife can't prepare aubergine 50 different ways, reconsider marrying". (The info comes from Janna Gur's Book of New Israeli Food which is excellent) In Morocco and Lebanon, people eat them fried up along with hummus made from chickpeas and tahini, spreading on small pieces of pita bread. I very much liked this version and am recommending it to you as well.

Recipe for Fried Eggplants with Hummus

You will need four-five purple eggplants, preferably the long, slender variety with white and purple stripes. Also olive oil for frying and all-purpose-flour, a little salt and pepper and 1 cup of soda water for battering. It takes about 20 minutes to prepare and makes enough quantity for 3-4 people as a side-dish.

1.Put the olive oil in a pan, it should be about two fingers deep and bring it to a frying temperature. (Test it for readiness by sticking a piece of the vegetable in it, if it sizzles, it's ready. You want it to be really, really hot so the eggplants don't absorb too much oil but form a crust immediately)
2.In the meantime peel the eggplants taking care to leave a thin stripe of the peel every inch or so and cut them to pieces: I prefer to slice them or cut them in small cubes about an inch thick.
3.Mix a cup of all-purpose flour, a pinch of salt and a pinch of pepper and a cup of soda water in a deep plate and lightly cover the pieces/slices of the eggplant.
4.Fry them until they turn dark golden, they should be a little crispy but not darken too much. They tend to absord a lot of oil, so drain them on a plate lined with kitchen paper for a while.
5.Salt them some more and serve hot with hummus sprinkled with roasted pine-nuts and some pita bread to bring out all the humble, earthy elements nicely.
If you don't have a reputable Middle-Eastern deli in your area or have the inclination to make hummus from scratch, here is an easy and quite decent recipe.

As an epilogue, no matter how utterly lovely and intriguing I find the smoky aroma of roasted eggplant, I have been searching for it to no avail in some form of a scented product (Have you been successful? I need the feedback, if you have). Perfumers might not have succumbed to its charms yet, nor have home fragrance producing companies, probably because they think that its peculiar scent is not attuned to the sensibilities of western societies who associate smoky with campfires or electrical wire troubles and not indoor fun activities. Still, I am throwing the idea on the table and hoping that the tanginess and earthiness of this dark, slick beauty will find imitators soon.

Pic of eggplants via elements4health.com, pic of frying eggplant by Elena Vosnaki

A Taste of Bergamot

While travelling on scented adventures across the globe I distinctly recall the uplifting properties that a rind of bergamot tucked in my pocket for difficult moments imparted on my nausated self. A brief whiff of its aromatherapeutic properties was my lucky charm to aliviate the stress of traveling and make me focus. It was only much later I learned that it was the traveller of travellers, Christopher Columbus, who first brought the tree to the Caribbean, where it was popularly used in voodoo rituals to protect against misfortune and that it's still used in in hoodoo rootwork, to control or command individuals!

Antonio Familiari, an 80-year-old former school teacher who tends bergamot groves off Calabria's coast in Italy is definite on the subject:"The bergamot is an intelligent creature. Its arrival in Calabria is shrouded in mystery, and even though it grows elsewhere, only in this area does it give us the essential oil", while his nails claw on a bergamot releasing the little stream of droplets that posses a soft orange undertone under the lemon sharpness. Ezio Pizzi, a 62-year-old former lawyer who returned to his family's bergamot plot after his father died a decade ago is equally enthralled by the fruit: "When I think about the possibilities for bergamot fruit, I get goosebumps." On the outskirts of Reggio di Calabria, Francesco Crispo, director of the state-founded Consortium of Bergamot Growers, has a plan for a 1,500-square metre, seven million-euro institute of perfumery.
But apart from the established role of bergamot in perfumery, is there some way of utilizing this heavenly scent into something that combines the aromatherapeutic with the gluttony? As in food and drink?

The stimulating and pleasantly refined aroma of bergamot has always been a companion in my black tea, in the form of beloved Earl Grey, possibly the best-known incarnation for most people. Its distinctive flavour and aroma derives from the addition of oil extracted from the rind of the bergamot orange; the name on the other hand derives from the 2nd Earl of Grey, British Prime Minister (1830-1834) and author of the Reform Bill of 1832, who reputedly received the aromatized tea and the recipe as a diplomatic gift by a Chinese nobleman who thus thanked him for saving his life. History proves otherwise, but that shouldn't deter you from enjoying a full cup nevertheless! Twinings, one of the loose leaves black tea brands I buy out of tradition, still has the emblem of the Earl on their nostalgic, metallic canisters. Their newest addition Lady Grey is a little pale for my tastes, but you might like it. Fortnum & Mason has a superior Earl Grey blend in their loose leaves tins and is a purchase that won't break the bank. Clearly the many drinkers of Earl Grey have been enjoying this rich, elegant richness above all else and one of the loveliest blends you can try is Adagio Earl Grey Bravo (or Aristocrate), while I also like the balanced approach of Upton Teas Earl Grey Ceylon Select. Perhaps the best novel idea I can give you is to actually ice the tea and drink it for refreshment in the summer: much more invigorating and satisfying than plain black tea with lemon!

Yet bergamot has other uses in flavourful incarnations, even though the fruit is inedible, prompting the owner of this small garden on Zante island to proclaim on this funny placard on his midget trees "they're bergamots, not lemons", to deter poachers from cutting off the fruit to use in their kitchen.

One of the loveliest and easiest ideas is to aromatize a white liquor with the washed, peeled rind. Just peel the fruit, remove the white underside, cut in small rolls and press them inside the neck of a bottle of alcholic drink. Leave them be for a couple of weeks and you will see. The idea is not drastically creative, as Triple Sec has been using citrus essences on a base of brandy distillation to act as a digestif for decades. But it's good to expand. The idea works well with Italian Grappa as well as Vino Greco and I have personally used it with good results in light white rum and local ρακί/raki. The resulting potion can be used in cocktails, imparting a delicately bitter fruity flavour.

The most traditional and devilishly tempting proposition of them all however is the Greek Bergamot spoonful treat: a single spoonful of candied fruit dessert that is served on very small crystal plates and chased down with an icy cold glass of water. The flavour is so concentrated and intense that you won't need another one. And although it's so full of sugar it has no fat whatsoever, rending it a very healthy dessert. You can buy them ready-made, but they're breezily easy to make, so here is a handed-down recipe.

Recipe for Bergamot Spoonful Sweet
You will need:

7 fresh bergamots
white sugar, as much in weight as the bergamots
water
juice of 1 lemon
1 and 1/2 cup of water for the final boil
juice of 1/2 lemon for the final boil
toothpicks
clean, boiled jar with tight-fitting lid

1. Wash the bergamots, wipe and using a kitchen scrub pad scrub until outer becomes bright yellow.
2. Cut a little off the top and the bottom and score with a sharp knife into three or four parts. With the tip of the knife, remove the skin and throw away the inner part. Remove as much white pith from the bergamot peels as possible, because it's very bitter.
3.Pick the rolls of rind and roll them securing them with the toothpicks. Place them in a large saucepan and cover them in water.
4. Bring to boiling point for 2 – 3 minutes. Remove the water and substitute with fresh. Repeath Step 4 for 3-4 times. This can be done on consecutive days or on the same day to remove some of the bitterness. The more diaphanous the water becomes, the less bitter it has got.
5.On the last boiling procedure empty hot water, add fresh cold water and the juice of 1 lemon. Put them again to boil for 10 minutes. Remove from stove and leave until the water cools. Drain them and put them on the pot again.
6.Now add the sugar and the water. Leave them for half an hour and then boil. Lower heat to medium for 15 minutes. Remove from heat and leave for a while.
Bring the bergamots again to a boil, simmer for about an hour, or until the liquid becomes clear and thick (You'll know it's ready when it forms "set" droplets that leave the spoon reluctantly when dropped). Finally add the other lemon juice, stir and leave to cool completely.
7. Place the fruit in clean jars with a lid, close tightly and place them upside down for a couple of minutes. You can keep them in a cupboard for a year.


Related reading on PerfumeShrine: the Bergamot Series, Aromatic Cuisine (scented escapades in the kitchen)

Photos copyright by PerfumeShrine and via Gayot.com

In Search of Madeleines: Part 2 ~the Modern Twists

~by guest writer AlbertCAN

‘Tis should have been with a more grandiose setting, but one of the defining moments of my life took place in a non-descript evening when I was only eight. My father, tired of all the usual derivative comedy sketches the television had to offer, bluntly declared that all variations in life were merely the combination and the recombination of existing ideas. Being a researcher at a prestigious national laboratory, he promptly recalled how his fellow researchers simply grouped existing ideas and transformed them with an interesting twist. Voilà! A new idea would be born if one only looked at the past hard enough.Few people may consider my late father as a genius in disguise but I am starting to see how his theory has grown on me. (Years ago, unable to explain my father’s difficult life, an astrologer could only utter that my father was meant to be, figuratively speaking, a water dragon untimely stranded on a shallow beach. Sadly, such a poetic remark couldn’t have been more appropriate.) While I don’t agree with everything my father had to offer, his minute lecture on the way of innovation year ago has stuck with me to this day.

Yes, truly revolutionary ideas notwithstanding I now believe the revolving idea underneath all this shall be neatly summed by the insightful French proverb “Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.” [The more things change, the more they remain the same.] Actually, such caveat is necessary when exploring the modern incarnations of the legendary madeleines—perhaps such a paradigm will allow the offerings to sound less sacrilegious. After all, as Baudelaire might say, the silent muse has her mysterious, fickle ways…But how can a classic French delicacy, given its intricate negotiation of gastronomic ratios, manage to produce a gamut of modern incarnations? Surprisingly enough, I believe the infinite variations of madeleine have something to do with its easy-going nature: while the cakes do not withstand the test of time once baked, the master recipe itself is shockingly reliant. During the research stage of my writing I have tried almost all the quasi-Frankenstein gastronomic experimentations on the cakes—a tad less of sugar here, a larceny of butter (yes, I even used soft-spread margarine with a 5% fat content), a wild swap of exotic flavours, a change of mixing process…and time after time the madeleines rise to the challenge. Sure, sometime the cakes sulk when I ask too much, leaving me with depressingly sunken hunchbacks (yes, I’m not kidding)—but never once had I failed to produce tender, flavourful morsels that couldn’t delight the people around me. I even got lucky a few times and discovered lovely twists along the way—you can too so long the following guidelines are followed:

Locate fail-proof, all-purpose master recipes first: follow the instructions very carefully before venturing on your own. DO NOT EXPERIMENT WITH THE FUNDEMENTS UNTIL YOU KNOW THE MASTER RECIPES INSIDE AND OUT.
When experimenting with your own twist the general ratio of wet ingredients (sugar, egg, butter, flavouring agents) and dry ingredients (flour, baking powder, salt, occasional flavouring agents) must be held relatively constant. If you work with a top-notch master recipe a benign switch of equivalent ingredients from time to time shall not deflate the results. (God knows how many times I have switched the flavours due to a random change of heart.) However, hell shall have no fury like an ill-proportioned batch of madeleines that refuse to come out of the pan!
Carefully (and I do mean carefully) record your changes so the results can be replicated once successful—or promptly head back to the drawing board if the result is less than satisfactory.
Be honest upon evaluating the success of the variation. A great madeleine recipe must produce plump cakes with a soft, airy texture with an intricate aroma. Any flavour that gets lost in the asthmatics of egg and butter, no matter how precious in the first place, shouldn’t be recognized as a success. Worse, any flavour that refuses to blend in shall be a Proustian nightmare!

So how diverse can the modern madeleines be? Well, by the virtue of straight-on ingredient substitutions the lemon zest flavour can be switched into almost any other citrus flavour—orange, clementine, tangerine, mandarin varieties can be quite common. (On the other hand I haven’t tried grapefruit, yuzu and pomelo, so I can’t comment on those versions.) The classic madeleine can even shed its vanilla image by, well, getting rid of its vanilla extract element by choosing to be scented with rose, neroli or lavender water. Moreover, chefs have even engineered gastronomic hybridizations by blending elements of madeleines with another French classic: financier.
The colourful past of the financiers should be duly noted before progressing further. A financier, simply put, is a tea cake marked by the addition of almond, icing sugar, and/or beurre noisette (caramelized butter), traditionally baked in coin-shaped rectangular moulds since it became popular in the chic financial district which immediately surrounded the old Bourse Paris, the financial heart of the French capital that pulsed at its own rhythm blocks away from the iconic La Madeleine. The financiers are said to have received their name due to the patronage of the rich bankers, whose waistlines undoubtedly plumped up with a few unabashed servings of these plump cakes. (The French people, above all, aren’t short of a dry sense of humour.)[*]

With the information above I have here a humble fruit of labour: a hybrid between a madeleine and a financier recipe. Originally I used orange blossom water for flavouring, but the black sheep within ended up using osmanthus syrup instead. The transcendence of the osmanthus aroma has been widely noted (including in my blog when I did a review on Hermès Osmanthe Yunnan). A quick word on osmanthus flavouring, however: I used osmanthus syrup (糖桂花), which is free of salt and preserved plum unlike the traditional osmanthus paste (桂花醬). Actually, I dislike osmanthus paste so much that I wouldn’t use it in a million years! I got my osmanthus syrup (below), from T&T Supermarket, the Asian-Canadian supermarket chain here in Canada, although I’m sure any respectable Asian specialty grocery store shall carry it. If you can’t find it then simply substitute the osmanthus syrup with orange blossom water, although the flavour shall obviously be different.

Anyhow, the recipe:
Orange Almond Madeleines with Osmanthus

1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/3 cup blanch almond, finely grounded
3/4 tsp. double-acting baking power (do not use regular)
Pinch of salt
1/2 cup of sugar
Grated zest of ¼ sweet orange
2 large eggs, at room temperature
2 tsp. osmanthus syrup
3/4 stick (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter, melted and cooled

To bake the new madeleines, simply make the following substitutions in the traditional madeleine recipe:

1. Blend the 1/3 cup of all-purpose flour, 1/3 cup blanch almond with the double-acting baking powder and salt.
2. Substitute the lemon zest with orange zest: add the orange with the osmanthus syrup when mixing them with sugar.
Follow the rest of the instruction as is and you shall be rewarded with something close to the following batch I made a few days ago. (Sorry about the excessive dusting of flour—it was about 5 A.M. by the time I finished baking these…)

Well, as you might have noticed I mentioned a generic variation first, for my fidgeting of the traditional recipe shall pale in comparison to Pierre Hermé’s daring chocolate madeleines recipe, almost a hybrid between a devil’s food cake and…something else altogether: given the rich chocolate flavour the cake is surprisingly chocolate-free, relying only on a few tablespoons of cocoa powder to do the trick. In fact, I now consider this to be the Serge Lutens of madeleines, for the simple ingredients yield a multitude of effects that are simply beyond description: the lemon simply floats above the dense flavour, providing just the right contrast to the chocolate flavour. Moreover, the chocolate madeleines store extremely well—these are the only ones that won’t become sticky in room temperature. Quite the opposite: the chocolate madeleines may become a little dry but it’s perfect for Proustian dipping!
Since I’m reviewing the recipe I shall simply type out the instruction. The following is from “Chocolate Desserts by Pierre Hermé” by Dorie Greenspan: I shall complete my review of this recipe after quoting the instruction.

Chocolate and Lemon Madeleines by Pierre Hermé

An overnight rest in the refrigerator is what gives these madeleines that characteristic bump in the center. If you’re in a hurry, chill them for an hour—you won’t get as pronounced a bump, but the cookies will bake better for the hill. (Pierre Hermé)

½ cup plus 1 tablesppon (70 grams) all-purpose flour
3 ½ tablespoons Dutch-processed cocoa powder, preferably Valrhona
½ teaspoon double-acting baking powder
1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons (90 grams) sugar
Pinch of salt
Grated zest of ¼ lemon
2 large eggs, at room temperature
6 ½ tablespoons (3 ¼ ounces; 100 grams) unsalted butter, at room temperature

1. Sift together the flour, cocoa, and baking powder and set aside. Put the sugar, salt, and lemon zest in a medium bowl and rub everything together with your fingertips until the sugar is moist, grainy, and very aromatic.
2. Using a whisk, beat the eggs into the lemon-sugar until the mixture is blended. Squish the butter through your fingers or smear it under the heel of your hand to create what is called a pomade and add it to the bowl. Still working with the whisk, beat in the butter just to get it evenly distributed. Gently whisk in the sifted flour mixture, stirring only until the flour is incorporated and the mixture is smooth. Press a piece of plastic wrap against the surface of the batter and chill it overnight before baking. The overnight rest helps the cookies develop the characteristic bump on their backs; if you don’t have time for an overnight rest, try to give the batter at least an hour in the refrigerator.
3. When you are ready to bake the cookies, center a rack in the oven and pre-heat the oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit (220 degrees Celsius). Butter a 12-mold madeleine pan, then dust the molds with flour, tapping out the excess. (Even if you have a non-stick madeleine pan, it’s a good idea to butter and flour the molds.)
4. Divide the batter evenly among the madeleine molds. Don’t worry about flattening the batter—the heat will do that. Place the pan in the oven, insert a wooden spoon in the door to keep it slight ajar, and immediately turn the oven temperature down to 350 degrees Fahrenheit (180 degrees Celsius). Bake the cookies for 13 to 15 minutes, or until they are domed and spring back when pressed lightly. Unmold the cookies onto a work surface—you may have to rap the madeleine pan against the counter to release the cookies—then transfer them to a rack to cool to room temperature.

Makes 12 cookies

Keeping: Madeleines can be kept at room temperature in an airtight tin for about 2 days or frozen for up to 2 weeks.

I’ve been baking using the recipe above for almost a year now and it’s just generally a dream to work with…except two minute details. Firstly, I find the butter-smearing process a bit of a nightmare to execute, for the lumps of butter require extra elbow grease in order to incorporate the fat into the batter. (Eventually I simply just melt the butter and blend it as is, which works out just as well in my humble opinion.) Secondly, a temperature-related issue: I find the oven-door-jamming trick, as ingenious as it is, to be too much a hassle for me, so I just set my oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

So does the chocolate recipe allow one to substitute an infinite variety of citrus zest, just like the original madeleine? Unfortunately, no. So far the lemon works best: the others simply become too muted in the end. Even lime and mandarin zests become very subtle in comparison to the chocolate flavour. I have, however, enjoyed a strange pleasure of blending the recipe with its companion, tea…

You see, while specs of unfurled tea leaves can be unsightly when shown against the primrose-tinted classic madeleines, the dark chocolate backdrop generally hides the tea. In fact, the combination is so elegant that I am considering forgoing the pain-staking zest-grating process altogether! While Darjeeling tea and Earl Grey tea works reasonably well, my favorite is actually masala chai. Somehow the combination produces very subtly spicy cakes with an interesting texture: it is actually a pleasure to bite into fine pieces of clove and ginger. So with the modifications above I present you the third variation based on the recipe by Pierre Hermé:

Masala Chai Chocolate Madeleines

½ cup plus 1 tablesppon (70 grams) all-purpose flour
3 ½ tablespoons Dutch-processed cocoa powder, preferably Valrhona
½ teaspoon double-acting baking powder
1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons (90 grams) sugar)
Pinch of salt
2 tsps of chai tea[†]
2 large eggs, at room temperature
6 ½ tablespoons (3 ¼ ounces; 100 grams) unsalted butter, at room temperature, melted

1.Sift together the flour, cocoa, and baking powder: set aside. Using another bowl, blend the sugar, salt, and chai tea together thoroughly.

2.Using a whisk, beat the eggs and incorporate into the chai-sugar mixture. Still working with the whisk, barely beat in the melted butter. Gently whisk in the sifted flour mixture, gently stir until the flour mixture is fully incorporated, care not to overbeat the batter. Press a piece of plastic wrap against the surface of the batter and chill it for at least one hour before use, although best to refrigerate it overnight.

3.Prior to baking center a rack in the oven and pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit (180 degrees Celsius). Carefully utter a 12-mold madeleine pan, dusting the molds with flour and tapping out the excess.

4.Divide the batter evenly among the madeleine molds. Bake the cookies for 13 to 15 minutes or until they are domed and spring back when pressed lightly. Unmold the cookies onto a work surface and transfer them to a rack to cool to room temperature.

Makes 12 cookies

Anyhow, my batch looks like this…

So with the infinite varieties of modern madeleines, I hope this post has inspired you come up with your own set of variations: who knows, maybe these cakes will enrich your aromatic memories as well!

Photos: Osmanthus syrup from blog.sina.com.cn/junsmore, madeleine photos by AlbertCAN.
[*] Poilâne, one of the famous boulengeries in Paris, makes a chic shortbread cookie sinisterly titled “Punitions” (Punishment), a wink to the consequences if one gives in one too many times.
[†] You may need to quickly grind the tea if the spices are a bit chunky for your taste, although I have never had such problems. I prefer using organic chai tea. You might want to toast the tea in a small saucepan before use, though I often don’t do so for the sake of simplicity.

In Search of Madeleines: Part 1 The Classics

~by guest writer AlbertCAN

What an interesting lot fragrance writers are, we chase after the perfect expression, the luminous declaration that can somehow make the intricate olfactory monsoon utterable. More offten than not we all try to crystallize the fleeting, unexpected, momentary rapture in time that can stay dormant for decades, only to be silently detonated in our cognition years later when we reacquaint with our old sensory fling. It does not help, however, that the collective human experience has, by and large, left us relatively few links between our sense of smell and language. When writers propose words such as florid, verdant, spicy, saccharine, we all are in fact connecting our experience with other things (flowers, greens, spices, sugar), thus defining one smell by another smell or another sense. Smells are our partners in crime, but we cannot speak of their true identities—instead, we can only reflect our feelings, thus proclaiming scents to be “transcendent”, “nauseating”, or “mesmerizing”.

Do we, therefore, perceive smells as indirectly as we describe it? Absolutely not: we literally become one with the aromatic molecules when we perceive them. In fact, it is the olfactory-verbal gap that prevents most of us from sharing our various sensory encounters. Perhaps it is exactly this inability that encourages us to appreciate literary gems that immortalize, as Shakespeare put it, the “suppliance of a minute”. The epitome of such eloquence, or as Chandler Burr once wrote, “our touchstone for the power of smell over memory”, would be Marcel Proust’s passage on petit madeleines in “Swann’s Way” (from the first volume of “Remembrance of Things Past”). Here’s the translated passage from Project Gutenberg. I have here also included a comical representation of the section by Stephané Heuet.

"Many years had elapsed during which nothing of Combray, save what was comprised in the theatre and the drama of my going to bed there, had any existence for me, when one day in winter, as I came home, my mother, seeing that I was cold, offered me some tea, a thing I did not ordinarily take. I declined at first, and then, for no particular reason, changed my mind. She sent out for one of those short, plump little cakes called 'petites madeleines,' which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted scallop of a pilgrim's shell. And soon, mechanically, weary after a dull day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid, and the crumbs with it, touched my palate than a shudder ran through my whole body, and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary changes that were taking place. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, but individual, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory--this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me, it was myself. I had ceased now to feel mediocre,accidental, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I was conscious that it was connected with the taste of tea and cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could not, indeed, be of the same nature as theirs. Whence did it come? What did it signify? How could I seize upon and define it?

I drink a second mouthful, in which I find nothing more than in the first, a third, which gives me rather less than the second. It is time to stop; the potion is losing its magic. It is plain that the object of my quest, the truth, lies not in the cup but in myself. The tea has called up in me, but does not itself understand, and can only repeat indefinitely with a gradual loss of strength, the same testimony; which I, too, cannot interpret, though I hope at least to be able to call upon the tea for it again and to find it there presently, intact and at my disposal, for my final enlightenment. I put down my cup and examine my own mind. It is for it to discover the truth. But how? What an abyss of uncertainty whenever the mind feels that some part of it has strayed beyond its own borders; when it, the seeker, is at once the dark region through which it must go seeking, where all its equipment will avail it nothing. Seek? More than that: create. It is face to face with something which does not so far exist, to which it alone can give reality and substance, which it alone can bring into the light of day. [...]

And suddenly the memory returns. The taste was that of the little crumb of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before church-time), when I went to say good day to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of real or of lime-flower tea. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the interval, without tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks' windows, that their image had dissociated itself from those Combray days to take its place among others more recent; perhaps because of those memories, so long abandoned and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was scattered; the forms of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry, so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds, were either obliterated or had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my consciousness. But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still, alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.

And once I had recognized the taste of the crumb of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-flowers which my aunt used to give me (although I did not yet know and must long postpone the discovery of why this memory made me so happy) immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her room was, rose up like the scenery of a theatre to attach itself to the little pavilion, opening on to the garden, which had been built out behind it for my parents (the isolated panel which until that moment had been all that I could see); and with the house the town, from morning to night and in all weathers, the Square where I was sent before luncheon, the streets along which I used to run errands, the country roads we took when it was fine. And just as the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water and steeping in it little crumbs of paper which until then are without character or form, but, the moment they become wet, stretch themselves and bend, take on colour and distinctive shape, become flowers or houses or people, permanent and recognisable, so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann's park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and of its surroundings, taking their proper shapes and growing solid, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea. "

Although I am saddened to report that lime-flower tea is largely no longer readily available nowadays, the heritage of baking madeleines at households still marches on. One clarification is required, however: while it's Proust who gets all the credit for making madeleines a household name, the origin of the name traces back to King Stanislas Leszczynski of Poland (October 20, 1677 – February 23, 1766), who, in the eighteenth century, tasted a tea cake made by a local in Commercy, France. He was so delighted with the cookie that he named it after the baker, Madeleine.

Culinary-wise the traditional madeleine is a cookie made from a sponge cake batter. While the batter gives the delicacy airiness and texture, while the tiny-bubbled crumb is très raffiné, the traditional madeleine also soaks up moisture rather quickly, resulting in a wan, soggy mess once left in room temperature for more than 24 hours. Fortunately, madeleine rewards patience, as its flavour can only be properly developed if the batter is properly chilled; therefore, you should plan ahead—bake them when you are ready to eat them! Besides, the delicate combination of lemon, vanilla and butter is so relaxing that perhaps it is more sane to reject the classic altogether. With this in mind I have an excellent recipe inspired by “Baking: From My Home to Yours” by Dorie Greenspan.
(NOTE: Madeleine performs best if the batter is properly refrigerated. The long chilling period will help the batter form its characteristic bump; 4 hours of refrigeration will suffice if one wishes not to witness the traditional protruded back—or simply in a hurry to devour the delicacy.)

Traditional Madeleines Recipe

Using madeleine cookie moulds, either in regular or miniature size, is best for this recipe. When baking multiple batches I prefer working with a pair of identical madeleine moulds at the same time so each tray can properly cool between each batch. I got my moulds from Williams-Sonoma but offerings from your local cookware store will largely suffice. (This recipe makes 12 large or 36 mini cookies)

2/3 cup all-purpose flour
¾ teaspoon baking powder
Pinch of salt
½ cup sugar
Grated zest of 1 lemon
2 large eggs, at room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
¾ stick (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
(Optional: confectioners' sugar, for dusting)Metric convertion table here.

1.In a clean bowl whisk together flour, baking powder and salt. Set aside.

2.In a separate large bowl combine sugar and lemon zest. Rub the sugar and lemon zest together with your fingertips until the sugar is moist and fragrant. Add the eggs to the bowl. Working with the whisk attachment, or with a hand mixer, beat the eggs and sugar together on medium-high speed until pale, thick and light, about 2-3 minutes. Thoroughly blend in the vanilla extract.

3.With a rubber spatula, very gently fold in the dry ingredients, followed by the melted butter.(short instruction video)

4.Gently press a piece of plastic wrap against the surface of the batter and refrigerate it for at least 4 hours, or for up to 2 days.

5.About 20 minutes prior to baking centre a rack in the oven and preheat the oven to 400 degrees F or 375F if you want to play it safe. See this chart for temp convertions

6.Prepare the moulds:
•If you are working with regular madeleine moulds, butter 12 full-size madeleine moulds, or up to 36 mini madeleine moulds. Dust the insides with flour and tap out the excess.
•If you have nonstick moulds, a light even coating of vegetable cooking spray will suffice.
•If you have a silicone pan no prep is needed.

7.Spoon the batter into the moulds, filling each one almost to the top. Do not worry about spreading the batter evenly. (Do not overfill the mould.) Bake large madeleines for 11 to 13 minutes, and minis for 8 to 10 minutes, or until they are golden and the tops spring back when touched. NOTE: Keep an eye during baking as the fluted edges might get scortched easily.

8.Remove the pan(s) from the oven and allow the cookies to cool slightly before releasing the madeleines from the moulds. To separate the cookies, gently tap the edge of the pan against the counter and carefully pry the madeleines from the pan. Transfer the cookies onto a cooling rack—do not stack individual cookies on top of each other within an individual rack. Cool before serving or storing the cookies.

9.Repeat steps 6-7 (with a cold cookie pan) if you have extra batter at hand. If you wish to make additional cookies at this point repeat steps 1-7.

Serving: Serve the cookies as is when they are only slightly warm or when they reach room temperature.

Alternatively, if you prefer dusting the cookies with confectioners’ sugar before serving you must cool the cookies to room temperature before dusting. To dust the cookies, simply fill a baking sieve with a few spoonfuls of icing sugar: place the sieve directly above the cookies and gently, either with your fingers or with a spoon, tap the rim of the sieve until the cookies are evenly coated with sugar.

I prefer serving the madeleines with premium jasmine green tea, probably the next best thing to Proust’s lime-blossom tisane. Alternatively, these cookies can be served with espresso. I have been told that madeleines pair very well with Tokaji or Sauternes, although since my body doesn’t readily metabolize alcohol I cannot elaborate further. (I get rashes when I drink a glass too much. Strangely enough, I get no side effect when using alcohol-based fragrances...)

Storing: Although the batter can be kept in the refrigerator for up to 2 days, the madeleines are best to be eaten soon after they are made. You can keep them overnight in a sealed container, but they really are best eaten on the first day. If you must store them, wrap them airtight and freeze—they will last for up to 2 months.

With this in mind we shall conclude the first section: in the next section I shall cover the modern variants. If you prefer provoking Proust—stay tuned! Many thanks to Helg for making this post possible.

Photos: Madeleine from Flickr.com, illustration from ReadingProust.com, pan from Choos & Chews. Sources: “A Natural History of the Senses” by Diane Ackerman; The Project Gutenberg EBook of Swann's Way, by Marcel Proust; Illustration by Stephané Heuet; C.Burr’s quote from BaseNotes.net; recipes inspired by “Baking: From My Home to Yours” by Dorie Greenspan