Missionary of pâtisserie

Yesterday evening I made my way over to Bath for another delicious evening at Topping & Co where Richard Bertinet was coming to talk to us about Pastry. Learning from my previous experience, I arrived in good time and secured a seat in the front row with a fabulous view. Richard and sidekick Brett brought boxes and boxes of goodies and busily circulated offering freshly-baked sausage rolls (they were still warm, does that have VAT implications?) and salted caramel brownies on wooden peels. The frenzy of sharing was interrupted by the small matter of a talk and demonstration, and after a short and enthusiastic introduction, it was Richard's turn to take the floor. I think this photo shows him contemplating his recent fun and games donning his radio mike...

 Richard's approach to pastry is to remove the faffing and make things easy. Don't worry about the temperature of your butter, he says. Don't chop it up, he says. Just take it in a block straight out of the fridge and, sandwiched between two papers, wallop it escalope fashion. This keeps it cool but renders it pliable and workable. Now you throw it into your flour and tear it up, then flake it between your fingers. Like breadcrumbs? Nope, just get to a point where there are no bits of butter larger than your fingernail.

 

 Add in the liquid (in this case, eggs), work in with a scraper and finish on the worktop with your hands. If it feels like something's wrong, take your hands away - the biggest crime at this stage is overworking it. At this stage, you can optionally skate a fine layer of flour onto your worktop with a cheffy flourish before you shape your pastry before resting. Or you can just chuck flour on the front row, it's up to you. Richard passed the greaseproof-wrapped (never sweat-inducing clingfilm-wrapped!) pastry around for us to get an idea of the feel and taste of it.

 

Then he showed us how to make divine tartelettes using cases made from this sweet pastry. First, he showed us lemon curd meringue tartelettes, doing the cheffy business with a flamethrower and only crisping his fingers once or twice.

Mine, all mine!

 He then turned to frangipane tartelettes topped with raspberry and pistachio, and glorious they were too.

 

 I took a nibble first for the purposes of exposing the frangipane filling, honest.

 

 Richard enjoys a glass of wine and warm applause.

 

 Once again, it was a brilliant evening at Topping, a wonderful chance to watch an expert at work, to gain insights and inspiration, to be showered with flour, to try exquisite food. I redeemed my voucher against a copy of the book which Richard then signed, and made my way home with my head full of ideas and plans and thoughts of lemon curd.

Figgety do-dahs

There's no way I need any more cookery books. Certainly not any baking books. Not need, no. OK, so I bought two at the weekend. They were on offer, after all...

This one is sweet bakes - essential recipes and is full of recipes for pies, biscuits and puddings. When we got home, Junior leafed through it, ogling the images, and homed in on one recipe. A recipe which I'd rather liked the look of, and which had made Tallboy make Homer Simpsonesque noises in his throat. Fig and chocolate bars it was, then. They looked rather like millionaire shortbread but with a figgy layer of deliciousness instead of the caramel. I know, I'm as surprised as you are that I could be diverted from caramel to fruit, but there you go.

My square tin was a little bigger than that specified, so I jiggled the figures in my head and did nearly 150% of the shortbread and figgy mixture. I kept to the original quantity for the chocolate but that was more because I only had a hundred grams in the cupboard.

I made the shortbread the Clive Mellum way, by whisking soft butter with my fingers, adding sugar and then the flour. The recipe called for soft brown sugar which gave the finished shortbread a lovely golden colour all over. I baked it for 30 minutes and left it to cool.

In the meantime, I chopped up the squidgy dried figs and boiled them with lemon juice, cinnamon and water, applying the whizzing stick after twenty minutes to reduce it all to a sludgy paste.

Assembling was easy, with the figgy layer applied with a trowel spatula, and melted chocolate to cover. Leaving it to cool was torture.

The finished item is delicious, the combination of the short base, the yielding fruit and the smooth chocolate is almost perfect - really happy with how these turned out.

A right pair of Herberts

Last night saw another trip to Bath to see foodie people at Topping and Company . My previous visit was to see Dan Lepard talking about Short and Sweet; this time it was two for the price of one with the Fabulous Baker Brothers putting in an appearance.

The shop was extremely full and although I arrived at the billed door-opening time, there were only really spaces at some distance from the speakers. I chose a seat in the back row which gave me space to stretch out my poorly leg and left my bag on it while I headed to the till to pick up my copy of the book. On my return I found a woman sitting happily in my chair, having stashed my bag some way under a table. I struggled to bend down to retrieve it and took up another seat, rather bemused.

The brothers were introduced and Tom spoke widely about a range of subjects, allowing Henry to interject on occasion (in between batches of pancakes). Fortunately, the chaps' voices carried all the way down to us at the end, although this wasn't the case for some of the questioners at the end. Tom talked about all sorts: the origins of Hobbs House bakery, the Herbert baking dynasty, his own career as a baker, his dad's record-breaking achievements. Oh, and bread. Henry talked about being banned from stuff, his career as a chef and latterly as a butcher (not quite so gripping from a veggie point of view, but I knew the score when I bought the ticket), and they both talked about the Channel 4 series and the book, which was produced in a miraculously short turn around time.

The brothers clearly share great enthusiasm for food in general and bread in particular, and work well as a sibling double act. Henry produced an enormous double stack of sourdough pancakes which elicited loud cries of 'Ooooh!' when periodically held aloft. At least they did after the crowd was coached to respond thus in true pantomime style. Tom and Henry both spoke entertainingly and welcomed questions which they answered readily. I couldn't always hear what was being said as the four women in the row in front kept up an unselfconscious conversation for the latter part of proceedings - for the second time that evening my unerring sense of where to sit had struck gold...

When the talking and questions were over, the boys adjourned to the far end of the store for signing, and I shuffled to the end of a long queue of signees. The queue didn't move very fast as the boys took time to talk to everyone who approached them, and (as I discovered as I got within sight) to practise the impressive art of synchronised defacement of the books presented to them. When my turn came, I presented my book and Tom stood up to greet me and shake my hand in a very gentlemanly manner. When I divulged that I had worked at Hobbs House in Chipping Sodbury for several weeks one summer when a student (an awfully long time ago now), he raised my still captive hand to his lips. (I didn't do anything interesting at the bakehouse, just cutting up cakes in trays, but it was fun and you got to see mysterious bread making stuff going on, as well as the juddering shuddering bread slicing machines which always looked to me like they were waiting for the opportunity of snagging your cardie and drawing you, screaming, into their slavering maws.) In the meantime Henry had commenced defacement and upon learning that the book was to be a gift, took it all in his stride and redoubled his efforts.

The book itself is absolutely packed with recipes and tips, and I am pleased to have got one to give to someone special, although the dead stuff:other stuff ratio is a bit too high for me to feel it's a good addition to my mainly vegetarian cookery library. I had a great evening listening to the lads and it was a treat to meet them and see their obvious pleasure in sharing their enthusiasm. There's clearly a lot more to come from them as artisans in their chosen fields, participants in the wider Real Bread movement, involvement in community projects and no doubt further appearances on screen and/or in print. Whatever's in store, I am sure they will rise to the occasion...

One banana, two banana, three banana, pear

I'm on record as favouring my bananas on the crunchy side. The less green and more brown they get, the more they veer into Tallboy's territory. So it was an easy decision on my part (at the behest of the boys from Bath) to take the last three spotty brown bananas in the fruit bowl and use them to make some banana bread.

This morning the postman knocked on the door and handed over a soggy padded envelope containing a bottle of something which had leaked all over the place, and an amazing Amazon package which contained a new book which had not leaked at all. This lack of leaking is only one of the many things to recommend this freshly-published book, "The Bread Revolution" by Duncan Glendinning and Patrick Ryan (the chirpy chappies from The Big Bread Experiment which aired last year).

The book is packed with photos, some to give context, some a bit of atmos, some for guidance and some just for the hell of it. I particularly liked the beardnet and the duck with a halo - my favourite image of all was the shot of the well-used loaf tins on the rack at the beginning. Despite all the pictures, the pages don't feel too busy and the recipes are well set out with plenty of thought put into their presentation; I couldn't find a point where you'd need to turn the page while you were in the middle of a recipe apart from the particularly detailed everyday white loaf walkthrough. The style of writing is accessible and clear, and quantities are given in a variety of formats. Where yeast is an ingredient, quantities are given for both fresh and dried (it's always been a bugbear of mine where only one type is given - if you're not a confident baker you can feel precluded from trying something if you don't have the right type and aren't sure how to convert).

One of the helpful things the thoughtful bakers have done is to reassure you at various points about the texture of the dough or about what's happening, which is so useful when you'd otherwise be staring down at the bowl in front of you and wondering "should it look like that?" or "should it be doing that?". There are also asides about how you could make changes. I liked the way that they've paired up many of their bread recipes with a meal recipe on the next page, so that you're not making your bread in isolation but can pair it with their suggestions or be inspired to come up with something yourself. They've also given signposts to suppliers (most of which are my faves too), talk about tools and discuss the delights of foraging. This is very much a book about real bread by people who care about it, but it's also not just a book about real bread.

So, banana bread. Well you've got to make something when you get a new cookery book, and I'd been eyeing the daily enbrownment of those bananas with despair for a little while, so it was an easy choice.



I'm also on record as saying I never make changes to a recipe I'm doing for the first time. Except sometimes I need to. Like today. In fact, this is possibly the most non-following following a recipe I have ever done.

For a start, I needed four squishy bananas. There were three in the fruit bowl. I nipped over to see if the Brazil Nut had any lurking in hers. "What, dark squishy ones? Yeah, I had a few. No one would eat them. I chucked them out last night..." OK, what would take the place of a squishy banana? How about the squishy pear which was the only other inhabitant of the fruit bowl? Go on, then. Ah, no pecans. No walnuts, either. OK well how about we go for a full-on squish experience and soak some sultanas in orange juice for a bit - who needs crunchy bits?

Plain white flour? Nah, I reckon I'll use my precious Fattoria La Vialla wholemeal - the mashed fruit looked pretty wet, and wholemeal can cope with a bit more moisture. Golden caster sugar? Nah, I'll just use the normal stuff in my jar with the vanilla pods stuck into it. Milk? I've only got soya milk, that will have to do. Two 1lb loaf tins? I haven't even got one 1lb-er. I'll stick it in a 2lb-er and bake it a bit longer then...

I mixed up my ingredient approximations as directed in the recipe, making a sticky cookie dough-like mess, then added my mashed nanas n pear. Oh, and the drained sultanas. This turned it into a much more recognisable cake mixture consistency which I shovelled into the liner in my tin and bunged in the oven, marvelling at how quickly it heats up when you're needing cake temperature compared to bread temperature.

I gave it 20 minutes longer than directed and left it to cool on a rack while the most delicious scent filled the house. "That smells nice," is what Tallboy's mouth said, while his eyes intimated an immediate and frenzied consumption of the whole thing.



The end result is delish - moist, banana-y and decidedly more-ish. I'm going to have another slice while I leaf through the book again...

Lepard print

A few days ago I spotted Dan Lepard tweeting that he'd be in Bath soon for an evening at Topping and Company (who put on loads of events with authors, well worth checking out). 'Hmmmm,' I thought. 'With Tallboy away and a long evening awaiting me in an empty house, this sounds like the perfect way to spend some time. Especially with the added bonus of seeing Tootles for dinner...' Tootles texted and Topping's ticket telephoned for, I was all sorted.

Expecting a nightmare with parking, I decided to park up high on the hill heading down from Lansdown. This would prevent the hideousness of getting closer to town without seeing any parking spaces, being swept up into the one way system, going round too far, swearing some, ending up in a remote car park with extortionate rates then having to walk several miles through badly lit hoody-infested streets. I adroitly avoided all of this by parking at the top of a steep incline, the pavement of which was littered with slippery leaves and the kerb of which was littered with multiple free parking spaces. All the way down. Still, the walk back up would warm me up nicely and hopefully go some way towards burning dinner off.

After a yummy dinner with Tootles (his turn to pay so it was even more delish) and a visit to the fabled Star, it was time to head towards Topping & Co. I was greeted at the door by the offer of wine, declined, followed rapidly by an Elderflower cordial appearing in my hand, and oaty cheesey biscuits and/or brownies. I wasn't sure if it was an alternative or cumulative offer so with only a moment's consideration, I took one of each and wandered further into the shop balancing glass, ticket and nibbles. It's OK, I didn't have pudding so I was allowed.

The other attendees were clearly more savvy and more punctual than I - picking my way through seated wine drinkers and brownie nibblers I had to take up station at the back, by the toilet. Dan joined us and sat in the middle, and started talking about his life and his baking. I could have listened all night to his gentle tone, conversational manner and slight accent along with the autobiographical, technical and philosophical content. I enjoyed hearing about his experiences in cooking and baking, what he has done and what he does now. I felt a glimmer of fellow-feeling when he described photographing his goodies in the front room by the window (although mine are carried in state to the back room for their close-ups).

I like Dan's approach to baking and his welcoming of mistakes as a way of learning. I found it refreshing to hear someone saying that their approach had changed over time as they had accepted that they might not have been right, or that there was a better way of doing things. His dialogue with the audience was great too - asking questions and interested in the responses. I asked how he felt about people using his researched and tested recipes: did he expect them to be followed slavishly or used as the basis of adaptation, or didn't he mind? His answer was most definite, he hoped that they'd be the basis of experimentation, addition and adjustment.

Sadly the evening was over all too soon. I joined the meandering queue for book signage, having splashed out on arrival on Short and Sweet which I'd been intending to buy anyway, honestly. I showed him a peek of this blog too, on my phone, then I was off on the long walk back to the car.

It had seemed such a good idea earlier, but now it was awfully dark and the road was about ten times steeper. My coat, originally zipped up against the cold foggy dampness, unzipped by rapid stages to allow the steam to escape as I zoomed up the hill. It only took fifteen minutes, but it felt longer - it felt, too, that I'd climbed further up than I'd gone along. I drove home through the hills and the fog, at one point encountering a big snuffly badger which fortunately had the sense to look both ways before crossing the road.

I'm very pleased with my new book, I have dipped a bit and will take a closer look over the next few days. My head is full of possibilities and plans, especially as there's a cake sale coming up at work. And Dan (if you do pop by) - hello, it was great to meet you.

Oh the pain, the pain!

So, a whole week in France! What a fabulous opportunity to sample some real bread and talk to French bakers. A quick vocab review and I was ready to question the ingredients and methods that they used. If I dared, when push came to shove, and didn't just scuttle out clutching the nearest baguette without having said anything...

In the first boulangerie I visited, I explained that I liked to make bread at home, and would it be OK if I asked a few questions. It was, so I did. I asked if there was any rye bread - there wasn't. I asked if they used any sourdough or if it was all bog standard yeast - all bog standard. They were baked in an electric oven with injections of steam at appropriate moments. I bought a baguette and a pain de campagne but didn't think to photograph them, and I was rather disappointed that they weren't amazing.

In the next boulangerie, which boasted its artisanal credentials in big letters above the door, I had my spiel down pat and was again allowed to ask my questions by a puzzled boulanger. No, they didn't use any sourdough starter, just normal yeast. No, they didn't have a rye loaf. They did have some huge round rustic looking bread, which was much more attractive than the regimented ranks in the first boulangerie. I didn't really fancy any of it though, apart from one bread, which I knew I had to have as soon as I saw it - an epi, and not just any epi but one made with granary type flour. It was very very good, and sustained me after my long walk up the hill as I sat outside the house I was staying in, waiting for the owner to come back from the village lunch. Waiting, and waiting. And then waiting a bit more. A few chunks of epi, some figs and a beautiful ripe peach plucked from the garden, and a swig or two of water, sat in the sunshine. Heaven!



In the final one, faced once more with a slightly bemused boulanger, I again requested information. Why yes, they did use a sourdough starter for some of their breads. And yes, here was a rye sourdough loaf. And they had a wood-fired oven. Perfect! I bought a rye loaf - it was the most bizarre shape I think I've ever seen - and a pain whose name I forget. It had the most incredible crust, crumb and taste. It was so wonderful that even now I am saddened by the hundreds of miles which lie between me and my next opportunity to have some. The boulangerie is Le Fournil Talludéen, and if you find yourself passing it, stop, turn around, reverse, whatever. You need to go in there.





I also scoured every bookshop I could, and bought a couple of books. The first one offered me the secrets of home-made bread (les secrets du pain « maison » by Hélène Pasquiet), and the second is all about sourdough, including lengthy poetic discourses on the elements that go into making your dough (Apprendre à faire son pain au levain naturel by Henri Granier). It's got some nifty scoring pictures in it too.



It was brilliant to bound into these shops with a feeling of anticipation and excitement, knowing I was going to see new sights and discover new things. The daily experience of buying bread is so different there - there is so much direct contact with the people who actually make the bread, with people who know what goes into it and how it's made. It's so much more tactile too, and if it does get wrapped, it's most likely to be in a quick twist of paper or a paper bag which doesn't seal your bread away from you. And Richard Bertinet is right (but don't tell him, or he'll be smug), I defy anyone to handle a beautiful pain without giving it a squeeze and appreciating the sound the crust makes as it yields, without bringing it up to their nose and breathing in the wonderful scent, without examining it for the first bit they will break off, without trying to resist a little then giving in to the inevitable and taking their first taste.

And the title? Well, yes. I'm sorry it was so painful...