It sure sounds slightly awkward and long in English. I mean, line a tart ring with sweet pastry? Foncer seems so much easier.

And it is in fact. Especially when you know this one tip, given to me by a pastry chef friend.

Simply butter your ring before lining it with your rolled out dough.

It will make the pastry slide more easily, to avoid it from tearing apart. And it makes sure the sides brown nicely during the baking process.

Easy peasy, right?

And for the record, foncer also means: rush and darken. So for those of you who are trying to learn French, I send you my warmest wishes.

And for the off-the-record, here are facts that possibly underline how random I feel right now.

I want pink hair. I could photograph the everyday with a mamiya universal. I love the smell of his skin, it’s like a drug. I miss my sister. I miss my bed. I drink one actimel and three lattes before 9am every morning. I could live in the short moment that follows the dawn. And I love you very very much.

I wish I could talk about how much I love recreating classics or old favourites. I find it’s the perfect way to highlight the beauty of what was once created and eaten with great joy.

It’s a bit like being in love. For real. You get both the comfort of having someone so close and the excitement of discovering him everyday under a new light, which you happen to be completely crazy about.

Oh yeah, I wish I had the time to develop. But right now, my alarm is set in just a little over five hours. So it’s going to be brief.

An awaken dream before the actual ones start to take over.

An idea. Just because I could have made it perfect, but was once again short of time, short of a good pecan pie recipe, and slightly short of rational thoughts after the bottles of wine we’d shared before I started plating the dessert for our very own little party.

Just the two of us.

But this version tasted delicious. The creaminess and subtle floral flavour of the bavaroise stood against the sweet crunch of the nuts rather beautifully.

Tarte aux noix de pécans

I can’t really call this a recipe, but more a guideline to follow. I have no records of the proportions. But I can only urge you to try.

Or even better, come up with your very own twist on a favourite. Because, pastry should be fun and fearless.

And please, someone give me your absolute go-to pecan pie recipe. Please, please, please!
`

Today felt short. It was frosty. And made of more mise-en-place making than you could imagine.

I’m now in love with my bed; its million pillows and triple layer of blankets. So I just want to share three things. A moment. A kitchen tool I love. And a recipe idea for the winter.

The moment was early this morning, when the sun was barely here yet. I saw frost on my window. It was gorgeous.

The kitchen tool I used the most today was a pastry cutter.

At work, we have two sets, with many missing-and-found rings. A perfect mismatch of plastic. At home, I have the same two sets, strangely still neatly kept in their boxes.

The recipe idea comes from fond chilhood memories at my parents’ best friends’ house. They had the tallest tree, from which kilos of golden and soft fruits would fall on the ground.

Obviously, we would eat them like this, with our fingers getting cold with the wind and the juices staining our shirts. We didn’t even bother washing them. The fruits and the stains.

I believe in traditions. Mostly, when the air starts to get crisp and the sunsets early.

We have breakfast for dinner. We take pictures out of the doors. We continue knitting a scarf, which was first started a couple of years ago. We roast pumpkins. We have hot chocolate on the patio, cosily wrapped in a blanket. We read written words.

And we make apple strudel.

I believe in traditions that will make our hearts warmer when the temperatures go down.
They surround us with comfort and love.

And this is why I love autumn and winter so much. However, it’s been slightly harder for me this year to find my way through golden leaves and acorns on the pavement.

But as a reminder of why things have to be as such, Anna-Sarah came over and we made a delicious apple, cinnamon and walnut strudel.

Just like we did the year before.

And quite instantly, the whole process of peeling apples, sprinkling them over the stretched dough followed by generous handfuls of cinnamon and walnuts tamed my fear of cold nights.

This time, the cake that so gloriously calls for frosty winds and an amber-brown cup of tea was ready just before the sun went down. And made the perfect end to an otherwise delicious dinner.

A couple of days later, I travelled from one home to another. Landing in London was tougher than I expected. If autumn was just on its way back in France, here things were somewhat different.

And by different, I really mean one thing: rain.

So I decided to make it happen. Armed with a thick wool-scarf and some mitten, I made a pact with myself.

A pact that smelled like grass after a misty day.
A pact that smelled like a piping-hot latte by the Serpentine.

Apple, cinnamon and walnut strudel
Adapted from Claire Clark’s Indulge.

I remember the first time we made this recipe. A perfect day for baking, with rain, wind and even a power-cut.
A year later, it has become our love letter to autumn.

And honestly, who could blame us? Warm and deeply-flavoured, this cake makes for the most comforting thing to eat, let alone to make.
The process involves a lot of dough-stretching, which should not scare you as Claire’s dough is a delight to work with. We always do this in a four-hand style, but I’m pretty confident you could pull this off with just a pair.

That night, we served it with a slightly salty caramel sauce. This one. And it worked perfectly as the filling is not too sweet .

If at times, nature compels us to slow down, I must admit I was slightly surprised when I saw the first lemons on my parents’ tree.

Lemons in september feels like eating strawberries around Christmas time for me.

But well, the little guys were hanging out in the tree and my sister’s favourite dessert in the whole entire huge universe is lemon meringue tart.

So I took this as an opportunity to remind you how lovely Pierre Hermé’s recipe is. This time around I just changed the crust for my new go-to recipe which seems to be easier to work with – which in my world means no shrinkage during baking (the one thing I dread the most in pastry).

Basically, you can make the dough and lemon crémeux a day – or three – in advance, and when you’re ready for THE tart, simply bake blind the shell and fill it with the smooth and tangy cream.

Whip up a nice and soft meringue italienne, pile it on the tart and burn with a châlumeau [blow-torch] or failing that the grill of your oven (something I’ve realised I’m not good with, burnt tart anyone?).

And trust me when I tell you I’m doing you a favour by writing down the ingredient list so you can just print it, go shopping and come back at home only to make the most delicious lemon tart you could ever dream of.

When it comes to the dough, the process is exactly the same as the one I described over there. Except thet ingredient list is different: less butter, more almonds and a tad more icing sugar make for the most perfect dough ever. Easy to work with, it will have a very deep aroma when baked. Just make sure you don’t get it out from the oven before it has the nicest shade of golden-brown.

As with most doughs, this recipe will yield to more than what you actually need for one tart. But I suggest you divide it into 3 to 4 pieces and wrap them in clingfilm. Then you can freeze them for as long as a month or two, and go back to your freezer every time you will need some.

Quite evidently, we also made cake. This cake to be precise. Because it is the best lemon cake. Because it’s soft and fragrant. Because it will keep for days. And mostly, because we need no excuse to make – and more generally, eat – cake.

This time, I used T110, which is a fine semi-whole wheat flour. I’m not sure it’s widely available outside of France, but I suggest you try making a tant-pour-tant using plain and whole-wheat flours.
What I love about this flour is the lovely aromas – deep and hearthy – that balances the tanginess of the cake and the sweetness of the soaking syrup.

As a matter of fact, I first intended to top the cake with a thick citrus and earl grey glaze, but ran out of icing sugar so syrup it became.
Whether you want to go for a glaze or a syrup, you simply need to heat the lemon juice to 70°C, infuse it with the tea for two or three minutes, then pour onto the icing sugar slowly.

I drenched the cake with it as soon as I got it out of its tin and it created the most perfect layer of fresh lemon flavour.

And since this post is too long already, maybe I should add a couple of things.

ONE. I would love to hear your suggestions for upcoming articles.
What would you like to see on foodbeam? Is there a specific French technique you would love to learn?

TWO. I’m thinking of putting a F.A.Q. post together. I find them so fun to do. So anything you’d like to ask!

THREE. I hope you don’t mind my current REmakes of old recipes. To be honest, I really enjoy writing them (and photographing them with my pentax ME). To me, it’s all about: 1) highlighting some of the very best pastries around and 2) showing you new techniques/ingredients.

OK, I’m done now. So do ask your questions in the comments below and tell me what you want to see here! x

As a child, I thought my dad was the coolest person to hang out with. And since he was – and still is – a work at home dad, I did get to spend a lot of time with him.

He would take me to his tennis tournaments, for tea at Rohr, to some fishing parties, or on the chantier [building site] he was working on.

And in between all of these, we would unconditionally stop at a café or a bistrot where he would get me a lait fraise [strawberry milk].

A couple of days ago, as I landed on the French soil again after a night made of blur and tears, he greeted me with a roadtrip to St Tropez and a somewhat obvious – and quite providential to tell the truth – halt at a bar.

This time, lait fraise wasn’t ordered, but a glass of white wine felt like the perfect fit.

And just being there, sitting in the sun on a less-comfortable-to-admit-it designer chair, sipping through some golden drink-me potion, and maybe more importantly, spending time with the right people, everything fell into place.

Sometimes, it does take longer than you’d think to find out that what you’re loosing might just have been what you – in fact – needed.

But it also takes some time to discover what opportunities the loss will bring.

And after a much essential grief state, it’s now the right moment to move on. Preferably under the sun, with a bottle or two of wine and the right people.

A slice of vanilla cheesecake served with the very first strawberries might also help.

Cheesecake à la vanille at aux fraises

Containing no flour, this cheesecake is all you would dream about. Thick, rich and creamy, it’s the closest I could get to the New York cheesecake I’ve never had.

I baked it in a classical 18 cm cake pan with a removable base lined with foil so the water from the bain-marie wouldn’t get in.
I chose to bake it at 140°C because my oven is fan-assisted and thus, feels really stronger than any other oven I’ve had in the past.

Whatever your oven is, just make sure you never bake it over 170°C.

As for the time, I would say around one hour, but make sure you check it every now and then after 45 minutes. It is baked when the centre is still a bit wobbly. Don’t worry it will set as it cools down.

I like to use whole-wheat digestive biscuits for the base as it gives a nice earthy contrast.

Run to the downstairs kitchen. Tell Elliot – the pastry commis – to put a prune tart into the oven. Grab a large rectangle plate. Pipe a thin line of wine reduction. Drain a prune marinated in spiced wine. Place it on the plate. Take the roasted nibbed almonds box. Sprinkle a couple of them onto the plate for the Armagnac ice cream to sit on them later. Wait for the prune tart to be fully baked.

And observe the guys around. One is plating some salmon. Another is deep frying. Another is making soup. Another is cleaning the edges of a shiny white plate. The chef is checking the plates before they are sent.

Service please!

Elliot brings the soufflé tart. It looks like a golden cloud. I sprinkle one of its halves with icing sugar, then carefully place it on the far-left of the prepared plated. A quenelle of Armagnac ice cream, and a loud:

Service please! Table ten.

At the Capital Hotel, the downstairs kitchen could be described in a few words: hot, skilled and vibrant.
Plates are coming from the different sections on a matter of seconds. Waiters keep popping to call for starters, mains and desserts.

But as much as I love the excitement and rush, I must admit, I have a crush for those three-nights-a-week that I spent in the upstairs kitchen.

Up there, things are different. Quiet and slow.

Even when there is a party to be sent, we always do it in a restricted team. Three chefs, and one pastry chef.
All of a sudden, the usually-still room turns into a miniature version of the downstairs kitchen. We clear the central work plan, arrange plates, get that burner working, close the doors for maximum heat so the plates won’t go cold.

Then I hear a: desserts in ten minutes!

I have all the components for the prune tart ready. Red wine reduction, marinated prunes, isomalt sugar, Armagnac ice-cream.

The tarts themselves are in the oven. It’s time for some plating action. I un-clingfilm the pile of plates that have been prepared for me and start drawing lines of reduction across all of them.

You know the rest already…

PS. The pictures were taken with my film Pentax ME Super, which seems to be my camera of choice for the restaurant.

It would probably be an understatement to say that I am messy.

For years, my absolutely organised mum fought with me, not understanding why I had to keep pretty much all of my belongings on my desk, or at worst, around my bed.

For years, I did not understand how – despite being raised by someone so tidy – I would always end up with so much stuff lying on the floor. And then, it struck me. I simply like to have my most cherished possessions close to me. I like to be able to see them at any given time. I like to nest in my own comforting world.

This eureka-moment had no effect on my paradoxical messiness. In fact, as I’m writing this, I’m surrounded by two cameras, a photo album, a bowl of edamame beans, and a neat pile of notebooks.

Yes, neat.

As messy as I can be, I have this strange thing with notebooks.
It started at school, where I would always have the prettiest ones; colour-coded, written using the exact same pen, and no ratures. I’ve even been spotted copying out one of my biology class notebooks because it didn’t feel prefect enough.
Then came pâtisserie kitchens and moleskines stained with chocolate. And yet, when you open them, overlooking the smears, you’ll notice only that one felt tip pen touched the pages (ask the guys at the hotel and they will tell you how angry I get if my pen gets stolen).

Now turn the pages, and see that drawing of a square tart filled with a liquorish-like treacle flan, topped with grenadine-marinated oranges and a square of white chocolate.

It’s the starting point of an endless excitement. Making pastries all day is a favourite. Creating pastries all day is the most favourite.

Right now, I’m developing some very fine French pâtisseries for the book I’m working on. But I’m also playing around in the kitchen just for foodbeam. And it feels so nice.
I can’t promise daily recipes here, although I will make my best to come up with new exciting things if I’m not spending my days off exploring London for the best places to eat, or have a bubble tea, or some macarons.

Yes, I’m totally keeping tracks of my London favourites there. It’s – almost – all film pretty (I love London, and I love my Pentax ME Super even more).

Treacle tart et oranges sanguines à la grenadine

I’m calling this treacle tart although it’s really not a genuine treacle tart, but more of a treacle syrup flan encased in a tart shell.

Just so you know, I used small square rings (6,5cm-wide) which are quite high (3cm) so I could get more filling than crust. If you’re going to use regular tart rings, you’ll have enough flan to fill four tarts shells. Just adjust the quantity of pâte sucrée (around 300g), marinated oranges, and white chocolate squares (or in this case, circles).

To me, the last hours of a year are always filled with expectations, excitement, and dreams.

As a matter of fact, I have been dreaming a lot lately. Possibly because my 9am/11pm day life is quite very busy with mise en place, desserts à l’assiette, afternoon teas, foams, and many more exciting things.

Thus, at night I dream that:
1. I spend a weekly day off with my boyfriend.
2. my hair is not that messy.
3. I become a better pâtissière.
4. I see more daylight.
5. I take the time to capture moments through photographs.
6. our Christmas tree lasts forever.
7. I make beautiful pastries at home.
8. Polaroid film hits the shops again.
9. I have leopard leggings in every possible colour.
10. I take the time to write in my new Moleskine diary.

Oh, and while I’m at it, I should admit that I dream of a puppy dog quite often too. I can’t tell you how happy I would be if only one of those dreams would come true during 2010.

Bring it on!

As for today, I’m afraid it’s nothing near dreamy. But you have to remember that we basically have one wisk, a couple of baking sheets, and that-is-pretty-much-it in our tiny London kitchen.

I did my best to recreate the lovely banana cream pie I had in mind, and trust me, you wouldn’t have wanted to see the kitchen after two of those small tarts were made.

Pulling isomalt without a Silpat is hard. Smoothing whipped cream without a spatula is harder. Piping without a bag is the hardest.

At least, we had a good laugh and a satisfied tummy. Despite the evident lack of sophistication, this tart – or pie – is delicious.

The perfect end to our marathon Christmas lunch.

Banana cream pie with a chocolate mousse quenelle
My secret to this flavourful banana cream pie is to roast the banana in its own skin before mashing it very slightly, and spreading it at the bottom of a crisp tart shell.

Then comes the confiture de lait. You can either make your own by boiling some milk and sugar together to a thick consistency and golden colour, or boil an unopened can of sweetened condensed milk for hours, or even get the ready-made kind.
I must admit I went for a jar of dulce de leche found at Whole Foods since I didn’t really have the required motivation/energy to make it at home. Sometimes, the easy path feels the best.

Since confiture de lait is quite sweet, I prefer to use plain whipped cream to top my pie instead of chantilly.

And before I forget about it: HAPPY NEW YEAR. x

I won’t lie. There are many advantages to having a boyfriend who’s a pâtissier.

First, he loves 6pm slumbers parties à deux since he – like me – knows how a 3am wake-up feels like.

Second, he whips some pretty nice dinners in a matter of seconds, leaving the kitchen deliciously shiny even though he is – like me – one of the messiest people on earth.

Third, he tends to get as excited as I do when the following words are mentioned in no special order: AFTERNOON, PÂTISSERIE, NEW FLAVOUR COMBINATION.

It all seems quite logical. I mean, we met while working for Pascal Lac, so it’s the very essence of our daily – exciting and sweet – routine.

This past Sunday we hence decided to explore the autumnal classic: the pumpkin pie.

It’s a favourite of mine. But, well – let’s get it out straight away – not a favourite of Guillaume’s. Yes, you read right.

Guillaume. Does. Not. Like. Pumpkin pie.

I initially thought of finding another boyfriend, but I seem to be in like with him way too much to do so.

After a – not so – lond period of – not so – intense reflection, I went for the other option: eat a slice of tart by myself and bring the rest to my family.

I’m pretty glad I did.

Tarte à la citrouille
Indeed, this tart is perfect. Raw sugar and fresh pumpkin.

The raw sugar brings lovely caramel undertones, that in my opinion, brings out the earthy flavour of fresh pumpkin.

First you start by making your own purée, by roasting the pumpkin, then blending it. The roasting part of it helps to get rid of the moisture naturally present in pumpkin flesh, and thus, creates a smooth (bubble free) pumpkin flan.

In this recipe, I call for pâte sucrée which you can easily make in advance from the recipe here.