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.

Before we learn how to frost a cupcake, let me tell you that it might only be the fifth day, and I might already have all the pictures made and processed, the illustrations doodled for the month ahead, but I’m already lacking sleep and turning into a more random, slightly crazy and possibly animated-gifs lover person (if that’s even possible).

It’s just that this whole calendar thing reminded me two very important facts about myself. I am impatient and stubborn.

Impatient, because, you see, I’m dying to tell you about all the lovely cakes and more that have been baked or made lately, but I can’t. Isn’t the feeling of anticipation the very aim of an advent calendar? Hmmm yes. Maybe.

Stubborn, because I refuse to write posts in advance. I blog to capture moments, to create what will later be reminders of happy times.

Like for example, the fact that tonight, it was so cold, the leaves on the pavement seemed like they were made of diamonds or glitter – which in my world happen to be just as marvellous, if not more.

So for now, let’s try not to slide too far on the icy pavement.

The cupcakes. They’re lovely, they’re delicious, they’re green. But how on earth would you frost a cupcake? Some like to pipe pretty rosaces. Others play it cool and use a small palette knife. And then, there is the fondant clan.

I must admit, that despite an endless love-affair with my piping bag, I like the simplicity of the palette knife approach.

Here is what you need to frost a cupcake: one small palette knife (here is the one I’m using), a little frosting, sprinkles (they make like better, and yes, that’s a statement), and rather evidently, a cupcake.

Do you now get why I love this method so much? Four things. And four steps. That’s it. Perfect cupcake, ready to be eaten, because in the end, that’s all it gets down to.

Before I started getting serious with pâtisserie – more clearly, before I started waking up at three am and actually enjoy it – I must confess I felt quite confident with many things. From making pâte feuilletee to piping meringues; from assembling a series of entremets to decorating a cake.

Those were the things I was comfortable with. However, it didn’t take long for me to realise that even with some of them, there would be some sort of hitches.

Read: glazing a mille-feuilles. Period.

The concept itself doesn’t seem delicate. I mean, it’s just a matter of fondant. First pour the white fondant, then pipe thin lines of chocolate fondant – made dark by the addition of cocoa powder -, and stripe using a knife.

However, the realisation recquires special care.

The fondants have to be tempered, and at same temperature for best results. The chocolate fondant lines have to be piped very quickly after the white fondant has been spread all over the feuilletage top. The stripes have to be made with the back of the knife, and quite obviously, this must happen fast, before the fondant gets a chance to set.

Definitely not undoable, yet definitely not doable without having seen it at least once.

So tonight, I thought I’d thank you all for your kindness by showing you how we – at pâtisserie Lac – glaze our mille-feuilles.

And to be honest, I really felt like sharing something new over here, but didn’t have the courage to write a long recipe down, especially knowing what a busy day tomorrow is going to be. The fact that today was lazily spent with my boyfriend, daydreaming, sleeping, cuddling, and contemplating the beauty of Autumn might play a role as well.

Please welcome this short animation – featuring the hands of my favourite person from Montpellier, namely Alexis – warmly.

PS. ‘raye, raye’ translates to ’stripe, stripe’. I, apparently, had a strong desire to express myself in French at the time I put this together.

Then, you just have to clean the sides by running a spatula around them when the fondant is set, and finally, slice the mille-feuilles using a sharp serrated knife.

That’s all for today me friends. I know, I know… But since you’re the most amazing readers ever, and I’m lucky enough to have you and some other supportive people around me, I shall share more and more recipes.

Good night. Don’t dream too much about mille-feuilles, although it seems very tempting!

Apparently, I told you I was going to come back with something glamourous. Pardon me if I’m mistaken, but in my world, a light cake topped with a delicate mousse feels glamourous.

A fondant au chocolat just doesn’t. It’s plain. It’s dark. And it’s damn good.

So good in fact, I had to write about it right away. Just a couple of hours after I hade made it, as a matter of fact.
If this doesn’t convince you to rush to your kitchen and make this fondant, please do listen carefully.

I made a cake. Took pictures. And blogged about it. In less than twenty-four hours.

…

Since I’m now alone I could let my creativity craziness flow, and ramble about how wonderful it is to blog from a garden table, or how I wish I had the time to change foodbeam’s look, or how I should make a decent portfolio. Oh yes, I could.

But I won’t because I know it’s just going to be a matter of seconds before you realise you left for the kitchen without taking the time to write the recipe down.

Anyway, I think you might have caught something important here: I am a mess. There are so many things I want to do/make/write about, that I just don’t know where to start. So I thought the simpler the better.

I made this cake yesterday with my eight-year old cousin, Sindri, who’s the most adorable little boy ever to be seen. That how simple it gets.
Oh and in case I haven’t mentioned it enough. I am on holidays. In Fouras, my grandparents’ town. And I love it here, so well, I’ll possibly be writing a little more around here during the upcoming weeks.

Fondant au chocolat
adapted from Pascal Lac

As I mentioned above this is a simple recipe. As in many cases, simple does not means average. In fact, this cake is a French classic, and a staple in my house.
It only requires widely available ingredients: chocolate, butter, eggs, sugar and flour; and its confection only needs a dozen of minutes.

The chocolate and butter are melted together. I generally use a microwave (500W for approximately a minute or two) since it’s so convenient, but a water bath would be just as fine.
Then comes the most delicate step: the eggs and sugar are mixed in a heat-resistent bowl over direct heat just so they come back to room temperature. If you don’t feel to work over a flame or simply don’t have gas (electric stoves so remind me of my good old student kitchen), just bring a pan of water to the boil and place the eggs/sugar bowl over it (= water bath again). Mix until just tempered.Finally the two masses are united, and flour is sprinkled over.

If you’re going for the fancy (read individual sized cakes) bakes them at the same temperature, but only for 9 minutes.
In both cases, a knife inserted into the centre of the cake should come out slightly wet with batter, in opposite with the cake edges where the knife would come out clean.
Enough digressing, time for the recipe.

The most paralysing feeling. This is what I felt as I woke up this morning.

Just the thought of an empty day ahead of me was enough to make me feel numb. Wide awake and yet, unable to move. The time had stopped. For a day.
Too tired to eat and too hungry to sleep*, I headed to the kitchen – my favourite room of the house – and by the time I had reached the cagibi [larder], I knew croissants would be made and eaten this same morning.
* favourite song alert here.

You see, the prospect of twelve unbound hours felt so unusual that I had to get back to my daily pâtisserie-making routine.

Over the past month, I haven’t been much too work. Ten days to be accurate. The rest got spent at school, in London, and in Lyon – where I was lucky enough to pay the SIRHA a visit, but also have my very own special tour guide of the town and its many pâtisseries (thanks B.).

An exciting month for sure, but terribly exhausting as well.

Now I’m back here. For good; at least until I leave again. One thing is certain though. Days off – and particularly Sundays – make perfect experiment fields for pâtisserie.

That said, I must confess I’ve never felt as great as I do right now. The crumbs of croissant that quietly sit around my mouth are so not going to disagree!

Croissants

Making croissant can seem pretty daunting at first, but once you’ll really pay attention to the different steps, you’ll realise it’s as easy as making pâte feuilletée.

First, you make the détrempe – with yeast this time (remember, croissant dough is a pâte feuilletée levée). Gently combine flour, sugar, salt, butter, yeast and water. Knead into a very soft and smooth ball; and proof until doubled in size.

Then, you roll the détrempe into a neat 60 x 20 cm square and spread the beurre de tourrage [remaining butter used for making the tours] across the far left two thirds of the rolled détrempe.
Fold the right – and butterless – part over the middle one. Then fold the far left end over the whole thing. You should have a ‘book’ with the spine on the left.

Chill for a couple of hours, then roll again into a 60 x 20 cm square making sure you place the ’spine’ on your left beforehands. Make a tour double. Chill, make a tour double. Chill, make a tour simple. Roll the dough into two 80 x 25 cm (half a centimetre thick that is). Then cut triangles – top to tail – with a base measuring approximately 15cm. Each dough triangle should weigh around 180g 90g (and one batch should yield to 20 croissants). Then shape into a croissant. Place on a lined baking sheet and proof for an hour or until doubled in size.

Bake at 180°C for 30 minutes or until golden brown.

The great thing about these is that you can make them a day or more in advance. Just get the dough ready. Shape the croissant and keep them either refrigerated (not more than 12 hours) or frozen (up to a month). Allow them to come to room temperature before baking. And there you are. Fresh croissants on a Sunday morning!

Now I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you. A cotton fabric needs to be embroided. See you soon my favourite people in the entire world!

This is how we love Christmas cake around here.

No, we’re not going insane. We just like how versatile it can be over the years. Never the same, yet not entirely different either.

This year, I’ve decided to combine our favourites from the past to create a unique and delicate cake. Most definitely number one of the Christmas cake hall of fame.
Picture plump and fragrant dried and glacé fruits, and whole almonds, held together in the shape of a cake thanks to a rich and moist batter.

Do make it now and you’ll have a lovely cake to devour on the twenty-fifth.

To make this cake you’ll need:
250g raisins
125g sultanans
300g dates, pitted
250g dried apricots
50g glacé cherries
1 candied mandarine
1 andied slice of lemon
3 vanilla beans
250g boiling water
250g whole almonds

Finely dice the candied mandarine and lemon slice.

Place all the fruits into a glasse bowl.

Using a sharp knife, cut the vanilla beans open, and scrape the seeds out. Add both to the fruit mixture.

Pour the boiling water over the fruits.

Cover tightly with cling film and allow to rest for a couple of hours, or until the water has been absorbed.

Do not forget to give it a gentle shake every now and then.

Meanwhile, toast the almonds. Heat a large frying pan and place the almonds in there. Cook over medium heat, shaking as you do so, until you can smell a definite almond aroma. Take care not to burn them, a couple of minutes should be enough to get the best from them.
I love how toasted almonds have that slight savouriness due to the smoky flavour. Try not to munch on them because they do add a nice crunch to the cake.

And get on with the batter:
170g butter, at room temperature
170g light brown sugar
200g flour
175g ground almonds
4 eggs
3 tbsp golden syrup
2 small apples

As usual, make sure you have all the ingredients ready: weighed and measured.

Start by creaming the butter. If you’re anything like me, you’ll never think of getting the butter to room temperature before making the cake. Luckily, I’ve developped a foolproof method. Place the cold diced butter into a heat-safe bowl and heat until half the butter is melted. Then quickly turn onto you’re stand mixer, which will do the remaining job.

Mix in the sugar.

And golden syrup.

Now, you need to peel and grate the apples. Discard the peels and cores. All you keep is the juicy flesh.
I don’t know about you but I love that first picture and totally think about printing, framing and hanging it onto my kitchen wall. Naked apples look good.

Mix in the flour and ground almonds, then the grated apples. It’s totally normal for the batter to look lumpy.

Finally fold in both the toasted almonds and plump fruits.

Preheat the oven to 140°C.

Fill two tins: one 16cm and one 18cm. As you can see from the picture above, I decided to go for a 18cm plus a thin 16cm and a tiny loaf. But really, do as you wish.

Bake the cakes for 1h30 or until firm to the touch. Allow to cool slightly before removing from the tins.

Wrap in parchment paper, and foil. And keep until ready to decorate.

Hopefully, I’ll see you again next week for an update on marzipan and fondant. In the meantime, I wish you all the best for the holidays – and the year to come. xx

I checked on the daring bakers’ recipe quite late this month, thinking I would have to miss out on this one (yet again) given how tired I felt.

However, things turn out to be a little different. Far from what I expected them to be. As I opened the forum thread, I was thrilled by Meeta and Tony’s pick.

But I mean, who wouldn’t?

1. It’s from Pierre Hermé. Yes, this is totally the point where I blabber about how I loved working him, getting to make all the pâtisseries he sells in his shops, blah, blah, blah. Someone, please stop me. I love him. Period.

2. It has chocolate. Lots of it.

3. It’s made from pâte à choux: perhaps my most favourite thing in the entire world (if you put my consistent inability to produce nice looking choux puffs aside).

And if that didn’t convince you, I’ll have to force the following into your minds. How could you not love something that oozes chocolate crème pâtissière everytime you sink your teeth in it?

I knew it, you’re sold. So was I.

The experiment
- golden choux encasing
- the most luscious chocolate crème pâtissière
- and iced with a simple chocolate fondant

The pâte à choux is a basic. Flour is cooked into a smooth mass with water, milk and butter. First, the butter is cut into small even-sized cubes that are thrown into a pan along with water and milk, and a little salt and sugar. Both the milk and butter make for soft and golden-coloured choux. Indeed, milk is the perfect ingredient to enhance the Maillard reaction that naturally occurs between amino acids and reducing sugars. Heat milk proteins and lactose together and the magic will take place: deep brown colour, and lovely caramel and smoky aromas.

Anyway, this mixture is slowly brought to the boil. And as soon as the butter has melted, flour gets incorporated off the heat in one go, and beaten until it forms a smooth dough.

Then, the pan is placed back over medium heat. The dough is beaten vigorously with a wooden spoon to get rid of excess moisture, and also slightly denaturate the proteins behind gluten – glutenins and gliadins. This prevents the gluten from forming too strong a network, and thus, enables the development of the choux in the oven.

Once the flour mass is ready, I moved it into a pyrex bowl and added the eggs, one at a time; beating well after each addition.
For me, four 60g eggs were enough to get a thick yet soft dough. It should hold its shape but be pipe-able as well.

Since I don’t have my piping tools here, I used a Ziploc bag, but as you can see from the not so perfect choux above and below, well, I didn’t do a good job. The thing is, if you want to get nice even choux, you must pipe from above, not pressing the piping tip against the baking sheet (in comparison with how macarons are piped). Well, do this, unless you want multi-air-pocket-choux.

The dough will most likely form peaks which you can press down using your wet fingers. Next step is the baking: preheat the oven to 200°C, but reduce it to 180°C as soon as you place the baking sheet into the oven. As you do so, sprinkle water over the little balls of dough, then close the oven door and do not open it before the choux have risen well – approximately, 10 minutes later.

At this point, you want to open the door slightly and keep it that way. Given that I suppose you have other things to do than staying close to the oven maintaining that door opened, I suggest you stick a wooden spoon in there. It does a magnificent job at it.

Now, you should bake the choux for 10 more minutes or until golden-brown, and dry and firm to the touch.
Take out from the oven, and quickly pierce the bottom of each choux using a pointy knife to help the steam escape and not making those choux all gooey inside. Allow to cool then store in an airtight container.

The crème pâtissière is pretty classic too. Except for the extra-chocolate. You start by making a simple crème pâtissière: bring the milk to the boil, then temper the egg yolks, sugar and starch mixture. Place back into the pan and cook to 84°C.
This crème is then transferred into a container, and chocolate is incorporated. When it reaches 60°C, a little butter gets mixed in for extra smoothness and thickness.
Cover with cling film, making sure the film is right onto the crème – filmé au contact, as we say in France; and refrigerate.

To pipe the crème pâtissière into the choux, simply fill a piping bag fitted with a fine noozle and use the hole previously made to fill in the choux.
Chill while you get on with the fondant.

For this, I forgot Pierre’s recipe and went with a very simple fondant: warm milk, icing sugar and cocoa powder, mixed into a smooth and thick paste.
Then it’s all very easy. Dip the choux, allow the excess fondant to drip and arrange the choux onto a serving plate. Refrigerate for at least 20 minutes.

Soooo…
What if I say that the crème pâtissière was out of this world? Thick and luscious, with the most delicious chocolate flavour.

Anyway, I’m quite happy with how this all turned out. I’ve now officially conquered my choux-fears; not that they look perfect. But at least, I know why they look this way – read multi-air-pocketed. It also made me realise I’m not that bad at making choux. I mean, when I look at my second attempt, they somewhat look goo to me.

Ok, so enough digressing. Back to those chocolate choux, I’m pretty sure I’ll make them again, but this is something I knew even before I started making them. Now the next step is to top the unbaked choux with what French call craquant: a dough make of sugar, flour and butter; rolled very thinly, that gives the choux a lovely crackly look.

Believe it or not, but I’ve made pâte à choux twice in the past couple of days; and nope, no flat little choux buns were involved. This might not sound special; but trust me – if you’re unaware of my choux-bun-helplessness – it is.

Choux pastry is something I love to make. I mean don’t you dream about not feeling your own arm anymore, because you’ve just beaten three whole eggs into a thickish dough, which tends to split as you do so? Come on! Admit it, you love it too.
Well, I do. But choux buns. Oh no; these definitely don’t love me back. They probably even hate me; and that’s a massive understatement.

We all know how the story ends. On a random day, I decide to overcome this feeling, persuading myself that choux buns do actually love me. After all, there just made of flour, milk, water, salt, butter and – breathe – eggs.
So, yes, I make pâte à choux. It looks sleek and pretty, and has the most wonderful smell. I gently pipe it onto a lovely baking sheet. And bake. And cry.

During my whole life, I might have gotten choux buns right once or not twice. Not a single time more. So well, after giving up for a year, I made it again. Thanks to the NY Times magazine – yeah, finally a two-way relationship!

When I spotted the recipe for herbed fritters, my heart felt quite excited. How could fromage blanc and chives folded into pâte à choux then fried could taste bad? And, perhaps more importantly, how could I possibly failed that?
Frying. This is like totally different from baking. Three different letters, and a couple of litres of oil later, I found myself dropping little balls of the most beautiful dough ever into some bubbling greasiness. It felt good. Quite dangerous –yes – but I’m wild and fearless, so that doesn’t count.

Anyway, since I got such terrific results, I decided to love the NY Times even more. And even got the idea to make one recipe from it every week. Oh, I know, those don’t looks as yummy as the frosted cake and luscious tart I got you used to; but well, they pretty much have the same calorie content!

Choux croustimoelleux au fromage blanc et à la ciboulette
Adapted from the NY Times.

This is quite straightforward a recipe. If you know how to make pâte à choux, then you’re done. And it happens to actually be true as well if you don’t know a thing about choux.

You first make the pâte à choux. Heat the milk, water and butter together, then throw in the flour and salt in one go. Now using a wooden spoon, mix the dough like mad until it forms a ball. Finally mix in the eggs, one at a time. Here I have a couple of things to add: 1) you needn’t a stand mixer, keep using your wooden spoon. And 2) you might not need the entire third egg, so what I advise you to do is to crack it into a small bowl, mix it with a fork until smooth and slowly pour half ot it onto the dough. If it feels right, add more. If not, throw the remaining egg mixture away.

Once the dough is made, it should be used immediately, so I can only recommend heating the oil before you even start making the dough.
Making the fritters is just a matter of folding: some fromage blanc – which you can substitute with ricotta, a handful of chopped chives, and freshly ground pepper.

Then comes the frying. Be careful. I decided to pipe the dough into the hot*hot oil. Basically, I filled my piping bags with the dough, squeezed it over the oil and cut it – using my tiny pair of scissors – to form little balls.
Oh and yes, while I’m at it. I don’t own a thermometer that goes high enough in temperature, so I just rely to the dip-it test; i.e. spoon a little of the dough and se it it pops up and float. If it does, the oil is hot enough; falling that just wait for an extra couple of minutes before trying again.

When I look back, I realise that most of my days were spent lightly, even jokingly, complaining about how I never have enough time to turn all my ideas into real projects, how I’m always lacking that precious extra second.

All of a sudden, confronted with the unconfrontable, I didn’t have the choice but grasp the full measure of this situation, and the light and joking part of it disappeared.

Though hours, days and even months.

How in the world hadn’t I found the time – for those past twenty-three years – to make crème caramel?

I mean, my favourite dessert. And no time to make it.

These were totally impossible circumstances.

Sure, I was fed on my mother’s crème aux oeufs. Sure, I always ordered crème caramel when dining out. Sure, I make the most insanely delicious crème renversée au chocolat.

No crème caramel to be seen – or perhaps more appropriately – devoured.

You see, this is how I had first thought of introducing you this luscious crème caramel, inspired by Neil Perry but also by Linda.

And then came that show on much disregarded france 3.

Yes, that show about women in the fine food industry: somelières, cuisinières, maîtres d’hôtel or pâtissières. Seeing them being excited about what they do made my knees weaken, my stomach tear and my head spin.

And just as I’m writing this – live, really – I’m overwhelmed with an intense feeling of happiness, and the most definite anticipation.

While I used to count seconds backwards – wishing for extra hours to make my dreams come true – I’m now living them, and truly looking forward next semester during which I’ll finally start my pâtisserie training.

I am thrilled. Unstoppable. With joy-induced tears filling my eyes (who knew contact lenses could survive to such floods?).

Crème caramel toute simple
Inspired by Neil Perry’s The food I love.

This might be the simplest thing to make and yet it is one of my favourite dessert. I do seriously think I’ll choose crème caramel over any other fondants au chocolat or ice creams.

As you’ll see from the recipe, the baking time is quite loose as it really depends on your oven. I baked mine for 40 minutes and they turned out perfect.

The only thing that went wrong is the lack of runny caramel – but this is entirely my fault. I should have leaft the crèmes to chill overnight and not for just a couple of hours. Oh well, not too bad for a first time anyway.

For those of you who don’t know it yet, pâte feuilletée [literally, layered dough] – pat fe-yeah-teh – is the French for puff pastry, a fine and versatile pastry used in many pâtisseries and baked good: from mille-feuilles to flans. It consists in a basic dough, the détrempe – deh-tramp – spread with a good share of beurre manié – bear man-yeah –, then successively folded and rolled out; hence the layer part of its French name.

There are many ways of making pâte feuilletée.
Some encase the détrempe into the beurre manié, just like Pierre Hermé does with his delicious pâte feuilletée inversée. Others make it old-school-style by encasing the butter into the détrempe.

Oh and obviously, there are many discussions on how to properly enfold the beurre manié (or détrempe, if using Pierre’s method). Should the détrempe fully encase the beurre or just be folded over it?

Here, I will show you my own method. I’m not saying it’s the best, but since it’s the one I used when I first made pâte feuilletée and that it proved to be excellent and most importantly, reliable, I’ve never given others methods a chance.
Sure, I did make pâte feuilletée inversée when I was an intern at Pierre Hermé, but didn’t try this at home and probably will when I’ll have some time on my hands.

However, those differing approaches all converge towards the same purpose: a flaky and puffy pastry.
If it’s commonsense that the flaky effect comes from the successive folds/rolls, where does the puffy factor comes from? It’s all very simple. Picture the détrempe. Made with flour, a little butter, and water, it is a moderately hydrated dough, which undergoes a basic modification during the baking process: water evaporation. So far, it’s old news. But what’s interesting here is that instead of leaking out of the dough, the steam gets trapped in between the hydrophobic layers of beurre manié, lifting them and forming water-rich air pockets. This phenomenon takes place until the starch seizes, which causes the end of the expansion and the beginning of the dehydration and colouration – through Maillard reaction.

Because I suspect that; at this point, some of you are remotely bored, I suggest we start making pâte feuilletée. As usual, I like to start with weighed and prepared ingredients; and needless to say, a sink full of hot soapy water. I know many of those who personally know the more-than-you-could-ever-think-messy person I am will laugh at the following, but I like things to be pretty clean and tidy in the kitchen.

To make enough puff pastry for three 23cm tarts or two 6-servings mille-feuilles or more accurately 900g, you’ll need:
150ml water
5g fleur de sel (one heaped teaspoon)
350g flour
110g butter, melted and cooled
for the détrempe, and:

375g butter
150g flour for the beurre manié.

Dissolve the fleur de sel into the water.

In the bowl of a stand-mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the flour and melted butter until just blended. If you’re making this by hand, use a wooden spoon or a fork.

Reduce the speed of the mixer and slowly pour in the salted water. You might not need it all, depending how the absorption coefficient of the flour you’re using – flours from different brands may not need the same amount of water, so act accordingly. Stop adding water when the dough feels soft, but not overly so. It shouldn’t, by any mean, be sticky. And will still be wet or dry at some spots.

Place the dough onto cling film and working quickly with the palm of your hands, form a rectangle approximately 20cm long, 15cm wide and 1cm thick. Wrap in cling film and refrigerate.

Once the détrempe is made, it’s time to start making the beurre manié. Simply cream the butter for a couple of minutes.

Then scrape the sides of the bowl, and tip in the flour and mix very briefly, until just combined.

Transfer onto cling film and working very quickly – the last thing to want is the butter to melt – form a rectangle as large as the one you just made with the détrempe. Wrap and chill for two hours.

After the two-hour chilling time, dust your workplan with flour and roll out the détrempe into a rectangle almost twice as long as its width (it should be around 40cm long, 15cm wide and 0.5cm thick).

Place the rectangle of beurre manié onto the lower part of the rolled détrempe and fold the upper part over it.

You should now have something that sort of looks like a book.

Place its spine on your left, and roll out until you get a 40cm long and 20 cm wide rectangle. The next step is called a tour double [literally, a double turn – read fold]. Brush the excess flour away and trim the ends so you have a neat rectangle*.

Visualise the middle axis of the rectangle, grab the lower end of the dough and fold it over so it meets the middle axis. Do the same with the upper end. I’ll call this an open book.

Finally, close the ‘book’ and wrap it in cling film.

* this is totally what I use to make the presque-palmiers below.

You see those two holes; they’re here to remind you that you’ve done two tours. This might not be helpful when you only make one batch, but trust me, when you have more than 50kg of puff pastry to roll, they come quite handy. Refrigerate for 1 hour.

Now, you’re going to make the second tour double.
Place the book look-alike dough in front of you, spine on the left and proceed as above.

At this point, the dough can be kept, well-wrapped, in the fridge for up to a week. However, once you give the dough its last final tour simple [simple fold], it should get used within 72 hours.

To give the dough its final tour, place the ‘book’ in front of you, spine on the left and roll it into a rectangle slightly larger than a sheet of A4 paper. Brush the excess flour away and fold in three, just like you would do with a business letter.

Divide into three 300g pâtons and use as you wish.