Do you remember when, a couple of days ago, I told you that 1) I had no recipe to share, and 2) Jamie’s chicken is the base of our food diet?

(I made sure to quote the two facts above so it’s really clear in your heads right now.)

Well, I have to confess that I lied. The evidence being the absolutely gorgeous maple, pecan and banana granola we eat daily with a good dollop of yoghurt for me, and a dash of milk for Guillaume.

I didn’t mean to hide this from you. In fact, I even took one picture with my favourite film camera (adequately called Pentax ME Super) thinking I would have time to take cleaner pictures with my digital Canon.

The jar containing our granola got a little emptier every day. But nobody in the house seemed to notice.

And then it happened.

One day, between the third and fourth of December, I woke up to an empty jar.

This means: 1) no pretty picture, and 2) that this granola is the best ever. I mean, one-plus kilogram of cereals, nuts and dried fruits; ten days, two people.

Yes, it’s evident that we had it for breakfast every single day, looking down on the usual favourite: fried bacon and toast.
And this comes from two people, who has much as they love pâtisserie, would rather eat a whole camembert than a chocolate bar.

* This is a French song children use to tease each others when they find out one of them is in love. It’s highly possible that this is now too 80s for those who are now seven-ish and already playing with iPhones (gosh, I do sound like an old lady, SCARY) though.

Pecan, maple, and banana granola
As with most granolas, this recipe is quite versatile. You can add more nuts, or some dried fruits; if your feeling decadent, fold in chopped chocolate in your cooled granola is always comforting. Or perhaps, switch the maple syrup for honey.

In fact, I must admit we also love a version made with sunflower seeds, honey, and dried apricots. The only thing is that we like to keep it simple. Three flavours: one type of nut, one type of liquid sweetening, and one type of dried fruit.
But really, make it your own by all means, and you’ll have a ready-to-eat breakfast for at least one week or two.

Regarding the process, things couldn’t get easier. You have the dried ingredients and the wet ones. Just combine everything. Bake until crisp, then mix in you dried fruits.

If you’re anything like me, you might have already experienced that subtle feeling of awkwardness which precedes the very first kiss you’re about to give to this new someone you quite like. And quite obviously, you can never forget the right-after-feeling as well.

Exciting. Electrifying. Paralysing.

I must confess I feel the exact same way when I come up with a new pâtisserie. A couple of Mondays ago, I explored the realm of tarts (oh yes, here they come again; somehow, I seem to think I’m no tart-lover and yet I find myself making tarts after tarts with just the right amount of anticipation and happiness).

At first, I wanted a milk chocolate ganache encased in a delicate pâte sucrée shell, and topped with caramelised pecan.

Real bad.

But apparently my need faded when I saw the 3.50€ price-tag for a small bag of less than two hundred grams of the much-adored pecans.

Peanuts felt like a not-so-bad idea. So did caramel. And more evidently, milk chocolate. But as delicious as it sounded, it seemed too easy.

Vanilla bean mini-marshmallows. Consistent. And downright perfect. For everything. This tart being no exception.

So here came the now famous tarte aux cacahuètes, caramel et chocolat au lait; as in, caramel and milk chocolate peanut tarts.

ps. I was quite thrilled when I found out that Pierre Hermé made a similar tart for a class he gave at Ferrandi.

Tarte aux cacahuètes, caramel et chocolat au lait

I’m not sure what I love most about this tart. The crisp peanut pâte sucrée. The melt-in-your-mouth caramel crème brulée. The crunchy and slightly salty peanuts. The smooth milk chocolate ganache. Or the fluffly vanilla marshmallows.

I guess, I’m really happy with how those five components turned out together.

The pâte sucrée has a delicate taste of peanuts, and the necessary crispness. I chose to rolled it finely and bake it until it turned into a golden brown hue, because I loved the aroma of roasted peanuts; and this smells just like them.

I added peanuts to the caramel crème brulée to make things super*peanuty, plus to add some crunch.

As for the ganache and marshmallows. Well, I suppose you all know how heavenly they are.

Do you remember that time when cream pies were being thrown at foodbeam? Well, this would be so very appropriate. Again.

The thing is that, aside from the long overdue bûches de Noël manifesto and the launch of la moustache, I’ve made a promise to Tony. A promise about something very exciting.

A taste of Mediterranean. Seven months, seven countries, seven co-hosts, seven prizes. January is all about France. And being the damn-busy-blogger-which-never-actually-posts French girl that I am, Tony asked me to join the team.
We both agreed that tarts would be a pretty sweet theme. Traditional yet versatile. And the very essence of French pâtisserie.

So no cream pies for today; hopefully you’ll like the tarte bourdaloue just as much.

As with many of the pastries I make at home, this tart has its own story. You see, I had to make it. To get ready for my first exam as a pâtisserie apprentie. Yes, you read right. A pastry exam. How terrific does that sound to you?
I must admit, I felt that way too.

A French classic. Crisp and sweet pâte sucrée, rich crème d’amandes, and delicate poached pears. I’m not certain about it, but from memory, I’d say it was named after the street on which it was first created. La rue Bourdaloue.
And, take my words for granted, this tart alone make me wish I had made a little détour by that street.

The recipe, which was handed me down by the school, is too easy to follow to be true. A dream. The pâte sucrée – made of flour, butter, sugar and eggs – gives a sweet shortbread-like dough. Effortless yet one of the best pâtes sucrées I’ve ever made. It’s a treat to work with, making the whole rolling and draping process a matter of seconds. And promise, it won’t shrink in the oven!
The crème d’amandes is a creamy (pleonasm alert!) tart filling made of butter and ground almonds, with a hint of vanilla, and a little flour to bind it all.
The poached pears bring some nice texture, and since they’re not poached in syrup but in water (with many split vanilla beans) they tend to cut the sweetness.

Hopefully, this will have gotten you inspired and you’ll come up with a pretty pretty version of what you perceive as the ultimate French tart. But mostly, have fun and create. And you might end up winning a fifty-dollar gift certificate.

As a side-note, I shall tell you the exam went really well. And yes, I’ll share the actual recipe for this tart soon, but well I’m in London right now with no access to my favourite recipe binder.

Coming up next (for good), she who felt like she lived in a forest made of golden plastic trees where the snow would be chocolate mousse.

I realise I said the next pâtisserie Lac update would be about how I almost took part to a pastry challenge. To make one long story short, I had made an interesting entremet – hazelnut dacquoise, cream cheese mousse, pumpkin crème brulée, and roast-slash-confit pumpkin – in the aim to submit it to a panel of experienced pâtissiers. But, after a couple of month without hearing from the school, I was called and told I’d start the classes on the exact same week the challenge was hold; read, with less than twenty-four hours of notice.
Not the right time, but definitely the right entremet. That’s why I so intended to share it with you. Sadly, it got eaten quickly and I haven’t found the time to re-make it yet. Soon (as usual).

Short story turned rather longish, and as you might guess, things are pretty busy at the pâtisserie at this time of the year. With more than a thousand of bûches to make, trust me when I say I feel slightly tired; although damn happy would qualify as well.

This Christmas is nothing like I’ve ever had. And totally feels like a new experience, which – needless to say – gets me pretty excited. Imagine how electrifying it is to see Christmas under a new light. Like the new kid on the block. Well, yes, that’s right; I’m that new kid and really enjoy it.

Plus, I’ve finally revealed my true identity – aka, crazily random person who talks way too much (this, they already know about), and takes pictures of the food she makes and writes about it on the internet (the – no-longer – secret) – so I got to photograph every single of the bûches (eight of them, write-up coming as soon as I’ll have found my mental sanity) and a couple of other things. Including those pretty chocolate sapins [Christmas trees] the chocolatiers made.

I also have pictures of the chocolatiers themselves, but you don’t want to see that since they can’t help making funny faces in front of a camera (at least I now have a way to blackmail them if necessary!).

Hopefully, you won’t mind about how random this post is. I’ve barely slept for the past couple of days (hence the don’t-make-sense factor), but I so wanted to give you a glimpse of what actually happens at the pâtisserie these days. And, perhaps most importantly, I wanted to show you how gorgeous nuts, dried fruits and chocolate are when they combine their forces. Delicious too, but I think it’s barely necessary to mention this.

Anyway, I might take a nap now and come back later with a bûches de Noël manifesto.

Coming up next, she who felt like she lived in a forest made of golden plastic trees where the snow would be chocolate mousse (this was clearly written under the influence – of sleep-lack, bûches-making and evident randomness, the title might change or not).

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

It all started with the crazy cool idea of making my own coconut extract. Something I had been dreaming about for years without thinking I would actually one day get rid of the horrid fake-tasting stuff my cupboard is full of (I tend to stock it every time I visit Jane Asher’s shop because it tends to disappear quite quickly).

Now it’s done. Delicious coconut extract, which also happens to make delicious vodka shots.

Trust me (however, I’m strongly against drinking while baking, dangerous things can happen in one tiny kitchen).

The next step was quite obviously the coconut cupcake. A delicate-crumbed cake, subtly flavoured with our extract, the water from the coconut itself, and some homemade coconut milk. Smooth ricotta as a frosting. And a pile of fluffy grated fresh coconut.

Of course, since I intended to serve this for breakfast, I had a light hand on the frosting; but if you’re feeling sweeter than me, please make an Italian meringue and pile it on your little cupcakes.
I hope a bite at those will encourage you to participate to September’s Sugar High Friday. Please. Pretty please.

Fresh coconut cupcakes with ricotta frosting
Adapted from Alton Brown.

I love this cake. The crumb is so fine it’s divine. It will melt in your mouth as it hits your tongue.
Of course, it will taste better if you make your own extract, however, if you don’t have the time or will, I recommend you just skip it. No fake stuff, please.

You can also turn this into a layer cake, as Alton does, but I think cupcakes work nicely here, because you get an even part of caramelised crust and soft inner, all at the same time.

Since we’re going to work with fresh coconut here, I think it’s time I share my secret about how to open a coconut when you’re a girl.
Preheat the oven to 180°C. Place the coconut onto a folded towel set down in a large bowl. Using a screwdriver, hammer holes into the eyes of the coconut. Turn the coconut upside down over a container and drain the water from the coconut. Store the water in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to a week. Place the coconut onto a baking sheet and bake in the oven for 15 minutes or until cracked. Place the pieces into a bowl of iced water and when cool enough to handle, separate the flesh from the husk. Wrap as is, or grate it; and store in the fridge.

And don’t forget. Sugar High Friday is running until the 26th of September. So put your aprons on. Get your wooden spoon and whisk. And make cupcakes!

I wish I’d come here today to tell you about how super excited I felt when I found out about Chris‘ pick for July’s daring bakers challenge. But things happened to be a little different.

It’s not that I didn’t like it. It’s just, that, well, there is so much more than buttercream-layered-cakes out there. Hence, this challenge initially felt a little frustrating.

Initially.

Then ideas started to pop like crazy. I knew I wasn’t going to make it buttercreamy, because, we all know I don’t dig buttercream.
I wanted it to have a summer feeling. Berries imposed themselves in the most natural way.

So did the cream filling; flavoured with a fragrantly nutty paste made from almonds and sugar.

The experiment
- three layers of butter and almond enriched génoise, sandwiched with
- an almond and cream filling, and
- fresh raspberries, and glazed with
- a dark chocolate ganache

The cake is a génoise, enriched with butter and ground almonds, which both make for a moist and tender gâteau.
I kept the given proportions – almost – unchanged, but slightly tweaked the process because I dare to be different. I first whipped with egg whites until they formed soft peaks, then added one fourth of the sugar, and set those aside. Using the same whisk (no cleaning involved), I beat the egg yolks with the remaining sugar until white and fluffy, then carefully folded those into the whipped egg whites.

In a small bowl, I had handy the flour, cornflour and ground almonds – all, thoroughly mixed. I dumped this mixture onto the whipped eggs and folded using a large metal spoon, until just combined.
Finally, the warm melted butter (not clarified) was poured over and incorporated as fast as possible.

The batter was then transferred into a 20cm cake buttered-and-baking-papered tin. And the cake was baked for 30 minutes, or until it feels springy to the touch and separates itself from the sides of the pan.

The filling is made by folding almond praline paste into softly whipped cream.

The almond praline is very straightforward to make. The only you really need is a powerful food processor, and you’re in.
Just make a syrup with caster sugar and water, and bring it to 120°C. Next, ditch the blanched almonds in there, mix quickly and transfer onto a lined baking sheet. Allow to cool and chop into smallish pieces that you blitz using your super processor until smooth and creamy.

Now, you simply have to slice the cake into three layers, sandwich them using the filling and throwing in a couple of handful of raspberries; and finally glaze the cake using a basic ganache made of equal parts of dark chocolate and double cream.

Sooooo…
My cake was so moist that I didn’t find it necessary to brush it with syrup before going on with the layering part of the process.

In the end, I really liked this challenge, but who can go wrong with berries, almond and cream?
Oh, sure, I did find the chocolate a little overpowering and will totally leave it out if I ever happen to make this again. Because I will.

The cake is so delicate and fragrant; and most importantly, rose beautifully. The filling was thick and creamy, which perfectly complemented the tanginess brought by the berries.

Let me tell you something guys. You are so sweet. I mean, I don’t post for a few days and instead of the hatred words I was expecting, all I get are sweet notes and emails. One of you even sent the comforting recipe for his favourite cookies – thank you Chris.

You – or more exactly some of you – are obviously concerned; and well, you’re just damn right. I first did not intend to share the following story with you; it just felt a little too personal. But since my closest friends know – and more importantly, since I consider you as friends; special friends that is, but friends nonetheless –, I thought I would let you know.

On my birthday, my dog – Chiffon – died. I hadn’t seen her for two months and wish I could have spent her last days with her, while I was just in Revel, not knowing what she was – and had been – going through.

You might probably not understand, let alone care about the following, but I want this to be a tribute to her. A place I’ll always be able to look at and help me not remember her. Not that I think I’ll actually forget; but I need to celebrate what a beautiful being she was.

I first met her when she was just a baby. It was some day around March 1996 – I’d say the 17th from memory, but can’t be sure about that.

My parents, sister and I were at that Spring party we used to attend every year; near St Tropez, in a wild yet gorgeous garden on the hills and a tepee as a main house.

As usual, the crowd was dense and cheerful. People from all over France – and the world. A couple from Paris. They had that tiny little dog. Beige with fluffy hair and the most adorable ears – yes, ears – you could ever think of.

I waited for my parents to get tipsy – but don’t tell them I told you – , and asked – well, begged – if that fluffy little person could be mine. If we could take her back home.

As you might have guessed, we did. She slept during the whole journey, comfortably snuggled in the small gap between my two legs.

And she grew up with me. Or maybe, I was the one to grow up with her. You would always find us together, either playing, reading or dancing. I’m not senseless; I just was crazy about her. As with most of my friends, she had her own special nickname; seasonal. La petite chinoise – for her pretty almond shaped eyes. Boubinou. Chérie. Boops. Loulou. Cacahuète. You name it.

She was always so happy. Unless Pirate – our turkey-look-alike cat – ate her food or got a little too much attention. Unless she had some kind of branches stuck in her messy hair; in which case, she would totally stop moving and look at me so I could understand how uncomfortable she was and how she needed me – well, my hands – to remove the spiky stuff.

She had her favourite soft-toy, which we would refer to as her bébé. And although she sometimes forgot it around the garden or in one of the house’s room; she would always find it for some cuddling or playing.

But is there is one thing I’ll always laugh at when remembering her, it has to be her love for anything crispy. As soon as she heard one of us eating something with crunchy noise, she had to have it. She would first approach the table, then put her head on your lap, moving her nose in what we used to call a piggy fashion – son petit nez de cochon. Adorable.

Whether the chomp came from a carrot, biscotti, raw vegetable sticks, or nuts, she needed it. So I always used to get her to try what she saw as yummy – even if truly, she might have preferred a thick slice of meat, at least gastronomically speaking.

At first, she moved towards the food, smelt it and gently took it away from my hand with her teeth. She would then start chewing, in a very delicate way. Sometimes, when she would like it, it would disappear in a matter of second; other times, she would put it on the floor and look at me. Those times, I would encourage her to taste again, and in the end, she just seemed to like everything and beg for more, with one or two paws. The rare times when she didn’t actually like what I gave her, she would slowly move to the door, get outside, find a quiet place and burrow the piece of food in a small hole dug with her museau, which would inevitably end up covered with earth.

The one thing she loved were nuts, or more accurately, almonds. She even used to sneak into the kitchen and reach the basket into which my mum places the almonds she picks from our tree. Whole almonds, with the shell. Using her sharp teeth, she would open them and eat the soft yet crisp inners.

So when I made those calissons last week, on the day I learnt she had had surgery – to remove tumors on her spleen – fifteen days earlier, I couldn’t help but think about her. I was in shock. She had been sick and didn’t even know about it; I guess my parents thought it was the right thing to do and I do think it was. Yet, it made me realise how fragile she was and made me want to spend as many hours in her company as I could. Since I would see my family on the following week end, I already saw myself taking thousands of pictures of her, so I would always have her near me.

I didn’t get the chance to. On the next day, she died. She just stopped breathing. There is nothing my parents could have done. She didn’t get over the surgery. Things could have turned to be different and she might have lived for a couple more years. But here she was. Dying on my birthday. Clearly, I didn’t want to celebrate. And didn’t really; or in a very restrained way.

I love her and miss her more every second. I feel numb. Torn. My whole body stopped working altogether. I was all tears. Cry and scream.

Today, I’m just starting have feelings again. Slowly getting conscious that life isn’t over. Yet.

It just hurts to know I’ll never get the chance to feel her, smell her again.

Now, only memories remain. Like when she thought my dad couldn’t see her when she was hiding under the kitchen table with her tail evidently banging on the floor. We were certain she thought she was perfectly hidden, just because she couldn’t see him.

Or when she was sleeping on my bed, while I was reading some book, and she heard my mum’s steps approaching. She would wake up, and gently shake her head, but wouldn’t move a paw. But if she recognised my dad’s steps, you can be sure she would jump straight to the floor.

She truly was the sweetest dog ever and will be remembered as such. We all miss her. Luckily, we shared so many moments with her that we have no regrets; just happy memories. And trust me, those memories, I’m not going to allow them to disappear. Secured. Preciously. Like little grains of sands. Or – more appropriately – like small almonds in a tree.

Calissons maison comme des vrais

Calissons are a French specialty from Provence – and more precisely – Aix en Provence, where they’re so dearly-loved that they’re mass produced. Originally made with almonds and fruits confits [candied fruits], I took the easy way and made some with almonds mixed with a little icing sugar, homemade apricot jam, natural almond extract and orange blossom flower water, to a smooth and fragrant paste.

Here I used ground almonds, but you could obviously use blanch almonds, which you grind yourself. However, I’m not good at lying and honestly – and as much as I love anything homemade – I’m glad with how those calissons turn out and don’t get the point about trying hard when you can get terrific results with bought – but high-quality – ground almonds.

Cry. Really, that’s what I should be doing right now instead of writing on foodbeam; and the fact that the post is going to be about la famous galette des rois shouldn’t change anything about my state. Yet it does.

I’m sure you all have someone you miss. Someone you loved more than you thought you were able to. Someone you spent all your days and nights with. Someone who taught you how to make délicieux almond butter truffles. Someone you had tickle-fights and massage-slumber-parties with. Someone to whom you taught a good pile of some of the most randomest words the French language has to offer. Someone you used to watch House with, while eating a pint of cookies and cream ice cream straight from the tube with just one spoon and occasionnaly, your fingers.
I had managed to move on after he left for another country, but somehow House is now onto French television, and as I saw the preview, I couldn’t stop the mini-movies that my head was suddenly screening.

This is bad people. I mean, real bad. But maybe a slice of galette can help. Instant sweet-and-soothing-and-totally-delicious comfort that leaves you with a full tummy and a happy mind (especially since you had the fève in your slice).

*Yep, Dr House pretty much rocks.

Galette des rois

This is the galette I’ve always seen my mum making. There even is a joke in my house that says ‘maman, je dois admettre que tu as tendance a brulé et oublié de saler un peu tout, mais rien qu’avec ta galette on pourrait croire que tu es un chef’ [mum, I have to admit that you almost always burn and forget to season your dishes, but by the taste of your galette, one could think you're a chef].
Discharge: my mum actually is a pretty good cook. She just tends to, ahem, cook, thing a little longer than they should and well, forget what the word salt even means.

But one thing has to be taken for granted. This galette. It’s pretty damn good. A rich and buttery almond filling is encased into two layers of puff pastry. Please don’t forget to put a fève into your filling, like I do most of the times.
When I’m feeling particularly happy, I like to fold in a punnet of the frozen raspberries I pick every summer. Spreading Nutella over the base also is a great option. But my favourite and somewhat subtle twist consists in some chopped good almonds.

To me, nothing feels as comforting as the perfumes that always filled my great grandmother’s house. That slight musky scent from the thin layer of dust, which used to cover the bibelots that sat on the wooden shelves. Those green, almost lemongrass-like, notes – most certainly la verveine [verbena herbal-tea] she had before going to bed every night after a perfectly cooked meal washed down with a glass of red wine and some squares of bitter chocolate.
We used to get on so well. Me, the 8 year-old and her, still glowing after 85 years of a forceful life. I miss her. And her fragrance; at least, the fragrance I think about whenever Mémé comes to my mind. A pungent aroma; a combination of caramel, floral honey and almonds. Les florentins.

I loved to spend the day with her. I would watch her knitting or stitching the beautiful table cloth she later offered to my mum. After lunch, she would start making some sweet treats for le goûter; whether it was some gauffres, crêpes or sablés. But, really, nothing could beat her florentins.
She always started by making a caramel with sugar and honey, then deglazing it with full-fat cream. She would toast some roughly chopped blanched almonds, add them to the golden-brown caramel, and pour this over a thin layer of pâte sablée. I can remember the countless times when I burnt myself by trying to pick some of the piping hot almond and caramel mixture with my fingers. Patience has never been one of my virtues; definitely never.

She’s gone for seven years now and yet I hadn’t found the courage to make her florentins. But well, sometimes life pushes you and before you realise it you’re doing something you never thought yourself capable of.
One day, still an intern at Pierre Hermé Paris, as I arrived to the laboratoire, I was told by Guilhem ‘aujourd’hui, on fait les florentins‘ [today, we'll make florentins]. This was my fate after all. So I made florentins. And tasted them. The happy memories brought by the first bite made my day. I wasn’t sad. It just felt natural. As if I had been rewarded for those seven years of patience during which I didn’t make or eat florentins. Trust me, those were tough years. Make them and wonder how I managed to resist for so long. Mémé je t’aime fort.

Les florentins de mon arrière grand-mère
Adapted from Mémé’s recipe and inspired from Pierre Hermé’s process.

My great grandmother’s florentins’ recipe is quite close to Pierre Hermé (I’m just she would have jumped from joy if she knew it). However, she didn’t use orange peels and obviously didn’t need a thermometer, which I certainly couldn’t do without. But then, she could make candied chestnuts – something I tried and screwed during the holidays.
She also used coarsely chopped almonds while I decided to go for sliced almonds, just because they look pretty.

Regarding the steps, none of them is difficult. You simply have to make sure to spread the caramel and almond mixture quickly enough so it doesn’t get all sticky. The key is to work fast on a hot pastry crust. If this sounds intimidating to you, you can toast the almonds slightly before incorporating them to the caramel so its temperature doesn’t drop too much.