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).

As I was diligently peeling a stampede of organic lemons to turn them into neat candied squares – a pretty lengthy task if you consider all the steps involved – the pungent scent brought down memories of a now long-gone day.

Rewind.

As Guillaume wakes up – or more accurately, as I push the snooze button of our alarm clock every two minutes, giving him a repeat-hug to gently get him to emerge from his dreamless sleep – I suddenly realise that today is my much-longed-for day-off.

After more minutes that I will dare to divulge, Guillaume slowly walks to the bathroom, and I can’t resist to fall back asleep with the soothing sound of falling waters tickling my ears.

It’s now almost eleven aye-emm, and after a quick bath – my very own luxury – I hop onto the bus towards High Street Kensington. Read: towards Whole Foods.

On my way back, white flakes begin to fill the skies. By the time I reach the door to our flat, the streets, trees, and sadly for my tendency not to resist to any slippery surface, the sidewalks are coated with thick snow.

It’s damn cold outside, and the heat I find at home feels unbearable.

Until I look through the window only to mentally record the image I see. A white cocoon surrounded my fog clouds.

It’s pretty much one of the most comforting sensation ever. As if I was contemplating my own daily world from above; except it’s now all-quiet, almost like a nature morte.

With such an astounding cosiness, a couple of things were bound to happen. A feel-happy movie, a trip to my very favourite blogs, a nap – taken from the warmth of my thick couette.

The last thing involved flour, baking powder, eggs, sugar, a good dose of lemon, butter, and cream. Also known as cake weekend, this loaf will keep – in the fridge, well-wrapped in cling film – for days.

Oh, and did I mention how easy it is to put together, how pretty it is to look at, and how down-to-the-last-crumb delicious it is to eat?

It is also a damn good reason to use my absolute pâtisserie tour-de-main [process] crush. The one trick you won’t be able to live without.
If you want a life lived in the shadows of neatly cracked cakes, please avoid eye contact with the following lines.

The secret is to pipe a line of butter on the top of your unbaked loaf. Simply cream a couple of tablespoons of butter, and using a piping bag – or as I do, a paper cornet (another playground love, which I should definitely make you discover laterish) – pipe a thin line across the length of the cake.

Bake and allow your eyes to sparkle.

But more than this, this promenade into the past allowed me to discover what pushes me to make a recipe in particular.
I think it says a lot about the pastry chef – not to mention the person – you are. The way you combine coincidences, accidents, facts into a delicious pâtisserie.

And I strongly hope my recipes come across just how people see me. Refreshing, sophisticated yet with an edge, and fun.
This means a lot to me since I have just realised that I am now ready to write a pastry book. It’s always been a dream, a long-term goal, and possibly the one thing – except for my passion – that got me into those not-so-hot pieds-de-poules pants.

Until today, I had never felt the need to write a cookbook. I kept telling myself I had to wait until I would master an actual knowledge on French pâtisserie, and also, until I had a good unexplored book material.

So when the idea came to me on my way to work, I was thrilled.

A book I would have loved to read a couple of years earlier, when I hadn’t yet entered a professional pastry kitchen. And actually, a book I would still love to read now.

It’s still the very beginning of the process, and even though I keep my fingers crossed to the point my joints hurt, the book will possibly never be printed. But I like to challenge myself.

So well, let’s forget about this all, and please go make a cup of your favourite tea – although I couldn’t recommend anything more than a delicate cup of green tea – to sip through the savouring of a thick slice of weekend lemon cake topped with a large spoonful of clementine confit and a dollop of crème fraiche.

Cake weekend au citron et confit de clémentines à la vanille
I feel like I’ve already talked way too much today, so I will now simply urge you to make this. Weekend or not.

Just make sure you fold the flour very delicately into the batter, not to loose any of the air (incorporated in the eggs right at the beginning by much whipping) that gives the loaf cake such a light texture.
Same goes for the fats (both cream and butter; that’s actually the difference between a cake and a weekend cake).

What I usually do is to incorporate vigorously a small amount of batter (around one cup) into the melted – yet not hot – fats, then pour this mixture back into the batter, folding very gently.

As for the confit, you simply need to briefly blanch the whole clémentines a couple of times, before cooling them in ice-cold water. This allows to 1) get rid of the skin’s bitterness, and 2) keep the bright orange colour.
Then proceed as detailed below!

You can certainly make it in advance as it will keep for 5 days in the frigde.

Sometimes, things can’t wait. Not for a week, a day, an hour, a second, or even a minute. Things like… SNOW.

In fact, ever since I spotted the first snowflakes almost five hours ago, I’ve seemed to have a canon 400D glued to my right hand.

And damn, this is a useful new organ, acting as an extension of my eyes. I think beauty surgeon should consider reconversion as camera-stickers in the most serious way.

Silly stories apart, snowflakes make the prettiest things to photograph. So much that I actually jumped onto the bed to reach my laptop and tell you about this. Then, I second-thought, and realised that as lovely they might be, they are not considered pâtisserie.

Oh yes, I could have written a recipe for snow granita, which in my humble opinion taste best with a dash of lemon juice and some vodka (this is off records, right), but it didn’t quite fall in what I consider shareable.

Those petits gâteaux aux cranberries I made a couple of days ago do.

Well, let me check. Delicious: yes. Seasonal: yes. Moist: yes. Flavourful: yes. Pretty: not so much, but you have to realise we don’t even own a muffin pan yet, so they’re a little free-form.

Quite evidently, things couldn’t be as smooth. I could certainly post the recipe, but a picture? By night?

Trust me, at this point I was more than desperate; not to mention exhausted from a never-ending sore-throat and looong hours of work at the Capital Hotel (yes, I know, this is – another – new thing in my life: two star restaurant!).
And then, I grabbed a binder, a cookbook, and a pastry chef jacket, and created this lightbox.

Please, close your eyes, unless you haven’t had a chance to get your advised dose of daily laughing; because, well, I’m sure THIS will make you giggle to the point when your cheek hurt and you start crying.

Now take a deep breath, notice how sore your ribs are after this unexpected whoop, take a piece of paper and a pen, and write that recipe down for instant Christmasness.

Petits gâteaux aux cranberries
There is something comforting about those small cakes. It might be the wonderful smell that fills the house, setting everyone into a Christmas mood; or maybe it’s their light texture.

If – unlike me – you use a muffin pan, your cake will rose higher and might require a couple extra minutes of baking. Just insert a knife into the centre of the cakes and as soon as it comes out clean, it means they’re ready.
Simply make sure you don’t overbake them, in which case they would turn out slightly dry instead of theire usual moistness.

You should also make sure your milk and egg aren’t too cold when you add them so the butter doesn’t set when you mix them in. If it does, don’t worry, the cakes will be lovely, just perhaps a tad smaller.

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

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.

That time of the year – yes, the one that brings peace and happiness has come around again. And while Christmas and all its festiveness is already behind us, I can’t help but share with you the lovely bûche de Noël my sister and I made for our Christmas Eve dinner and – it goes without saying – the story behind it.

Isn’t this season supposed to be about love and joyfulness? Well, come to my house and you’re likely to find us fighting. No love. No joyfulness.
Please, do not worry; we’re only discussing which flavour the bûche should be.
However, this year was a totally different matter. No screams were to be heard. No tears to be seen. When I suggested a Plaisirs Sucrés bûche - Pierre Hermé’s signature flavour – everyone seemed to agree and instantly felt relieved to avoid the usually exhausting brawl. A real Christmas-like house.

My sister even helped me out with the dinner. We spent the two days before Christmas cooking, but every second was worth it.
I was so proud of Aïda as she made the fresh yeast blinis all by herself; and she showed a great interest in the bûche making process. She even asked me if she could have her own column in foodbeam. You bet I said yes.

Bûche de Noël Plaisirs Sucrés
Adapted from Pierre Hermé’s PH10 and Thuriès Magazine (Nov. 07)

It’s no secret that Pierre Hermé’s Plaisirs Sucrés is one of my favourite things on Earth. And I feel like everyone would like it, even those who don’t like milk chocolate.
As a milk chocolate supporter, I am more than pleased to have finally found a dessert that truly gives milk chocolate the credit it deserves.

I’m not going to lie to you, this bûche is quite time-consuming to make, but if you’re act methodically your bûche will be ready to be eaten on time.

You should start on the day before you plan to serve it by:
1. the milk chocolate ganache
2. the milk chocolate chantilly
3. the dacquoise aux noisettes
4. the praline feuilleté
5. the fines feuilles de chocolat au lait
6. the joconde
Basically, the entire bûche is made on that day. It is then frozen overnight, at which point it’s ready to be glazed with the miroir chocolat.

Don’t forget to transfer the glazed bûche from the freezer to the fridge two hours before serving.

Note: I mention a 25cm-bûche mould. Please don’t be put off by this if you happen not to own one. I don’t. And if you knew what my so-called bûche mould actually is, you’re likely to burst in laugh.
I asked my dad to cut in half a 10cm-wide plastic pipe – yes, the grey ones, used in the building industry. I encased that half-pipe into one of my 25cm-long loaf pan, covered it with thin cardboard (so that my bûche would be more than 5cm in height) and lined everything with both clingfilm and rhodoïd.
See, my bûche might not look perfect, but well, it went through many things. And I’m sure that everyone can make a great-looking log – even without the appropriate mould!

Before I can start with this, I need you to complete a little homework. Basically, I want you to rush to the nearest French supermarket (never told you it was going to be easy) with a spoon in your hand and a thick scarf in your bag. Once you’ve arrived, try to locate the yogurt aisle. It will get colder and colder as you move forwards. It’s time to use your scarf – how handy is that? Roll it around your neck and stop for a second to experience a feeling of intense cosiness.
Ok, by now you should have reached what appears to be meters of yogurts and other yummy things. Find the Marronsuiss’. Tear one pot apart, open it and dig your spoon into it. Make sure you notice how fluffy it is. Let it melt in your mouth.

I really can’t believe I asked you to eat processed food. Me. The, ahem, organic-agriculture-fanatic-and-animal-supporter. But well, that was necessary. I needed you to taste Marronsuiss’ before you start judging me about what follow.

See, when we were younger, my little sister and I used to fight for Marronsuiss’. It was nasty. Bites, hair pulling, among other too-cruel-to-tell-you-about things.
It’s crazy how such a feathery and chestnut-flavoured mousse can generate so much conflicts? However, knowing that you’ve done your homework, I have the feeling that you understand.

Here, I whipped up the harder-better-faster-stronger* version of Marronsuiss’.
* It just means terrific, really.

Mousse aux châtaignes
Adapted from Saveur magazine.

This delicate chestnut mousse, while tasting pretty much the same than its industrial twin, has the advantage that it doesn’t contain stabiliser and other creepy ingredients that the food industry likes to put in our plates from timt to time.
It’s texture is airy and it has a lovely chestnut flavour. Perfect for holidays, or in my opinion, for everyday.

Remember that gelatine has to be soaked for at least 20 minutes in cold water before being used.
You can fold in some roughly chopped candied chestnuts, just make sure you decrease the sugar quantity accordingly.

It’s feeling a lot like Christmas around already, isn’t it? Light garlands have been installed in town. People are Christmas-gift-buying on week nights. A lovely perfume of grilled chestnuts fills Toulouse.
I just love it. Gets me I a happy mood and makes me feel cosy. Well, my ugg boots are actually what keeps me cosy.
Today, as every Saturdays, I spent most of my day home. Reading, cooking and checking my feeds.
A perfect Saturday. I mean, really.

Something got me super excited. As I was reading Laurie’s last posts, I stumbled upon that one. And although, I won’t follow the exact same rules, it inspired me.
Basically, I will send a box with handmade/homemade goodies to one lucky person who leaves a comment on this post.
So if you want some sweetness from the sweetest of all girls (yeah, technically, that’s me), just leave a comment here and your name might be picked.

Let’s get on with today’s recipe though. I know this goodie give-away is utterly thrilling, but well, I have to move on.
As said above, I didn’t get many things done today: an hour-bike ride along the canal du midi, some reading and a pudding.
My cupboards being nearly empty, I had to get along with what I had: coconut milk, tapioca and two old pomegranate.
The choice was quick. The eating too.

Coconut and pomegranate tapioca pudding

I love how the fresh pomegranate seeds add some bite to this smooth and creamy pudding.
Plus, it’s dead-easy to make.

Short-note: if you’re using bigger tapioca pearls, you should adapt the cooking times accordingly.

Cinnamon buns are an autumn favourite in my house. Come by, around the end of September, and a wonderfully rich cinnamon aroma will invariably hit you. A lovely family tradition, kept alive by my sister’s unconditional love for cinnamon buns.
On my side, the least I can say, is that I’m definitely not fighting against this ritual. Honestly, cinnamon buns are the perfect treat to warm up a cold autumn day; spicy, sweet and deliciously buttery.

You can thus imagine how priceless my family’s response was when I told them I had to make cinnamon buns for this month’s daring bakers challenge (Marce, my parents and sister are eternally thankful for your choice).

The experiment
The cinnamon buns are made of three components:
- a mildly rich buttery dough
- a sweet and aromatic cinnamon sugar filling
- a great and dead-easy-to-make vanilla fondant

The buttery dough was a delight to work with. Before starting, I intended to follow a regular brioche procedure. Basically, I wanted to mix the dough, place it in a bowl and refrigerate overnight; before proofing and shaping.
However, as soon as I started to work with it, I realised that the extra steps weren’t going to be necessary.
With only one egg and 80g of butter, this dough is less rich and wet than your usual brioche dough (it also contains milk which isn’t used in classic brioche), and thus, very easy to handle, making the whole process a doodle to follow.

This enriched yeasty dough is made of sugar, butter, vanilla, flour, yeast, egg, milk and salt (I diluted fleur de sel in the warm milk).
As you can see, I substituted the lemon zest for vanilla seeds because I couldn’t figure out what role the lemon could play, and thus, preferred to use the floral tones of Tahitian vanilla beans to balance the warmth of the cinnamon sugar.
For this recipe, it is very important that all the ingredients are at room temperature (22°C) before you start.

Here, I used flour type 45, which is quite not the same as bread flour. Though, given that the wheat grains are ground very finely for this type of flour, the gluten is widely available; and the small size of the flour particles ensures a soft and ropy dough.

The yeast isn’t fresh yeast as you might have expected, but instant yeast. I think Peter Reinhart’s choice comes from the fact that instant yeast is easier to find in the US but also more reliable (indeed, fresh yeast is very sensitive to temperature changes, which might results in the death of a great number of cells and thus, in a loss of effectiveness).
I generally prefer to use fresh yeast as, when used properly, it won’t give any yeasty taste to the dough and will result in more puffed breads; however, this time I went along with instant yeast and I was more than happy with the results.

The dough came together very easily; it was slightly soft and sticky at first, but as soon as I started kneading it, it became stronger and smoother. I decided to knead the dough by hand, because I just love to do so but also because the method I use (which is actually Dan Lepard’s) yields to extraordinary results.

The first fermentation was very quick, in an hour, the dough had almost doubled in size indicating that it was ready to be shaped. Actually, a dough should never be left to proof bigger than twice its size or the yeast will start to produce unwanted components, resulting in bitter or acidic aromas – so watch your dough!

At this point, I rolled the dough (note: you should deflate your dough before rolling it or you’ll have troubles – the cinnamon sugar is likely to escape and your rolls won’t be tight) – one cm thick -, and dusted with the cinnamon sugar, which simply is a mix of ground cinnamon and caster sugar.
Once the buns were shaped, they were left to proof and then baked at 175°C for 25 minutes.

The fondant, made of warm milk, icing sugar and vanilla seeds, and drizzled over the warm buns, was smooth and fragrant.

Soooo…
These cinnamon buns were an absolute hit and Peter Reinhart’s recipe replaced my old and trusted one, which means a lot.
The dough was soft and aromatic with vanilla and butter. It wasn’t very sweet, but nicely balanced by the sweetness brought by both the cinnamon sugar and fondant.
The cinnamon sugar stayed right inside the buns, making for a tender, syrupy and cinnamon-ish hearts.
A new favourite in my house.