Aleksandra Crapanzano - Gateau: The Surprising Simplicity of French Cakes

Gteau

The Surprising Simplicity of French Cakes

Aleksandra Crapanzano

For my parents, Jane Kramer and Vincent Crapanzano, who gave me a love of writing, a passion for good food, a life without borders and the freedom to dream.

Introduction

T he idea for this book came to me one weekend by the sea with our friends Delphine and David and their four kids. After several years in New York, they were moving home to Paris, and we were bereft. It was the sort of moment in a deep friendship when you realize how important ritual is in celebrating a bond. We were, that weekend, without knowing italthough we talked about it constantlyhappily promising ourselves many more weekends togetherweekends that would be all the more poignant, as they would require planning and travel. Ideas of where and when those weekends would take place would drift through our conversations, never far from our thoughts. It was, we sensed, a way of not saying goodbye, but it was also full of the happy certainty that we would tend to our friendship, that it mattered. Of course, little did we know that weekend in the spring of 2020 that more than a year would go by before wed be able to gather together once more. That next time, a very happy time, would be in Paris, at a long outside table at the restaurant Les Cocottes. But Im getting ahead of myself. That weekend by the sea in East Moriches, we feasted without fuss. Nobody hovered over a hot stove, nobody fretted about their recipes. And yet somehow by our first supper, Delphine and Davids daughter, Lila, and her father had both made fruit tarts. Lila had thinly sliced fruit for a dough Delphine had made and rolled, while David had made a tarte Tatin. Nathan, the eldest son, had made cannels in copper molds for a late-afternoon snack, and Lila had put a bowl of madeleine batter in the fridge to rest overnight. Delphine had prepared a gorgeous scallop ceviche and had mixed cocktails while simultaneously getting her youngest boys to practice the piano. My husband, John, and I had brought large loaves of miche, those great rounds of sourdough, and a tote full of good cheeses from the city. Salads were assembled, fish grilled, wine bottles opened. Verbena leaves picked for a late-night tisane. The next morning brought caf au lait and piping hot madeleines, straight from the oven. A quick dark chocolate cake was made before a hike that ended with a swim.

There was ease to our meals. Everything was more or less served at room temperature, so there was no rush to the table. We ate with immense relish and pleasure, but all the elements seemed part of a larger ensemble. Bread, wine, cheese, salad and dark chocolate for supper on Sunday after a full day and a long lunch brought a tender close to our three days together. It was only late in bed that last night that I noted the sheer amount of baking that had been donetarts, cakes, cannels, madeleines, even a batch of les brownies New Yorkais. And yet it was almost impossible to remember when any of the measuring and mixing and baking had actually happened.

Having lived in Paris for many years as a child, this didnt surprise me. The French bake at home far more than we imagine. But, maybe more important, they bake far more simply than we imagine, and mostly from a range of classics that lend themselves to seasonal riffing and improvisation. What they dont do is labor over the grand and intricate ptisserie that is what weve come to think of as French baking. They wisely leave ptisserie to the ptissiers and ptissiresthose who, after long apprenticeships, have studied at the venerable schools, such as Ferrandi or lInstitut Paul Bocuse, before honing their skills and building their reputations for decades and then, and only then, opening their own shops. This truly gets to the essence of Parisian home cooking. By and large, the French do not try to compete with their chefs, nor with the ptissiers, boulangers or traiteurs. But it is equally true that Ive never been in the home of a Parisian who was not a natural cook, nor one who didnt finish dinner with a little something sweet, effortlessly made and casually served. And so, while Delphine and David are particularly generous hosts, their way of cooking and eating isremarkablynot altogether out of the ordinary.

The worlds captivation with all things French, particularly all things Parisian, is not one I would ever wish to dispel. I fall squarely into the Francophile camp. But having lived there, my perspective is perhaps differentno less enchanted, no less fond, but perhaps a bit savvier as to the inner workings that make what is charmant and dlicieux appear effortless. Whether it is tying a silk scarf or rolling a gnoise, far less time is expended than would seem fair for such fabulous results. So allow me to let you in on the secret. Its very simple. The French master the classics. And, by mastering them, they are set free to improvise with confidence and panache.

The trick is having an arsenal of recipes that, once learned, become mere blueprints, allowing for myriad variations, depending on whats in season and whats in the cupboard. It is a practical approach, and the French are nothing if not practical. That, more than anything, is the essence of savoir faire, that distinctly Parisian know-how that blends style and functionality in every aspect of lifeincluding popping a gteau in the oven without anyone even noticing. When you know what youre doing, theres no need to overthink it. It looks easy because it is easy.

Ive written a dessert column for the Wall Street Journal for close to a dozen years, and so it is no wonder, I suppose, that I want both to debunk the great myth that Parisians return home after work and whip up a batch of impossibly delicate macarons or, say, layer a mille-feuille, and also to shine a spotlight on the brilliance of French home baking because the classics are, in fact, brilliant. Many of the recipes in this book date back, in some form or another, hundreds of years, some even to the Middle Ages. Theyve stood the test of time because they are inratablefoolproof. (And just to be sure they work in the U.S. with American ingredients, Ive tested and double-tested each and every one.)

Whenever I return to France, one of the things that immediately calms me in some inexplicably profound way is the immediacy of the French connection to their history. They are simply less wowed by novelty and more interested in eating what they know and love, and they appreciate it being made well and with skill. This is true throughout the country but, in Paris, there is a playful irreverence mixed in, and an ease with pivoting and changing things up. Paris is where home cooks and chefs alike borrow confidently from all regions of the country and, for that matter, the world. More and more, Parisians bake and cook with a global pantry, reaching one moment for