Confections of a Closet Master Baker Read online

  I use an almond cake that puts sponge to shame. I use a scale to measure out the ingredients for perfection. It’s easy to get this one wrong with shoddy measuring. When there are stray bits, I stack the errant pieces on a plate and set them on the workstation by the door leading from the bakery to the front of the house. It’s for this cake that my crew pays me the highest compliment: “I hate you. I hate you for doing this to me. You are an evil woman.” And within seconds, it disappears.

  SERVES 8

  For the almond cake

  Nonstick cooking spray

  1½ packages (each package is usually around 7 ounces) or 10 ounces almond paste, broken into small bits

  1 cup sugar

  2 ounces (¼ cup) honey

  ½ pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature

  6 large eggs

  ⅞ cup all-purpose flour

  ½ teaspoon baking powder

  ½ teaspoon salt

  For the chocolate ganache

  1 cup heavy cream

  2 tablespoons sugar

  2 tablespoons corn syrup

  4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter

  1 pound semisweet chocolate, finely chopped

  For the mocha buttercream

  10 egg whites

  ¼ cup brewed coffee with 1 tablespoon instant espresso dissolved in the coffee, cooled

  2 cups sugar

  1 pound (4 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature, cut into 1-inch cubes

  1 cup chocolate ganache

  FOR THE MARZIPAN LAYER

  One 7-ounce package almond paste, rolled out into a thin layer onto a large piece of parchment so that it’s the same size as the top of the finished cake. Cover the almond layer with another piece of parchment to keep from drying out and set aside.

  FOR THE ALMOND CAKE

  Preheat the oven to 325°F. Liberally spray a ½ sheet pan (18 ȕ 13 inches) with nonstick cooking spray and line it with parchment paper.

  In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, combine the remaining almond paste, sugar, and honey. Beat until well combined. Scrape the sides of the bowl now and again to make sure no bits of almond paste are left behind. If you don’t whip the mixture well enough, stray chunks of almond paste will make the batter lumpy.

  Add the butter in small bits, scraping the bowl down at least twice in the process.

  Add the eggs one by one, beating until each is completely incorporated. After each addition, scrape down the sides of the bowl. After the last egg, beat on high until the batter is fluffy.

  On the lowest speed, slowly incorporate the flour, baking powder, and salt until blended.

  Spread the batter evenly in the prepared pan. Bake until the cake is golden brown and springs back when you touch it, 15 to 20 minutes. Let cool completely.

  FOR THE CHOCOLATE GANACHE

  In a saucepan, bring the cream, sugar, corn syrup, and butter to a boil over moderate heat, whisking until the sugar is dissolved.

  Remove from heat and add the chocolate, whisking until smooth.

  Allow the ganache to cool, stirring occasionally, until spreadable. If the ganache cools so much that it is impossible to spread, transfer it to a microwavable container and nuke for 30 seconds at a time, stirring after each 30 seconds.

  FOR THE MOCHA BUTTERCREAM

  Combine the egg whites, coffee, and sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer. Place over a saucepan of simmering water and whisk until the sugar is dissolved and the mixture reaches 160°F (high enough to kill the bad stuff). Whisk vigorously and constantly; you don’t want scrambled eggs. You can dip your finger into the egg whites and rub them together to make sure the sugar has dissolved.

  Transfer the bowl to a mixer fitted with the whisk attachment and whisk on high until the egg whites have tripled in size and are cool and shiny (about 10 minutes).

  With the mixer on low, start dropping cubes of butter into the egg whites; then return to high until the butter-cream thickens and is spreadable. On low, add the cup of ganache. Mix until completely incorporated.

  TO ASSEMBLE THE CAKE

  Cut the almond cake lengthwise into three even strips. Use a ruler; don’t eyeball it.

  Spread 1 cup of buttercream onto the first layer. Transfer to the refrigerator until the buttercream is set but not hard, about 15 minutes.

  Carefully place a second layer of almond cake on top of the buttercream. Make sure the cake is level.

  Spread 1 cup of ganache over the second layer, making sure that everything is level. Take your time with each layer to ensure evenness. Return to the refrigerator until just set, another 15 minutes.

  Place the third layer of cake on top of the ganache and spread ¼ to ½ cup of buttercream in a very thin layer over the top. Keeping the almond paste on the parchment, carefully transfer the thin layer to the cake and invert it over the cake so that it completely covers the top layer, trimming any part that hangs over with scissors or a sharp knife.

  Spread a thin layer of ganache over the almond paste and return to the refrigerator for at least an hour.

  Using a ruler, mark guidelines in the ganache every 3 inches. With a hot, dry knife, carefully cut even slices. Transfer each slice to a platter or individual plate with a large offset spatula or a pie spatula for balance as you cut it.

  Make sure the filling is very cool and firm and that your knife is damn hot and very dry. Otherwise, the slices will be messy. You don’t want messy slices. It’s hard to bring yourself to eat this cake when you get it right; it’s such a lovely little layered thing and it took a lot of patience to get it perfect. But it’s as tasty as it is beautiful. So admire it but please eat it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tiers of Frustration

  12 p.m.

  HE SECOND MY MORNING DUTIES END, my mind turns to my big baking projects of the week: two anniversaries, a baby shower, and a thirtieth-birthday cake. And then there are the commitment ceremonies and weddings. They’re not only big, they’re a big pain in the ass.

  Wedding cakes are as much engineering feats as they are pastry. The bigger they get, the more architectural support they need. Each individual tier has to be exact, perfectly plumb, before you can stack the next. Many bakers make nothing but wedding cakes. Some bakers refuse to make them at all. The stress that accompanies making a single wedding cake occupies weeks of a baker’s life.

  I once read an article entitled “Tips for Your Budget Wedding” wherein the wedding “expert” insisted that brides-to-be shouldn’t tell the baker they’re ordering a wedding cake. Instead, they should just say it’s for a large party, because bakers inflate the prices for wedding cakes.

  Excuse me? This may jive for the poseur who keeps a fake tiered cake in the backroom and shoves a Duncan Hines cupcake on top so there’s something to slice into, while the caterers serve up Crisco-infused blobs from a nasty sheet cake for the guests. But it won’t fly for the baker who painstakingly bakes and assembles each tier, delivers them in pieces, and then builds the real deal on location. If someone lied to me and told me the day before the event that the cake I was making was now a tiered colossus that I’d have to deliver and assemble on-site, I’d tell them to screw themselves and get a Carvel Cookiepuss.

  But for all the agita that comes with making a wedding cake, like the paranoid bride with the L. L. Bean tote bag full of tearsheets from Martha Stewart Weddings, or an ingredient nitpicking mother of the bride with a deadly peanut allergy, nothing can rattle me after the disaster that was my very first wedding cake.

  The summer of 2005 our shop was finished, with all the bells and whistles. But we couldn’t have our grand opening until my sister got married in late July because I was making her four-tiered wedding cake. And I’d never tiered anything in my life, certainly not cake.

  I blacked out the months before on the calendar and did nothing but make practice wedding cakes. I stacked tiers, piped beaded borders, and then asked random strangers who passed by our shuttered sho
p if they by chance were in need of a wedding cake on the fly. I just happened to have a few extra sitting around.

  We flew to LA a week before the big day. I had a master schedule planned out. I’d bake the layers for the large cake and groom’s cake, fill them with buttercream, give them a smooth topcoat, and let them firm up in the fridge. The actually assembly, stacking the tiers and decorative piping, would take place on-site. That was day one. Then I’d move on to the two hundred individual cakes Sandy wanted for all the guests. The big cake was for cutting and general plunder. The individual cakes were for dessert. That was day two. The third day I would devote to the wedding favors: little bags containing five different-flavored macaroons each. The rest of the week was for final touches. And on the day before the big day, we’d drive the two hours to the wedding site, where I’d assemble the cake right away. This would give me the morning of the wedding to decorate myself for maid-of-honor duties.

  When we got to my sister’s house, Ray put away our bags and I cranked up the oven. Not a peep, and it was on full convection mode. I thought, “That’s what you get when you can pay out the nose for quality.” The fan was pumping away inside, but you’d never know it. “Hmmm, maybe it’s too quiet.” I opened the oven door. The fan wasn’t moving. It wasn’t getting warm. I tried turning it on again. Nothing.

  I called every repair company in the phone book and no one was available. Not until midweek.

  I stared at the ovens for two days. When the repairman showed up, I was wild-eyed and waiting with pans filled with cake batter. I had one day. One freakin’ day to do everything.

  The morning we had to leave, Ray got the van ready. We loaded the cakes into the back, leaving the van running and the air conditioning blasting while we ran back inside to get our luggage. We had to be quick about it. The van was on the street and outside the security zone of the garage. And the paparazzi were lurking about the neighborhood. We couldn’t have them follow us to the wedding site.

  When we got back, the van was locked. The keys were inside the van, the cakes were inside the van, but we weren’t.

  We called AAA and waited. The sun was barely out and it was already dripping hot outside. But the cakes looked cool and collected, hanging out in the idling air-conditioned box.

  Once we were rescued, we noticed a tidy queue of SUVs full of paparazzi waiting for us to leave so they could neatly pursue. We delicately turned onto Sunset Boulevard with a block-long vehicular escort. And as we approached the onramp to the highway, the van careened off toward the emergency lane, the back tire “THWAP THWAP THWAPing” and throwing off shredded bits into traffic as we rolled to a stop. We lost the paparazzi but we lost precious time as well.

  At the wedding site, our little refrigerated van sat alone overnight in a field. I got there first thing on the wedding day to find it still waiting in the white-hot sunshine and 100-degree heat. We borrowed a table from catering who’d taken up the entirety of the kitchen and left no space for me. We set up a makeshift workstation inside the car. A young woman from catering was assigned to be my helper, and we got to work in the tiny walk-in fridge on wheels.

  Seven hours later and I still wasn’t done. The ceremony was in an hour. My hands were shaking and I was scared to ask whether the cake was really drifting off to one side or was I just loopy from leaning over a three-foot tall cake with a pastry bag and piping beads of frosting the size of poppy seeds along the edges. I was working in romantic mood lighting, the dome light on the ceiling of the cabin revealing just enough for me to make out the general outline of the cake. Every few minutes, I’d kick open the door and let the natural light crash in to get a better look. That’s when I noticed that the cake was lopsided.

  When Ray came to check on me, I stared at him for a minute, my sticky hands wrapped tightly around a piping bag oozing melting buttercream from multiple tears in the plastic. The minute I figured out the right angle to avoid squirting frosting from an errant hole in the bag, I’d spring a new leak. My tank top was taking one for the team; all the extra icing found a home in the cotton ridges. A little found its way into my hair. “Time’s up.”

  So there it was. The cake had to be finished now and I had a half hour to look presentable. I wrapped my globby paws around the trick pastry bag and planted my feet resolutely.

  “Fuck it. I’ll just hide the ugly bits with flowers.”

  Coiffed, scrubbed of stray bits of frosting, and zipped into my dress, I made a break for the catering tent and found my cake. Sitting upright. A florist gently placing fresh flowers along the bottom edge turned to me, not knowing I was the baker, and gestured to the cake.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it really is.” God I was relieved, but I just had to ask, “Does it seem, though, that it may be leaning just a little to the right?”

  This Saturday, I have no bridesmaid’s duties to attend to, no paparazzi to outrun. But I feel the same amount of obligation, the same desire to create the perfect dream for this stranger bride as I did years ago for my sister. But please, God, go a little easy on the theatrics this time.

  Carrot Cake

  RAY CALLED ME AT WORK in LA on our friend Jeff’s birthday. Jeff’s wife, Terri, was having a hard time finding a decent carrot cake in town, and would I have any ideas? I gathered my things and ran straight to the grocery store to get supplies. Hell, no one needed to ask twice. I was born for this.

  I had a few hours before the party started. I jury-rigged a recipe I thought would be solid and worked around it to make sure that the cake would be moist and flavorful and the cream cheese frosting tangy, sweet, and abundant. It looked like hell, though. I had to frost it warm. Never frost a cake when the layers are warm. Never. But everyone who ate it fell deeply in lust.

  The next time I made it, the cake was for my sister. And she too fell madly in love. So it came to be that this simple little cake became a very grand wedding cake. Now it can be yours to make for any and all occasions.

  MAKES ONE LARGE 8-INCH CAKE

  For the cake

  1½ cups vegetable oil, plus additional for the pans

  2 cups sugar

  4 large eggs

  2 cups all-purpose flour

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  2 teaspoons baking soda

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon cinnamon

  ¾ teaspoon nutmeg

  3 cups finely grated peeled carrots (about 1 pound)

  For the frosting

  4 cups confectioners’ sugar

  Two 8-ounce packages cream cheese, at room temperature

  8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  FOR THE CAKE

  Preheat the oven to 325°F Lightly grease three 8-inch round cake pans with 1½-inch sides. Line the bottoms of the pans with wax paper and lightly grease the paper.

  Place the sugar and oil in the bowl of an electric mixer and beat until combined. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition.

  Sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, and nutmeg into the sugar and oil mixture and beat on low until all ingredients are incorporated. Stir in the carrots.

  Pour the batter into the prepared pans, dividing equally. Bake about 45 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, if you must. But you can also gently press the top; if it springs back and if the cake begins to pull away from the sides of the pan, it’s done. Set the cakes on racks and let them cool in the pans 15 minutes. Invert the cakes onto the racks and cool completely. (Cakes can be made 1 day ahead. Wrap tightly in plastic and store at room temperature.)

  FOR THE FROSTING

  In an electric mixer, beat all the ingredients with the whisk attachment until smooth and creamy.

  TO ASSEMBLE THE CAKE

  Place one completely cool cake layer on a lovely cake platter. Spread with ¾ cup frosting.

  Top with another cake layer. Spread with
¾ cup frosting.

  Top with the remaining cake layer. Using an offset spatula, spread the remaining frosting in decorative swirls over the sides and top of the cake.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A Grand Opening

  1 p.m.

  Y WORKSTATION FACES a one-way mirror, so I have a hazy view of the store at all times. It was a great idea. By putting in a police-grade interrogation mirror, I’d theoretically have a clear view of the front of the house but could keep my painfully shy self hidden in the back where I could work fearlessly, unseen by prying eyes. In practice, the results weren’t as stellar as I’d hoped. Watch any cop show and you’ll know perfectly well that the perp sits in a well-lit room, sweating just a bit, as he’s grilled by Detective #1. Detective #2 is standing in the dark in the adjoining room, watching the whole scene from the viewing side of the one-way mirror. The operative phrase being “in the dark.” I can’t bake in the dark. My ceiling is atwitter with rows of fluorescents. So the general effect is of watching shadow puppets through gauze. From inside the store, looking at the mirror side of the glass, you do see a decent reflection. But if the lighting is just right and you squint, a smidgen of the behind-the-scenes proceedings is unveiled.

  I spent most of our grand opening day avoiding looking through that glass.

  It was only 1 p.m. and Little Cool Whip, my makeshift baking apprentice, was having issues with the 96-degree heat and was losing her pants, exposing her alarmingly bony white hips and butterfly tattoo. She got her nickname early on when she revealed that she didn’t care for real whipped cream or fresh-baked anything. She favored the packaged, artificial stuff and wasn’t about to change her ways. So we called her Cool Whip and somehow she was fine with that. A conveyor belt of sweat propelled her glasses perilously close to the edge of her nose and, spellbound, I waited to see if she could save them before they slipped into her cake batter. We were sharing a fan, switching stations every ten minutes to get full-frontal air circulation.