Confections of a Closet Master Baker Read online

  “Kalika, go ask them exactly what the order was and if it could be under another name. Ask if someone named Jenny could have called it in. I’ve got a cake for Jenny.”

  And we wait and pray. Please, please, please be under another name. Or at least be really nice and understanding and have the time to come back in the afternoon, by which time I will have busted out the cake of Sammy’s dreams.

  But this is only an occasional drama. I mostly get it right. And when I’m getting it right, I’m in a giddy trance. There’s nothing quite like being entrusted with making someone happy. Birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, bon voyages, baby showers—I get to make beautiful and tasty sculptures for strangers every day.

  Often it’s the order that doesn’t mark anything in particular that inspires me. A woman once came to the shop and asked for a chocolate mousse. She asked by way of scribbling on a notepad because she wasn’t able to speak. I made her mousse. She took it home. A day later she came back and ripped a page out of her notepad.

  “Dear Gesine, I have throat cancer. I’ve been on a feeding tube for five years and just had it removed. Your chocolate mousse was the first thing I’ve eaten in all that time and it was everything I could have wished for. It was truly wonderful. Thank you.”

  Most of the time when I look at an order it follows the usual guidelines. The top line has the name and phone number of the customer. Then a brief description of the cake and how big it should be. And then there’s usually an instruction on what should be written on the cake: “Happy Birthday!” “Congratulations!” “Transformation is good!” (Honest to god, I didn’t make that one up.) But when there’s no inscription, just a dessert, I’ve come to wonder what it is that I’m catering to. It could be a childhood memory or a nagging hormonal craving behind the order. A woman called in a few days ago and asked me to put aside six of my daily crop of vacherin, two pistachio meringue cookies that sandwich a tangy layer of blackberry buttercream. She was just about to give birth and came in on the way to the hospital, intent on taking them with her to the delivery room come hell or high water. Or it could be someone’s first bite of solid food in five years. It’s a mystery and a weighty honor to bake these things.

  There have been orders that have brought me to tears.

  An older gentleman came into the shop and asked whether I could make a dessert he’d had in Germany during the Second World War. He described a sweet, almost short-bready crust lined with elegant, oval plums that he’d never seen outside of Europe. His wife had recently passed away, he was newly retired, and he was now prone to reminiscing. He wanted to treat himself to a past pleasure and bathe himself in memories through that little plum tart.

  Every summer since my mother died, the thought of smelling baking plums and watching the green-fleshed fruit start to bleed red into the buttery dough was depressing. We’d eaten zwetschgendatschi every summer we had together—in Nürnberg, in our suburban house in Virginia, and at my aunt’s home in Maryland. We bought it from local village bakeries in Bavaria or baked it ourselves.

  On the day my mother dropped me off at college, five years after my sister had left, Mom faced the prospect of returning home to an empty nest, and the only thing that could vaguely lift her spirits was a zwetschgendatschi. She called late in the afternoon to check on me. She sounded terribly sick. Not just sad but bellyaching and full of binge regret. She confessed that she had stopped at Giant Supermarket on the way home and purchased a five-pound sack of all-purpose flour, a small bag of sugar, two pounds of butter, and a carton of eggs. In the produce aisle she inspected the Italian prune plums, sorting through them until she had collected seven pounds of the finest stone fruit.

  In her tidy kitchen, she cut a small knob of butter and greased a sheet pan in efficient strokes. She kneaded the rest of the butter until it was pliable and incorporated it bit by bit into the flour and sugar by rubbing it between her fingertips until it transformed into something resembling cornmeal. She added two eggs, a scant bit of salt, and a touch of vanilla, mixed until a loose dough came together in her hands, and turned it out onto a 14 ȕ 18-inch sheet pan. She pressed the dough into the corners and patted the remainder into an even layer covering the full surface of the pan. While that chilled, she washed the plums gently with a soft, damp towel, split them lengthwise with a razor-sharp paring knife along their natural seam, and pried them open so the pit lay exposed. She expertly manipulated the stone so it popped out cleanly without marring the surrounding flesh and cut a quarter-inch slit at the peak of each half. She made short work of the rest.

  She lined the halved plums side by side atop the cool dough, a seven-pound standing army of the empress of plums ready for a sprinkling of sugar and a short trip to the oven. For forty-five minutes she waited. She stood on the back porch and let the Virginia heat have its way with her painstakingly hot-rollered hair. And then she ate the whole damn thing.

  When my mother was terminal with cancer and no longer able to leave bed, she had an appetite for only four things. Poached eggs, fillet of sole, red wine, and zwetschgendatschi. Sandy took the lead with the fish, Dad kept the red wine in stock, and I had the eggs. But at the time, Italian plums weren’t in season; it was March, and I didn’t have the heart to make the tart without her. I went, instead, to a lovely French bakery in Georgetown, just across Key Bridge and minutes from our family home. They made a great apricot tart—same idea, different fruit. Each time I walked into the patisserie, I marveled at the lovely space and allowed myself a few minutes away from the aching sadness and helplessness that comes with watching someone you adore die. But I had to face the tart eventually, now the very symbol of hopelessness, and bring it home to my mother.

  Today I have my own patisserie and I’m the baker responsible for the emotional pastry needs of my patrons, like the older man who, along with whatever else he carried home from the war in Germany, had a lasting memory of the pastry that most reminded me of my mother. So I set about making the dough, an industrial mixer replacing my mother’s steady hands. I efficiently slice the plums, line them up in a fancy round fluted tart pan, sprinkle them with sparkling granules of sanding sugar, and walk away. None of that homey rusticity of a sheet pan of plums dusted with regular sugar. Nothing sentimental, sad, or remotely reminiscent of death about this task. No sir. Just a professional pastry chef making pastry. Slip the tart into the sterile convection oven. Set the timer. Walk away. Take it out when time’s up. Start weeping.

  For all of my emotional precautions, that smell conjures my mother. Through the rush of steam I see her strong jaw, her impossibly high cheekbones, kohl-rimmed eyes, and whippet-thin body. I imagine her bringing out two settings of my favorite of her Rosenthal china, smoky blue rings lined on either side with gold just along the edge of translucent porcelain. I set the tart on a serving platter as Mom briskly whips heavy cream by hand. She’ll take a seat on the edge of the couch and I’ll plop on the worn Persian rug by her side. We’ll scoop mounds of luxurious cream on top of the plums and watch the red juices bleed into its stark whiteness and perfume it with musky sweetness. We’ll sneak a bit into our coffee. This is what she called “vacation.” Where she’d take a break from her strict dietary constraints and enjoy an hour filled with sweetness. This is what we shared since I was old enough to be trusted with the good china and until the last day when she was too weak to be able to use it herself.

  And even though my eyes are full of tears and my nose is beginning to run ferociously, no condition in which to bake properly, I have to start over and make it as my mother and grandmother would. I want to pay homage to the women who taught me to love the feel of dough and appreciate a fruit so briefly in season. I make another batch of dough but I do it by hand. I slice open each plum and gently poke at the flesh to release the pit, remembering my mother’s gentle hands. I cut a notch at the top, holding the paring knife with my thumb resting along the black handle as she did and position each plum just so. While the second tart bakes, I eat the first. It tast
es of simplicity, sunshine, and hope, not a bit of sadness or despair.

  My mother’s youngest sister, my Tante Erika, came to visit the shop not long after this. Zwetschgen, the plums, were still in season, and I made Ray drive the hour to Burlington to get them. It was only fitting that I’d make her some. When she arrived and I showed her the tart, she was at once elated and heartbroken. It was her birthday, and my mother had always made her a zwetschgendatschi for her birthday. I never knew. It was a ritual shared between two German sisters in America, a celebration of love and homesickness. And with my mother gone, this comfort was forever lost but for a few hours in Vermont when I had unwittingly re-created their time-honored tradition, only without my mother and with a tart that couldn’t hold a candle to hers.

  Everything I make has the possibility of becoming someone’s zwetschgendatschi. An edible succor that can numb an aching heart, help you remember fading fond memories, or create new ones. And sometimes I get calls of thanks. A bride called me the other morning after her wedding to thank me for the beautiful wedding cake. I didn’t ask why she was calling the baker instead of engaging in traditional honeymoon hijinks. More often I get little notes tucked into my mailbox or small gifts of thanks.

  I’m pretty sure that if I get Sammy’s birthday cake out in time, he’ll be thanking me and remember his cake well into adulthood with great affection.

  Zwetschgendatschi

  MY MOTHER MADE a theatrical first impression, her hair perfectly coiffed and teased, rouged cheeks, and crimson lipstick. She wore fake eyelashes in the daytime. She showed up at PTA meetings in stilettos and couture. It is testament to her real beauty that she never came off as a tart but as a glamorous opera diva come to slum it in the suburbs.

  But when it came to the grand gesture, expressions of love, affection, and discipline, Mom practiced the powerful art of simplicity. Daisies, not roses. A quick and painful smack on the ass, not time-outs or an “I’m disappointed in you.” And zwetschgendatschi, not a frilly mousse.

  The spirited flavors of this plum tart should never be burdened with anything more than a simple crust and Empress plums. And with a fruit so beautiful and fleeting, it would be criminal to make it compete for attention. Apricots are another fruit that lend themselves nicely to this modest preparation, and they can be substituted for Empress plums if there’s nothing else to be had. My only caveat is that you make this with utter sincerity. If you’re looking to make the show-stopping crowd pleaser, the shock-and-awe of dessertdom, don’t even think about sniffing around zwetschgendatschi. This is the stuff of true love, never boastful or conceited. Bake and serve accordingly.

  MAKES ONE LARGE TART

  For the short dough

  ¾ cup sugar

  14 ounces (3½ sticks) unsalted butter

  1 large egg, well beaten

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  3½ cups all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon salt

  Nonstick cooking spray

  For the plum filling

  3 pounds Empress plums (also known as Italian prune plums)

  Sanding sugar (optional, available at some gourmet shops and most cake supply stores)

  Whipping cream

  Place the sugar, butter, egg, and vanilla in the bowl of an electric mixer and beat on low speed with the paddle attachment.

  Add the flour and salt; mix just until smooth. (If over-mixed, the dough is hard to work with, so keep careful watch.)

  Press the dough flat on parchment paper, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until firm, about twenty minutes.

  While the dough chills, prepare the plums. Split each one along the natural seam and remove the stone, leaving the plum still hinged on the backside like a little book. Cut a ¼-inch notch at the top of the plum, where the stem was. Why? Because that’s how my mother and grandmother did it, that’s why …

  Spray an 8-inch tart pan with nonstick spray. Preheat the oven to 350°F.

  Once the dough has sufficiently chilled (it should be cool to the touch but not rock hard), gently roll it out on a floured surface. Transfer to the prepared pan. Short dough breaks easily, so bits may come off in the transfer from table to pan. No worries. This is the kind of dough where you can take an errant piece and just press it into place without anyone knowing the difference.

  For most tarts you’d dock the dough (prick holes all over it), fill it with pie weights or dry beans and bake until the dough has browned a bit before adding the filling. Zwetschgendatschi is different—you arrange the plums upright on the uncooked dough, flesh side facing in. Arrange them in circles, the little plum books open and fit tightly together. In the end you’ll have a beautiful tart that looks more like a summer bloom than a dessert.

  Sprinkle with sanding sugar if you like. Many people sprinkle extra bits of the short dough on top of the plums like a crumble.

  Bake until the sides of the dough are golden brown and the plums are tender, about 45 minutes. Depending on the temperature of your oven, the plums may begin to brown too quickly on top. If this happens, cover the tart lightly with a piece of aluminum foil and continue baking until the crust browns evenly. The crust along the bottom will always be moist from the blood-red juices that weep from the plums.

  While the tart cools, make some fresh coffee. Whip a bit of heavy cream by hand, spoon some on the tart, and share it with someone you love.

  CHAPTER TEN

  End It with a Sigh

  10 a.m.

  ESINE’S. How can I help you?”

  “Gesine?”

  “Yup. This is she.”

  Bear witness to a miracle. I never cop to my identity when I answer the phone at the shop. It leads to avenues of small talk for which I have no patience. And the best way to test my patience is to mispronounce my name. Straight off. After I’ve just answered the phone and pronounced it.

  “Gesine’s, how can I help you?”

  “Is this Jazeen’s? The bakery?”

  “Yes, this is Geh-see-neh’s. How can I help you?”

  This is where I raise the stakes. The first time, fine. No one’s really listening when you first answer the phone. Can’t expect them to pick up on the pronunciation straight off. So I take my time, releasing each syllable slowly. Putting the full hochdeutsch spin on it, staking a claim in the integrity of my name and asking the caller to take the hint and respect it, and at the very least, to try not to malign it again.

  “Great. Am I speaking to Jazeen?”

  “She’s not in. Can I help you with anything?”

  Say it right, with the hard g and the soft s, and release the last e with a sigh (more of an “eh” than an “ah,” but if you get this far, I’ll accept either), and I’m putty. But just because the conversation started well thanks to the mellifluous sound of my name done right doesn’t mean that the rest of the conversation is going to please me.

  “It’s Carol.”

  Carol, my doctor and a regular. By regular, I mean every morning at 7 a.m. and most afternoons. She gets a small cherry pie every Friday—pie day. I save a cherry turnover if I ever get around to making them. She’s a regular’s regular.

  “About the cherry pie I got today. I think I prefer, even if it means less cherry, a less congealed filling. Maybe less cornstarch or something.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. Thanks for telling me. Consider it fixed.”

  Rookie mistake. Bush-league baking. Utter nitwittery on a huge scale. It breaks my heart that I let something like this slip.

  And this is what really sucks—I didn’t make it. Not this time. I’ve screwed up plenty. Too salty, under baked, too sweet, kept in the freezer to set too long and still frozen when served. It happens and it’s the end of the world every time. But worse than screwing up personally, where I can look back and identify the boneheaded mistake and fix it forevermore, is entrusting someone else to help. And then they screw it up. Because it’s still my mistake; it’s my shop. My standards. My fault. My shame spiral from which it will
take a day to recover.

  Do I have to do everything? Am I allowed to sleep? Ever? And what if my dog gets sick? What if Inu, my wonder Frisbee dog, suddenly stops catching the disk on the left side, behaving as if it’s disappeared into the ether, only to find out he’s gone blind? This happened. And the other side’s going too unless I drive the four hours to Rhode Island immediately to get his retina skewered into place! Somebody else is going to have to make the cherry filling.

  And so it goes, an innocent call setting off a spate of record-breaking nihilism that illuminates just how precarious the whole operation is. The winter of 2007 was the prizewinner for misery. I was holding on to my sanity by a filament of spun sugar. Ray was out of town working in Hollywood all season. But he filled the void with a new puppy. To add to this bounty, we were in the seventh year of a seven-year storm cycle. Every seven years, it snows a lot. It snows a lot every winter in Vermont. The winter of 2007, by December, I couldn’t see out of the first-floor windows of our house. Snow kept piling on, foot after powdery foot. The path to and from the house to the barn turned into a fun-house slide; the roads were even worse. If you scream bloody murder at 4 a.m. fishtailing out of your driveway and skid to a stop buried in a snow bank in the woods, can anyone hear you? Apparently not.