Grazie, Napoleon

So here’s a little snack of information - without Napoleon Bonaparte, there would be no Nutella. You read that correctly - no pint-sized dictator, no smooth chocolate-hazelnut spread. Now, if you are a food nerd like me, you find that fascinating and may continue reading this post. If you are not and you don’t, just skip to the bottom and follow the recipe.

Good, you’re still with me. Let me set the scene of my culinary-political discovery for you. It’s a cold and rainy day in Torino (a.k.a. Turin, for us Anglos), the northern city and former capital of Italy.

Cioccolata calde fondente. Courtesy of Guido Gubino.

On this inclimate day, I am with my beloved partner in crime, and we have ducked into the cafe Guido Gobino, to escape the freezing rain. Inside, resting under the beams of the recessed lighting is my personal version of the Holy Grail: a gravy boat filled with a thick, molten chocolate-hazelnut beverage. And I don’t say this with the irony of a woman that “loves” chocolate and uses it to eat her emotions in the office at 3:00 p.m.  I mean that the sight of this glorious chocolate-filled vessel resonated within the depths of my soul, making my heart go so aflutter that I felt it in my toes. Thank God I have a husband who finds such extreme reactions to food charming. 

Being in Torino, one of the great food capitals of the world, this gravy-boated delight, cioccolata calde fondente, was not just souped-up hot chocolate. No, this drinkable meal was made from gianduja (“jon-du-yah”). Gianduja is what the Italians call the beloved flavor combination of chocolate and hazelnut. Stateside we know it as Nutella. But true gianduja is so, so much more.

Heaven's gates opened when the rich, thick and deliciously warm cioccolata calde fondente was set in front of me. Served alongside of the cioccolata calde fondente  was a small bowl of luscious panna montata (whipped cream) to temper the liquid’s rich intensity, and it only added to the moment’s perfection.  With each spoonful I fell more deeply in love. I found myself wondering, to whom do I owe my deepest and unwavering gratitude for creating such a pure and sinful treat?

Indeed, that is when I learned that Napoleon Bonaparte, holder of a most dubious political record, was the object of my eternal appreciation. You see it was the ever-humble Holy Roman Emperor who set in motion the wheels of political strife that would ultimately lead to me, sitting in Guido Gobino, indulging in pure, unadulterated gluttony.

Allow me to give you a grotesquely simplified snippet of European history. It started with a young Napoleon Buonaparte. Born in Corsica, Italy to a nationalist father, the juvenile Napoleon was born hating the French. But in his later years, Dad changed his tune, and an older Napoleon found himself embracing la vie en rose. Dropping the dreadfully Italian “u” from the family moniker, Napoleon joined the French military. Along with his new name and uniform, Napoleon adopted France’s historical hatred for the British. As he rose up through the ranks of the French Army, Napoleon found himself with increasing political influence and power.

But influence within France was not enough. Nay, Napoleon believed it was his destiny to run around Europe, demolish monarchies, wipe out feudalism, and give the good folks of Europe a taste of his version of democracy.

Yet somehow, Napoleon found that being the ruler of Europe lacked a certain, je ne sais quois. So, relying on his good old-fashioned patriotism, Napoleon decided to stick it to the Brits for old time’s sake. And so Napoleon’s Continental System, a series of taxes and blockades aimed at crippling the British economy, was born.

With Torino under Napoleon’s rule, and Britain the main supplier of  cocoa, Torino chocolatiers found themselves in quite a quandary. Their cocoa supply reduced to a trickle, Torino chocolatiers turned to hazelnut powder. Hazelnuts, one of the region’s largest exports, was readily available, affordable, and ground up much like cocoa.

As the chocolatiers supplemented their cocoa powder with hazelnuts, gianduja, the chocolate-hazelnut combination, was born. And it was good. Strike that - it was amazing. So much so that like the hazelnut, gianduja became a signature of Torino. Even after the blockade was lifted and cocoa powder could once again flow the trade routes unabated, gianduja lived on.

The result of Napoleon’s hatred for the British can still be tasted, and enjoyed, today. Whether it be a classical gianduiotto candy made in Torino, or a jar of Nutella pumped from a factory, the chocolate- hazelnut combination is now a gastronomic go-to.

So merci, Napoleon (or should I say, grazie signore Buonaparte). Your legacy in history is one for debate, but as far as chocolate goes, you were a total rockstar.

 Chocolate-Hazelnut Spread 

Recipe courtesy of the amazing folks at America's Test Kitchen. 

Find their D.I.Y. Cookbook on Amazon here. 

This recipe is super easy and wildly rewarding. With it's rich hazelnut flavor and naturally nutty texture, you'll never go back to the store bought stuff. It's a bit addicting though, so watch out. Buy (or better yet, make!) a nice loaf of bread, and chow down. 

Ingredients for chocolate-hazelnut spread. Yields: About 11 oz. See more recipe notes at the bottom of this post. 

1. Adjust the oven rack to the middle position and heat the oven to 375 degrees. 

2. With the hazelnuts in a single layer on a rimmed baking sheet, roast until they are fragrant and dark brown, about 12-15 minutes. Halfway through the roasting process, rotate the pan. Keep an eye on the nuts though, as they can go from toasted to burnt in the matter of moments. 

3. Place the hazelnuts in a bowl to cool.  Now it's times to remove the skins. This can be done one of two ways. One way (shown) is to place the nuts in a  bowl, and place another bowl on top. Vigorously shake the two bowls - this will cause the skins to release. Alternatively, and not shown, wrap the nuts in a dish towel and roll the wrapped hazelnuts back and forth on the kitchen counter to remove skins.

Removing the skins using the two bowl shake method.

4. Whichever method you choose, I suggest shaking the nuts in a sieve to further ditch the little bits of skin. 

Gently toss the hazelnuts in a sieve to separate smaller bits of skin. 

4. Process the peeled hazelnuts in a food processor until their oil is released and they form a smooth, loose pasted. This should take about 5 minutes and you should scrape down the bowl often. 

5. Add sugar, cocoa powder, oil, vanilla and salt and process until fully incorporated and the mixture begins to loosen slightly and become glossy. This will take about 2 minutes, but I let mine go longer to get it nice and shiny. Again, scrape down the bowl often, maybe every minute or so. 

The end result will be shiny and smooth, but with some nutty texture. That's a good thing! The nutty texture is proof that this is legit, homemade goodness - not over-processed stuff from the store. 

6. Transfer the spread to a jar with a tight-fitting lid. Chocolate-hazelnut spread can be stored at room temperature or refrigerated up to 1 month. 

A couple of notes about this recipe: 

• I found that this recipe yielded roughly 11 oz of spread. That was a touch annoying because I only had 8 0z and 16 0z mason jars on hand. Just something to think about when you plan for your storage apparatus. 
• The recipe calls for hazelnut oil, but vegetable oil works well.  I used vegetable oil because I am cheap and didn't want to spend the $14.99 at Whole Foods for a 17oz can of hazelnut oil. The hazelnut oil might be worth the investment down the road, but this stuff was so good with the vegetable oil, I can't imagine the hazelnut oil making that big of a difference...
• This recipe was so easy, the next time I make it, I plan to double the recipe, just to have an extra jar or two on hand for company or a last minute hostess gift. Just food for thought. Especially if you're coming over to my house for dinner. 

Basque Cake: Baking with Good Intentions

“No, no, it tastes delicious,” our guest generously lied, taking another timid bite. I knew he was just being polite, and I  tried desperately to convince him and his wife that it was not necessary to soldier on. After all, I was eating the same dessert, my beloved Basque Cake. I was tasting the same rich, luscious pastry cream sandwiched between two thick rounds of sweet cake. Only unlike our dinner guests, I was not in denial that every other bite was bastardized by the rum extract I had used in the pastry cream. It was my fault, I had cut corners and used rum extract instead of rum. As a result, instead of lightly flavoring the pastry cream, the extract hid, like tiny land mines of bootlegger’s sweat, waiting to explode in a cruel assault on innocent taste buds. If we were lucky, the next bite would provide the sweet refuge that a proper pastry cream should.

I could not believe this was happening. It was the same recipe I had followed countless of times before. I was a pro at Basque Cake, and it was always a crowd-pleaser. That said, it was a natural choice to make the  cake for the small dinner party Nick and I were hosting. Living in Florence, Italy, was an amazing adventure, but sometimes lonely, and we were eager to bond with a pair of newfound, fellow ex-pats. My intentions had been pure: I would solidify our friendship with cake. And so I went to great lengths to execute the Basque Cake in my foreign home, knowing my efforts would be rewarded with an increased social circle.

Upon reflection, I should have seen the omens leading up to the offending moment. Not having traveled with my cookbooks, I called home to ask my mother to scan and email my trusty recipe. I should have known better. Now, combining my mother and technology is usually fine. But throw in the nine-hour time difference between Italy and California, and you have a woman scanning recipes in the wee hours of her morning. But my mother is a loving, gracious woman, and used to my antics. So she obliged, and out of bed to send me the recipe.

With step one seemingly successful, I scoured the Italian markets for the slightly more obscure and expensive ingredients in the cake: rum and cake flour. I procured the cake flour, but the rum was way too expensive for my English tutor budget. So I opted for the much more affordable option of rum extract. What could go wrong, I reasoned while admiring the cute little bottle and it’s two euro price tag. Satisfied by my fiscal ingenuity, I headed get back to my apartment.

In the apartment and using poached wi-fi to look up the recipe from my mom, crisis struck: only half of the recipe had been scanned. One tear-choked and slightly hysterical phone call to California later, and the complete recipe was in my inbox. My mother should be canonized for putting up with me.   

Shaken but not deterred, I moved on to fumble my way through our minuscule kitchen, blow an electrical fuse and take another dip in the pool of hysteria. I was convinced the night would be a disaster; but ever the eternal optimist, I soldiered on and popped my masterpiece in the oven.

When my beautiful, golden cake emerged from the oven, a tidal wave of relief washed over me and I knew the world would continue to spin. The cake looked amazing, and I could already taste its perfection. The night would no longer be a disaster, and I envisioned the glorious moments of cake-eating that would ensue. After tonight, we would have new, lifelong friends. Thank you, Basque Cake.  

But that’s not what the Italian gods had in store for me. Nay, of all the trials and tribulations faced leading up to my moment of grandeur, it was the seemingly innocuous decision to use rum extract instead of rum that brought my victory to its knees. With a single, heavy-handed pour, I had discovered a way to ruin a cake born in an age when forks were a novelty and the average life expectancy was 38 years old. When Marie Antoinette said, “Let them eat cake” even she, in all of her political obtuseness, did not mean this one,

That night I learned that the moment you realize you have assaulted your guests  is quickly followed by one’s fight or flight response. Thankfully I had enough where with-all to understand that bolting from the apartment would only make the matter worse and more awkward. Instead, with Nick’s assistance, I distracted our guests with more wine and cleared the plates with as much stealth and grace as I could muster.

Despite the burn of fake rum still singeing our tongues, plans were made for another dinner party. We even set a date for me to visit the couple in Barcelona when they moved the following month. The night had not gone perfectly, but I had survived. Best of all, our friendship was seemingly intact.

That sense of victory, not unlike what I felt when I pulled the cake from the oven, was false and short-lived. Once our friends moved, they disappeared, never to be heard from again. Phone calls and emails went unanswered.  I found myself stranded in Barcelona, scrambling to find something safer than a park bench on which to sleep.

Where they went, and what happened to our friends will always be one of the great unanswered questions for me and Nick. Was it us, was it something we said? Having settled on the self-inflated notion that we are much too delightful to so drastically run off new friends, we have come to the agreement that they were undercover spies. Or secret drug runners, evading the law. But every now and then, Nick will bring up the Basque Cake and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, it all could have turned out differently…

Basque Cake Recipe

(the one that doesn't assault your guests' tastebuds) 

Recipe is courtesy of Chef Doug Basegio and The Professional Pastry Chef

This cake, when made without disgusting fake rum, is a true delight. It's not too sweet, and the luscious pastry cream is contrasted nicely by the crunch provided by the almonds and golden crust. It's perfect for brunch and dinner parties alike. 

For the pastry cream:

Ingredients for the pastry cream. 

1. Prepare a baking sheet with a long piece of saran wrap laid out lengthwise. Place another piece horizontally. Set aside. You will be pouring the pastry cream out onto the saran wrap and wrapping it up to cool - this will prevent a skin from forming. 

2. In a heavy bottom saucepan, warm the milk, 1 measurement of the sugar. and vanilla. The milk should be hot but not boiling. 

3. While the milk/sugar/vanilla is heating, whisk the eggs, 2nd measurement of sugar and cornstarch in a separate bowl.

4. When the milk is hot, pour 1/3 of the liquid into the eggs, whisking constantly. Seriously. Do. Not. Stop. Whisking. Lack of diligence and commitment to whisking will result in scrambled eggs. Woof. 

5. With the saucepan of milk back on the stove top, pour the tempered eggs into the milk. Again whisk constantly, making sure to move the whisk throughout the pan - you don't want any egg chunks in your pastry cream! 

6. Whisk until the pastry cream just comes to a boil. Turn off the heat. 

7. Pour the REAL rum and drop the butter into the pastry cream. Whisk until the butter is melted. 

8. Pour the pastry cream in to the prepared baking sheet. Wrap the pastry cream in the saran wrap and pop it into the refrigerator to cool. 

For the cake: 

Ingredients for the cake (not pictured, the slivered almonds for the top of the cake, but you need about 1/4 cup of those bad boys.). 

1. Butter and flour the bottom and sides of a 10-inch cake pan.

2. Using a standing mixer and the paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugar until fluffy. Add one egg at a time, scraping down the bowl in between additions. Add the vanilla.

3. Sift the cake flour, baking powder and salt. 

4. With the mixer on low, slowly add the sifted dry ingredients. MIx until just combined. 

5. Spread half of the batter into the bottom of the prepared cake pan. In culinary school and per the cookbook, we did this by piping the batter into a spiral as shown on the right. If you promise not to overwork the batter, you could probably just spread it with an offset spatula. 

6. Pipe a ring of batter on top of the bottom layer of batter, on the outer edge. This creates a dam to keep your pastry cream from oozing out. 

7. Grab your pastry cream from the fridge and give it a quick whisk in a bowl. 

8. Pour the pastry cream  onto the bottom layer of batter. Note: you don't have to use all of the pastry cream you made. I did this time, but you may like a little less! 

8. Pipe the remaining batter onto the pastry cream. Again, if you promise not to overwork the batter, you could use an offset spatula. But really, please don't over work the cake. This is a fluffy tea cake, not a brick. 

9. Sprinkle slivered almonds on top. 

10. Pop your beautiful cake into the oven, and bake for 50 minutes. 

11. The cake is done when it is a nice golden brown on top. You can also do the toothpick test, but remember the pastry cream inside might make it seem like the cake is not done. 

12. Once baked, allow the cake to cool in the pan. Remove by running a knife or offset spatula around the sides. 

Bon appetit! 

Welcome to Tartufo!

Tartufo (tärˈto͞ofō/) noun; Italian. A culinary delicacy, the tartufo (or truffle, in English) is a pungent fungus which grows underground. The tartufo can only be sniffed out and unearthed from its hiding place with the assistance of highly trained pigs.

If you were at my wedding, you might remember that I vowed I would learn how to cook. And even then, it didn’t happen until a few years later, under the duress of being laid off and the realization that it would be highly inappropriate to still expect my husband to cook me dinner after a long day in the office.

With my dubious beginnings in the world of what I call, “cooking for survival”, one might wonder why I am starting a  food blog. I cannot claim to be the end all be all of food preparation and execution. After all, I am still a baker at heart, with a healthy respect for recipes and gastronomic rules. I feel like a total renegade and culinary badass when I add cayenne pepper to a recipe that didn’t call for it. Nothing says living on the edge like going rogue with your spices.

But what I can tell you, and what I think you will find in the posts that follow, is that I love the experience of food. I love that through food we can cross cultural lines. Or travel through time, learning how war, taxes and dictators have shaped what we eat today. What’s more, food gives us an opportunity to slow down, and experience a moment with all of our senses. I call these moments, both big and small, food adventures. And I have realized that I am at my happiest when I am on a food adventure.

Tartufo is about those adventures - in the kitchen, at the table, or at the random roadside stand. Along with my own stories, I’ll share recipes that I love, restaurants I've visited or cool kitchen gadgets that I can’t live without. And I am doing so with the hopes of encouraging you to go and seek out your own food adventure. Some will be planned and eagerly sought after. Some will come at random, attributed to life’s little surprises. Some will come from trying to a new recipe and failing miserably. The point is that the fun is in the journey and if you keep looking, smelling and tasting, you will find your own food adventure, your own tartufo. No highly trained pigs required.