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Much attention has been given in recent years to the savory-sweet crossover in desserts. I think we've seen it all by now: from beet, parsnip, eggplant, fennel, tomato, chili, bell pepper, and mushrooms to bacon, duck fat and truffle. Recently, I had a nice dessert that incorporated freeze-dried peas. And years ago I recall a "restorative" sweet prepared by my friend Daniel Tay, a pastry chef in Singapore, that relied on certain frog parts as both a gelling agent and subtle flavoring. Though I certainly dabble in the conceptual, I've never been interested in the sheer shock value of such ideas. Someone once suggested to me, only half-joking, that put enough sugar on anything- even a steak- and you could call it dessert. And granted, I once theorized a dessert built around trout roe, but it was just that: a theory, not a fully realized dish that anyone ever tasted, let alone ordered in a restaurant. What interests me, apart from simple deliciousness, is the perception and context of flavors and ingredients, which are usually no more than psychological or cultural hang-ups. Carrot cake and pumpkin pie are classics; parsnip and butternut squash are considered edgy. Bean pastes are a hard sell to the Western palate, but they are practically the sole element on which Japanese sweet traditions are based. And then there are the many cooking lessons we can learn from history. A modern dessert paring chocolate and corn appears to some as avant garde, but the combination dates back thousands of years in Central America. I always get a chuckle when I discover other such combinations that prove there really is little that is "new".

So the sweet-savory approach to desserts is here to stay. While I have both benefited from the exposure of such "unconventional" ingredients in desserts, I've also felt the frustration of being compartmentalized into a certain style; such is the nature of trends. While I like the idea that such desserts are now accepted with a pinch of salt (as opposed to taken with a grain of salt!), I've become more interested in the actual transition of savory courses into sweet ones. Surely, what a pastry chef serves after a savory course, or a string of them, has always been important. There must be a cohesive style and logical progression. Individual egos aside, I think that is a pastry chef's greatest responsibility and challenge: working with others, or the Chef, to create the tidy package that is a meal. Within longer tasting menus-a dozen courses or more- subtle sweet accents inserted here and there keep a diner's attention and their taste buds fresh. Grant Achatz years ago coined the term "rolling hills" to describe this philosophy. My own maturity, confidence, and skill level have obviously played a part of my evolution; I've seen my "style" change over time, but markedly so as I've transitioned from one restaurant to another. What I produce now at Le Bernardin is often much simpler, focused, and refined than what I put forth at Tribute, where the "fusion" menu by nature was more complex. And neither style would have worked at Emily's where the approach was more rustic and traditional Mediterranean. That said, I do have just enough ego to always want to push any given style to it's extreme!

But what of that transition between main course and dessert? This is where that sweet-savory realm can really come into play, and cheese is the perfect vehicle. I've always been fascinated with every aspect of this most simple yet complex of foods; it's amazing how many infinite varieties spring from such few ingredients as milk, salt, and, well, bacteria. Cheese, of course, stands on it's own, but also becomes an ideal platform for other, sweet, spicy, salty, acidic, bitter, and fruity flavors. And the possibilities are endless; the cheese course is kind of like a chef's playground. For years I was in charge of maintaining a cheese program, presenting both simple selections and composed plates. But at Le Bernardin that has always been the shared responsibility of the dining room captains. I've missed handling, tasting, and serving cheese, but then again, with so much else going on, I haven't missed it. However, several months ago, in the course of preparing a spontaneous tasting menu for a handful of VIPs at our Cayman outpost, I thought it would be fun to play with some cheese in addition to a handful of desserts. The kitchen had all the necessary ingredients to pull off an old idea of mine: Fourme d'Ambert with bacon, gingersnap, and soy caramel. My boss loved it so much, we've been thinking of a way to put it on the menu ever since.

To some, the blue cheeses are an acquired taste, as much so as the runniest, stinkiest Epoisses. The fact that its mold is so obvious probably has something to do with it. But they are among my favorites for their varying textures, and sharp, salty flavor. Fourme d'Ambert, along with its nearby cousin, the slightly drier Fourme de Monbrison, hail from the Auvergne region of France. That they lie on the milder and drier end of the blue cheese scale makes them ideal for composed courses. The origin of this particular dish dates back six years or so, when a colleague at Tribute dared me to use bacon in something, partly because I was a pastry chef, but also because bacon makes everything better. Funny thing is, not only did I rise to that task, but I also ended up marrying the woman that put forth that challenge!

The first component to hit the plate is the soy caramel, comprised of sugar, water, orange juice, and just a touch of soy. While the saltiness of the soy is perceptible, what I like about this sauce is its depth of complex flavor, which I tend to describe as being similar to butterscotch. In the years since developing this caramel, I've used it in several ways, notably in a dessert of roasted apricots, black sesame panna cotta, and cherry granite which appeared on our menu last summer. In this dish, I think the soy caramel reflects the salty sweetness of the cheese itself.

Adding a bit of texture and a spicy molasses note are the crushed gingersnaps, though I've alternatively used dried and crumbled pain d'epice. For a touch of heat, a pinch of black pepper suffices. And rendered bacon, of course, for it's salt, smoke and fat, coaxes more sweetness from the cheese and fulfills our "savory" requirement. The intention of the stretched out composition of the plate is to allow the diner to sample the cheese with different components and in different proportions.

While I've used several different fruit elements in this composed cheese course, from cherry to fig to sherry soaked prunes, here I've chosen preserved green walnuts. This has become one of my favorite recent discoveries, not only for its mellow spiced sweetness and soft texture, but also because it forms the base for the green walnut liqueur I wrote of a few weeks ago. Though these specific walnuts come from Armenia, they are also native to the same southern French countryside where the Fourme d"Ambert is produced. I've also begun using these syrup-packed nuts along with conventional caramelized walnuts, in  a nougat glace on the current menu.

The final component is the tuile craquante. I borrowed this recipe years ago from Frederic Bau's amazing book, Au Coeurs des Saveurs. Its novelty lies in the fact that pectin works as the binder of all of that water, sugar, and fat, though I've since come to add a tiny amount of flour for structure (While I haven't ever played with sucrose esters like the one sold through the Texturas line, I suppose that similar, or even more refined results could be achieved). Straight from the oven, these tuiles are a molten liquid, but provide a small window of opportunity to both shape and stretch at whim. As its French name implies, its delicate texture and crunch adds a final contrast the soft, rich cheese.

I've turned out a handful of similar composed cheese dishes in my time, centered around firm cheeses, washed rind cheeses, and triple creams, from cow, sheep, and goat's milk, with components that have included wheat beer, squash, and candied olive. But cheese certainly has a place in dessert proper, and recently tasting a friend's rendition of carrot cake, but with a Brillat Savarin ice cream, got me thinking of my own versions of that classic. As a bonus here's one of those twists, the traditional cake paired with condensed milk ice cream, raisins, pistachio, and a goat cheese cream.

 

(Recipe download available soon!)

 

(Recipe download available soon!)

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