Michael Laiskonis

Transitions

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.

 

Download Carrot.pdf

 

Download Fourme d'Ambert Recipe.pdf

For general notes on the recipes posted here, please read About the Recipes. And for hard to find ingredients or equipment, please refer to Resources.

Support

I just returned from a quick trip out west to tape a television special for the Food Network (sorry, but I don't feel I can divulge any details!). Such travel is always a strain, as the fast pace at the restaurant never slows. And it always seems that important deadlines, special orders, or even planned menu changes often coincide with my time away. Yesterday afternoon found me rushing from the airport into a busy dinner service at the restaurant just in time to complete a special request for, of all things, a red velvet cake (I try not to ever say "no"). Of course, I wanted to put my own spin on the cake, and my inevitable spontaneous decisions meant a volley of calls and text messages back to my staff right up to the last minute, making sure that everything was ready to go. Having such a support network around is humbling. While it's my name and credibility out front, they do a lot of the leg work. Simply put, a lot of what they do day in and day out is to make me look good. And I spend nearly as much time with them as I do my own wife! There are over a hundred employees at Le Bernardin, each one performing a crucial task that makes the well-oiled machine run. But I wanted to take this opportunity to bring my own pastry team from out of the shadows.

Jose, our pastry chef, is among Le Bernardin's old guard. With the restaurant now more years than most can count, he is the number two man in the pastry kitchen. Essentially, his role is to take the reigns whenever I'm afforded the rare day day off, or when business outside the restaurant beckons. More than that, Jose's strong suit is taking my often improbable ideas and turning them into logistical reality. And he is indispensable for his skill at both turning out delicate chocolate work as well as heavy production. Jose and I have come to develop an almost non-verbal form of communication; at any given time we seem to be able to read each other's minds and anticipate each other's needs. And his quiet, dry sense of humor keeps the mood from becoming too intense and serious.

Ricardo is the sous chef, and another longtime fixture in the pastry kitchen. He is the brain and brawn that guides the day-to-day mise en place. I rely on Ricardo to keep us a day or two ahead on everything from mass production of tart shells, to intricate petit fours, to our large inventory of dry goods, produce, and other ingredients. With scores of individual components comprising the menu, Ricardo knows exactly where we stand and what we need at any given time. Arriving just as lunch hits its peak, he jumps in to help with the rush, and then begins to coordinate preparation for dinner, often with as little as an hour or so separating the two services. Through the course of the evening, he assembles the most delicate desserts faster than anyone. Ricardo closes the pastry kitchen after Jose and I have left for the evening, staying until the very last plate is served, usually well after midnight.

A mere five or six hours after the kitchen closes for the night, the next day has already begun with Jaime. Often the very first cook to enter the kitchen in the morning, he will retrieve nearly every piece of equipment needed for the day: plates, flat sheet pans, silpats, towels... you name it, Jaime is there first. He's perhaps the most rigid perfectionist of the entire team. Jaime's primary task is to assemble each single ingredient needed for lunch service, which also means making sure there is a smooth transition into dinner prep. By the time Jose or I arrive at noon, he has readied all of the garnishes, filled the squeeze bottles and their backups, and has cut several fruits, biscuits and mousses, all in addition to baking off hundreds of petit fours, which for lunch include tiny almond cakes and pistachio financiers. Jaime's hours of methodical, detailed prep and organization allow us to arrive just in time to begin our busy, rushed lunch service.

Making sure that Jaime has all of the necessary raw materials for each dessert is the responsibility of the morning production team. Walter, our master of ice cream and sorbet, begins his day at 7am spinning up to a gallon or more of a dozen different flavors, from basic vanilla to sweet potato. Each recipe demands individual attention to ensure the proper texture and consistency. In addition to this important daily task, Walter leads in making every dough, batter, cream, and puree that become the building blocks of each dish. And like every member on staff, he happily stays on to complete his prep list, even if it means staying on well past his appointed shift. There is also a bit of irony when I consider the fact that, due to the sheer volume and repetition involved, Walter probably makes some of my own recipes faster and more efficiently than I can now!

The second heavy lifter in the morning is Monica. When not tending to whatever is in the mixer, oven, or dough sheeter, she also assists in taking many of our newest ideas and recipes, standardizing the particular yield or formula for the rest of team. Monica is often the first to reproduce a small scale idea for consistency in production; it may take a week of tinkering to arrive at the precise texture of a gelee, or the proper baking time and temperature for a tuile garnish. And her keen eye for detail and knowledge of all the potential variables also come into play when we have to convert our production recipes down to something the home cook can use, as is often the case when we submit recipes for all sorts of media requests. Monica is also active in bringing new ideas to the table, which is something I try to coax out of everyone. I like that each member of the team can feel an individual pride and sense of ownership in what we produce as whole!

Just as we begin to break down the station at the conclusion of lunch service, and as the last big production tasks are being wrapped and labeled, the afternoon team descends to take over. While the first half of the kitchen's day is about bulk prep, the mood shifts toward more precise and detailed work between 3 and 4pm. When Simon arrives, his attention goes straight to evening petit fours, which are far more complex than those for lunch. First, three or more varieties are assembled, then individually plated for each guest. Simon will pass his first couple of hours on this final impression of the meal, laboring over paper thin corn tuiles or slicing perfect cubes of menthol gelee; on any given day we need to produce up to a thousand pieces of these single bites. But his enthusiasm for the job is infectious; he definitely helps Jose, Ricardo and I get our second wind for the longer more intense dinner service.

Assisting with petit fours, in addition to replenishing each bit of mis en place, is Shelly. In her calm and professional, yet slightly sassy manner, she makes sure that we're ready for the impending storm of orders by 6pm. With us for just over 6 months now, Shelly is our newest team member, but she is often the first to jump at any task, if not the first to take the initiative to get them started in the first place. With four or five bodies in the kitchen when service is at full tilt, Shelly and the rest of us are fully engaged in a complex choreography; we sometimes must produce a plate a minute when the dining room is at capacity. And when there is downtime, she and Simon are always eager to keep the energy going with various light prep work. It's also during these fleeting moments when we flesh out new ideas or put together spontaneous dessert tastings for VIP guests.

I've had the pleasure of working with so many talented young cooks over the years. For most, their hard work early on will pay them back double in the years to come. Not only have they all brought their own experience to the table and have each had some effect on me, but I also find it heartwarming that they will eventually go on to forge their own path as pastry chefs, taking what they've seen from their time at Le Bernardin to influence the next generation of cooks. It's like a big family tree of sorts, with an infinite number of potential buds.

While my job is to create the overall vision and recipes for our desserts, to set the tone of the kitchen, and to keep all of this activity running smoothly, you've seen here that I can't do it alone. Many of the items I decide to roll out are the direct result of input from the entire team. Here I present our newest  petit four, the chocolate-menthol gelee. The form came from one member of the staff, the flavor from another, and the fine-tuned recipe from yet another. This recipe is also a sneak preview of a workshop I will present at the annual StarChefs.com International Chefs Congress this September here in New York.

Download Chocolate-Menthol.pdf

For general notes on the recipes posted here, please read About the Recipes. And for hard to find ingredients or equipment, please refer to Resources.

Trial and Error

While the process is usually fluid and intuitive, sometimes it boggles the mind how many considerations and challenges we face in the day-to-day planning and execution of dishes, as well as their place on an overall menu. It can go far beyond mere cooking, all of these logistics. For example, if I offer a selection of eight desserts, not only do I try to avoid too much repetition in flavors or ingredients, but I also don't want to employ similar presentations; in order to represent a variety of shapes I resist using the same mold or form in two desserts. Even further, there has to be a range of flavors: a balance of rich and light, of fruit and chocolate. There has to be a variety of textures: not too many soft mousses or creams. And there also should be options that accommodate a myriad of food allergies: dishes made without nuts, or dairy, or gluten. Production issues arise from time to time: can we add yet one more sorbet flavor? Or logistical concerns during service: is there enough time to bake this or that to order in a rush? And on top of all that, my dessert menu isn't necessarily isolated from the savory menu. Not only does the restaurant's overall style and philosophy need to coalesce, but there also needs to be a thoughtful transition between the sweet and savory. Though it should appear that each dish stands alone on its own merits, it can occasionally can feel as if it is just only tiny piece of a larger puzzle.

Of course, these variables only begin at conception. They increase once a dish undergoes the transformation from the imagination to actual food on a plate. The laws of physics, if not simply those of good taste, often govern whether your initial ideas will work. The viscosity of a sauce, the firmness of a gel, the moisture of a cake are all single yet intertwined concerns. Even the constant of gravity can occasionally  seem to work against you! Once individual components come together satisfactorily, then the aesthetics of appearance are always subject to change. I must stress that flavor is paramount. Assuming that goal is a given, for most chefs (typical control freaks by nature), attention to all the other details is a close second.

As I wrote above, I tend to work in a fairly spontaneous way. An idea comes, and the sooner I flesh it out, the better the result. While I keep lengthy notes and lists of everything that goes through my head, over time those ideas lose their context, or sense of urgency. And with the daily distractions of the kitchen and the mile-a-minute pace, days or weeks can go by before there is actual follow through. Such has been the case with a yuzu dessert I've been working on. It's been a couple of years since we've featured yuzu on the menu, so I wanted to bring it back, along with the flavor of green tea. The initial presentation was comprised of a yuzu mousse set upon a square of green tea biscuit, then topped with a layer of caramelized Italian meringue. As much as I loved the first few trial runs, it suffered from a long gestation which caused that initial spark to fizzle. Once the dessert was put into production, a few problems arose that led me to rework the composition entirely.

I hoped the problems I had would be solved by keeping all of the primary components, but blowing them apart. Separation not only gave me more control, but also gave them identity and a more dynamic presentation. The yuzu mousse, essentially a lightened curd, was formed in a cylinder as opposed to the square mold I used before; to give it some definition, I sprayed it with white chocolate. The green tea biscuit came out from under the yuzu, to now stand on it's own, but given a brief soak in a lemon syrup. I really like this cake, which I adapted from my recipe for ladyfingers, replacing a portion of the cornstarch with matcha, a Japanese green tea powder. This intense, bright powder also flavors the green tea ice cream. Using the matcha is beneficial, not only for its color and flavor, but also because it gives a more consistent and predictable result, as opposed to using an infusion with whole tea leaves.

The meringue stayed in the picture as well, this time smeared directly onto the rim of the plate. One of the problems I was having with the previous version, was that after a period in the freezer, the meringue would contract, or shrink, deforming the nice clean line of mousse along with it. No good. I like this dramatic swoop and the variation in color created with a pass of the blowtorch. This matter isn't entirely solved; without other additives or creative chemistry, the nature of a meringue is such that it will eventually degrade. It certainly wouldn't be practical to have several continuous batches of Italian meringue working during service. A stable topping for a classic lemon meringue pie often includes cornstarch, but that would require a need to cook it through, and I don't know that I want such a firm texture anyway. My next experiments might involve simple dried egg white powder, which theoretically could turn any old liquid into a "meringue", or Versawhip, which does an amazing job of stabilizing  similar textured foams out of slightly thickened liquids. We'll have to wait and see how far this will go...

In reality, almost every dish is subject to change or refinement over time, and I enjoy that process because it's proof that there are constantly new things to learn and more precise problems to solve. It often drives the people I work with crazy, such constant fiddling! But I also hope that such spontaneity balances the real (and perceived) rigidity that pastry work sometimes entails. It's healthy to take a step or two outside of the box now and then, even if you know that you'll eventually have to take a step back inside. It's important just to flex those muscles, and to keep your mind active. One of my favorite mottoes is, "if isn't broken, let's break it and see what happens!"

(I'm on the road at the moment, so please return for the recipe download in a couple days!)

For general notes on the recipes posted here, please read About the Recipes. And for hard to find ingredients or equipment, please refer to Resources.