bakes & prose for the soul

If there was such a thing as a tier for viennoiserie, almond croissants would be at the TOP of that tier because how could they not be? You get all that flakey-ness you'd get from a regular croissant with an additional nuttiness from the almond cream slathered on the inside and top, along with crunchy flaked almonds. What's not to love?

I think I can safely say that the amount of cafes/bakeries in KL and PJ are endless. You've got this whole list of them and right after crossing one off, you've already got a new one to try out. Now of course not every one of these shops serve up viennoiserie, while even fewer offer in-house-made ones. My infatuation for this delightful breakfast pastry has given me the motivation to scour around for the best that KL/PJ has to offer and if I'd go back for seconds. And of course, I'll be dragging my lovely partner along with me!

In this piece, we'll be looking at two of the most well-known bakeries out there, which are: Croisserie and Universal Bakehouse. The former being known for their extensive array of baked goods and desserts, accommodating both sweet and savoury palates while the latter having one of (if not, the) the best loaves of sourdough I've ever had.

First up, Croisserie in Damansara Heights. They boast of a double storey shop lot with the main seating located on the upper floor and a few spots just outside. Aside from the croissant aux amande, we had to get ourselves on some savoury action because admittedly, we're both not at all sweet breakfast people; hence, a triangle cheese, and a mushroom eggplant tartine for later, which are both highly recommended by the way but that's a story for another day.

They warm the pastries for you before you take them upstairs to a table of your choice. By the window is always preferred for good photos.

Now, onto the star of the show.

Visually, it's of a pretty standard size, nothing too big or small. Lines of snow powder sit atop deep golden almond flakes with a noticeable split in the centre. Almond croissants are usually day old croissants revamped because who wants to waste a good croissant? But I guess it's also a way to turn an eh croissant into an ooooh croissant (because that's how I exclaim when something tastes good). This one, however, slightly deviated from traditions. Vanilla-speckled pastry cream lined its interiors rather than creme d'amande. This took me by surprise having expected to be hit with the familiar gritty nuttiness but was greeted instead by smooth lusciousness.

I'm not gonna lie, I wasn't convinced on the first bite; I guess the different filling really threw me for a loop. But by the crunch of the last little nugget, it finally clicked. Everything just made sense. Nothing about the pastry was superlative—it wasn't too rich, too sweet, too nauseating. It was just right and I think I might've been baptized by it.

Fast forward to a half-hour or so later, we're at Universal Bakehouse in Damansara Kim. It was at this time the sun decided to come out from behind the clouds and scream fire at our skin. The fact that this little shop had limited indoor seating didn't help either, thus we were nestled into a corner outdoors by the storefront window.

They graciously heat up the pastry and bring it to the table for us.

And it arrived as marvellous as ever; prominent layers that you could count one by one if you could spare a minute more, golden-brown-to-perfection exterior, and a light snow powder finish on well-toasted almond flakes. The heating up took quite a while but I'll admit it was pretty worth it. The pastry was incredibly flaky and crisp, shattering upon first contact with the buttery-ness coating the entirety of your mouth as the warm almond cream oozes along. It couldn't get more indulgent than this.

This croissant abided traditions with its classic almond centre albeit a little sweet for my liking. A handful more of almond flakes on its crown or a steamy cup of coffee or plain tea (sans sugar and milk) would've offset the sweetness and lent the perfect balance. Overall, if I were to introduce someone to their first almond croissant, Universal Bakehouse's would be it; it's definitely a textbook classic.

To be honest, I'm not entirely sure if it's fair to pit the two against each other. They're clearly bringing two varying intentions to the table through the same form, or in more modern terms: they're the same letters, just in different fonts. They both sell at similar prices with the former at around RM12 and the latter at RM13.6 (both prices inclusive of tax).

Would I purchase them again? Yes, but each with very specific cravings to complement them.

But the hunt is far from over, there are still a few highly-rated bakeries awaiting my visit.

Until next time then!

Oh tiramisù. Where do I even begin? This dessert has been one of the very few desserts my mother knew how to make when I was a child and also one of the very few non-chocolate desserts I liked (9 year old me LOVED chocolate and no, the cocoa powder doesn’t really count). 

We stopped making it for quite a few years and my mother actually LOST her recipe and at that point dessert enthusiast me had already been birthed, so it was up to me to make a new staple recipe. And lo and behold, 6-7 years later, I’m still making it and we still adore it.

Trigger warning for any Italians and tiramisù purists: my rendition of this classic is by NO means traditional. I repeat: NON TRADIZIONALE !!! But I actually have a good reason for it being so, sooo stick with me alright?

savoiardi — or lady fingers, if you like. I call these biscuits the building blocks of this dessert; they give it their structure, house one of the most important ingredients (the alcohol *wink wink*), and also lends a tender bite to an otherwise overall creamy-textured mouthfeel.

I actually made the fingers from scratch once but let me tell you, it is NOT worth it. I baked mine softer than I should’ve so the tiramisù ended up a lot mushier than usual. :’) Just use the store-bought ones like I did here. They’re pretty inexpensive and saves you a heck load of time. Really can’t go wrong.

soak  —  I haven’t gotten around to using freshly brewed espresso before, but it is something I look forward to trying the next time I make this. I’ve just been using instant espresso (YES instant espresso, the trigger warning was a few paragraphs ago thanks) dissolved in water along with some Kahlúa, and you can bet that it was measured by heart.

The savoiardi are given a little one-two on both sides just so that they’re covered all the way around. I don’t dip them for too long so they maintain slight integrity and won’t be Thanos-snapped disintegrated.

cream — eggs where I come from are deemed a big no no to eat raw and I know very well the traditional recipe has them. But that’s why a sabayon exists! Eggs or egg yolks with sugar whisked over a bain-marie till a ribbon consistency has been achieved. This is then folded with mascarpone and whipped cream (SHHHHH). At the very least, I’ll spare you a less severe heart attack by saying that there isn’t any vanilla. :)

assembly — first component that goes down is the lusciously tall, dark and boozy savoiardi, followed by the cream, and a dust of cocoa powder. I don’t think cocoa powder in between layers is traditional either but I just really love the boost it lends to the espresso. This sequence is only repeated once more without the cocoa. It’s best to do the final dusting right before serving as the cocoa powder tends to dissolve into the cream while it rests in the fridge, preferably overnight or at least for 6 hours.

A little thing about me: I prefer to eat any dessert, cake, etc., the day after it’s made. Yes, waiting is a pain but it just tastes worlds better than it does on the day it’s baked; I can somewhat attest to it being the brief ‘curing’ that it undergoes during those untouched hours. When such an amalgam has been born, it needs time to relax and settle and make sense of what it can truly offer to the mouths it is to feed. And when the time comes, it’s just that much more rewarding.

That’s why I never trust anyone that says that they ‘love freshly baked banana bread’. It doesn’t even taste that great yet! Why are you lying! >:(

But if you simply just cannot wait, as long as the assembled is cold enough, you may dust it with as much cocoa powder as your heart’s content and dig in.

One thing I loved about this photoshoot is that I actually had to eat the whole slice as I took the next photo. But also the pictures came out a little haphazard because I couldn’t find the right time to take them and before I could a few days later, more than half of it was eaten. *sad noises* Meanwhile, I was also trying to take the photos as quickly as I could before it started melting into irreparable doom (which it lowkey did but still tasty nevertheless *cries*).

❝ Can you hear it? The pitter-patter of the heart? How it taps against the bones of the ribcage at first glance? And how it raps harder when the eyes meet? The moment he recognizes you, you breathe a sigh of relief, the hope that he can match your face with your name is fulfilled. And then your hands touch to greet, clutching wholeheartedly, coupled with a hearty laugh of what it feels like to see each other again. And it felt like home; like everything in the world is right again. Like it could be fate.

To see your eyes smiling along with your lips tells me you aren't faking it. And how it melts my heart, how it pools at the pit of my stomach and sends rose-tinted flushes throughout my body every now and then when I look at you. How I forget to breathe when I hear that thick, dulcet voice of yours that reminds me of fairies dancing under the twilit sky. How soft, but deep, but addictive. I would get drunk off it every night if I could. If you'd let me.

But I know these are feelings that only I feel and I very much doubt that you feel them too. And oh, how magical the world would be if you did, but there's no way it could be true.

So for now, I'll sit in my river of fairy tales and daydreams, being constantly swept away by its current of chiffon melodies and lullabies. ❞

— rush of gold

Passionfruit milk chocolate ganache sandwiched between sunrise-tinted, black-sesame-studded shells.

Been a fan of passionfruit for way too long to have not made this. Shame on me. But seriously, these were just to die for. There's really nothing else to say about them. Swiped them all within a couple of days 🙂. Oh well, other than the fact that I'm super happy with how the colour came out. This is the kinda orange I associate with passionfruit; I would've done one of the shells purple to mimic the exterior of the fruit but I honestly didn't think it would've looked as appealing as this.

❝ I don't think anyone has ever told you just how intoxicating you are. When our eyes find each other, I feel my heart crumple beneath my skin and the air in my throat lose its way. And the way they glisten an enchanting darkness leaves me starstruck and I'm forced to stop myself from staring. And when you smile at me, oh, how darling that smile of yours is. The charm that drips from every inch of your lips, how I wish I could have a taste. I cry angel's tears just at the thought of you.

I hope that someday you'll know, whether it be I who speak these words to you, or another soul, regardless, you deserve to be aware of the ambrosial nature that you carry. ❞

— i get high off you

Sweet pastry, almond frangipane, tangy calamansi lime curd and a whipped roasted white chocolate ganache.

The sun-kissed combo of the frangipane encased in the pâté sucrée.

And then the lip-puckering curd is spread flush to the shell's edge.

The caramelized white chocolate ganache montée piped in a zig-zag motion atop to finish it off. I'd used a petal tip that I've been letting collect dust from my days of buttercream flower obsession and honestly, I lowkey regret using it. I should've just cut a St. Honoré tip off the piping bag but I doubted myself and well, here we are.

But the more I look at the photos, the more I find myself accepting the 'rustic', ruffled edges the petal tip had effortlessly gifted upon them.

. . .

You can just tell that I tried very hard to convince myself that it was probably indeed purposed imperfection. sigh

This cake has been on my to-make list for quite sometime. I was so intrigued by the many layers and its oh so simple exterior yet intricate interior. I decided to try the famed recipe from the 20th Century Cafe in San Francisco. The rusticity of this cake makes it so pleasing to look at; not at all polished with a straight-cut edge but with a mountainous-terrain-like build, and a generous and purposeful coating of golden-hued crumbs to finish.

I halved the recipe to prevent any wastage as a first-timer making this and I found that it yielded an adequate portion for my family and I. Not too big, not too tall, but just right.

Much needed disclaimer: this rendition of Medovik is nowhere near traditional as it includes cinnamon in the batter and heavy cream and dulce de leche in the frosting. The frosting may be more similar to the honey cake from Prague spelt quite similarly to the Russian version—Medovnik. The batter is also supposed to be so thick that it’s actually rolled out like a dough. But, nevertheless, the results are very satisfying.

𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘬𝘦 — this batter really is too simple and quick to put together as well as to bake it. Though the baking part may seem intimidating and rather a whole fuss at first, but it’s quite simpler than you think.

The recipe starts off with caramelizing the honey, wildflower honey in particular but that’s a little pricey and regular honey (what I used) works just fine. The aroma that wafts from the pot is of smoky dulcet wisps. It’s not hard to tell when it’s ready, but do keep an eye on it. The honey is left to cool and you’ll end up with a much more viscous consistency along with an intense honey perfume.

Some of it is left aside for the frosting while the rest is placed in a bowl over a pot of simmering water along with the sugar and butter, whisking till the butter has melted. Making sure that the mixture is warm, add the eggs, once again whisking. When the mixture is warm once more, a mixture of salt, baking soda and cinnamon is stirred in.

I halved the amount of cinnamon in recipe as I’m not too fond of it, but I do appreciate its role as a spice in contributing nuances to a baked good as the ever-favoured vanilla would in your most common pastry.

The batter is taken off the heat and allowed to cool slightly. Sifted flour is combined in to make a smooth and fluid batter. It’s crucial for the batter to stay warm at all times whilst the layers are baking; simply leave it on the bain-marie throughout the process, making sure to heat up the water once in a while when it cools down too much.

I ladled the batter onto a Teflon-lined tray which I can thankfully fit 2 pools of batter for a 6-inch cake (the recipe calls for 9-inches). What quite a few recipes call for (including this one) is to trace the circles onto too many pieces of parchment for as many (usually only one or two) layers you can fit onto your tray. There are definitely severe downsides to this, them being: 1. awfully time consuming, and 2. a huge waste of parchment.

All I did was use a 6-inch cake tin to gauge the size of the disc before they went into the oven. They do spread so it’s worth noting to put less than you think. No need for those many single-use parchment and you get to save all that time, which gets you even closer to eating the cake!

I must admit, from the picture, you can see that my layers are a bit too thick as compared to what they should look like. But there’s a first for everything and this will most definitely not be the last time I make this.

The layers don’t take much time to bake at all, as they are thinner than your regular cake layer. I managed 6 layers out of it (probably would’ve been a good 3 more if less batter was used) and trimmed them down to the exact size once cooled enough to handle.

The offcuts are baked off till they’re golden and crisp to be crushed into a coarse crumb for the garnish. 

𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 — I didn’t actually use the frosting that came with this recipe which included dulce de leche, simply because it’s hard to come by where I live and condensed milk is also unnecessarily expensive to make my own at home, so I just opted out. The more authentic recipe for it that I found was actually with just plain ol’ sour cream that I believe is slightly sweetened.

I couldn’t really stomach the idea of eating sour cream like that, so I went off track and whipped up some heavy cream for a lighter mouthfeel. I incorporated the sour cream and the leftover burnt honey into it which yielded the most amazing bowl of cloud-like frosting.

The assembly is just as easy as executing the components; layer it up like you would any layered cake, leaving some for the sides for the crumbs to adhere to. Since I came up with the ratio of the frosting on my own, I ended up having lesser than I thought. But I’ve made the adjustments and I’m more than ready to make it the second time.

Unfortunately, the cake has to rest overnight in the fridge for the flavours to mingle, settle and develop into what might be one of the best cakes I’ve ever had.

The texture of the cake is soft and moist yet holds together beautifully without having the disintegrating qualities of fairy floss, if you will. The flavour, on the other hand, was an astronomical ride. Burning the honey makes all the difference by unlocking a series of unimaginable complexities that perform opera after opera on the tongue while providing the fragrant richness that is innate to honey. The subtle tang from the sour cream within the nuage that envelops each of the layers presents a contrast to the otherwise cloying honey taste. Also, do not forget the toasted crumb on the side that, not all for the sake of vanity, grants an even more baroque profile on the palate.

But one slice is just not enough to sate. As contradicting as it seems, the harmonious disparity between every component leaves the eater longing for more. Or simply put: it’s just devilishly addictive.

❝ Hold on, my dear. Have you already forgotten? The poor thing that sits in the corner of that head of yours? Its dull and dismal cloak that it wears so proudly glows beyond that grim nook. Its pleads and cries echo through the hollow spaces surrounding it, yet you’ve taken no notice. Oh no, you haven’t moved on, you’ve simply chosen to neglect it. But don’t you know what happens when you start to forget about it? It grows weak and lowly and can no longer take over your thoughts. And eventually, it goes away. We wouldn’t want that now, would we? ❞

— the one that lives within

Choux buns with a brown sugar craquelin.

A hazelnut mousseline filling: a combination of crème pâtissière, butter and homemade hazelnut praliné. Rich, nutty and lusciously indulgent.

Matcha crème diplomat: crème pâtissière flavoured with matcha powder and lightened with chantilly.

Classic chocolate and coffee with a core of indulgence.

Cocoa shells, espresso milk chocolate ganache and a hazelnut praliné centre.

Crisp sweet pastry, fluffy almond frangipane and a whipped hōjicha caramel.

Tea has been a lover of mine for a long while now. My first ever sip was of a meek cup of black tea, brewed from a familiar yellow-label-tagged tea bag. 

From then, I ventured to taste a green tea, one meant to be drunk sugarless and untouched by neither milk nor cream. This can also be said for a jasmine green tea, boasting a floral balm that pairs well with the acridity of the green tea. A matcha, however, is one of robust and deep earthiness; having it in a latté where the milk and sugar helps to round its bitter undertones, it is one to offer to those who don’t fancy such depth.

An earl grey is perhaps a well loved tea all around. Its citrusy-floral notes blend seamlessly with the black tea and offer nothing short of a sigh of comfort. This tea has been my go-to for years now, which I actually prefer to consume as it is.

I’ve only recently had my share of other Japanese teas such as genmaicha, a green tea with roasted brown rice, and hōjicha, a roasted green tea. They’ve been an obsession of mine as of late (especially hōjicha), their flavours are of something that can soothe the body and mind.

One way to honour the deliciousness of my current favourite, hōjicha, and also elevate it to newer heights, is to incorporate it into an ever-versatile tart.

𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 — what makes a good tart isn’t the number of components you can fit into it, nor is it how complicated those components may be—it’s in the pastry itself. The tart shell is, quite literally, the one that holds everything together; it would only make sense that it’s the one that should be most celebrated.

This sweet pastry is made by rubbing the butter into the dry ingredients. Especially in hotter weather, a pastry cutter is definitely handy in this situation, it prevents the butter from melting too quickly from the heat of the fingertips when combined into the mixture of flour, sugar and almond powder. This is then bound with eggs.

Any flavourings in the form of citrus zests or powders may be added along with the dry ingredients. I opted out of this with this recipe.

There are two ways to go about lining a tart mould or ring: the first would be to simply cut a disc of the pastry a couple inches bigger than the diameter of the mould and simply coax it in so that it’s flushed with the inner edges. Any excess is trimmed with a knife.

The second way would be to cut two separate pieces of the dough: a strip to line the side and a disc to fit into the bottom. A quite popularized method nowadays (if using a tart ring) is to cut the bottom disc with the tart ring so that it fits, then placing the strip on top of the disc, and you'd have fool-proof straight-edged tart shell.

But here’s the catch: by doing so, you run the risk of having a very visible seam on the outer side of the shell, which isn’t the most pleasing to look at, at all. That’s why it’s safer to cut a slightly smaller disc of pastry and fitting it from the top into the ring, then lightly pressing the edges so that it meets the strip on the side. Also, being careful to thoroughly seal any gaps. This ensures not only a seamless exterior but again, a perpendicular edge. 

Line with heat-safe cling wrap or parchment paper filled with baking beans or rice (for a cheaper alternative) to prepare for blind baking after a good rest in the fridge.

𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘦 — a good way to introduce a sponge or cake-like texture to a tart is through a frangipane. This beautiful frangipane recipe I stole (not really) from my mother is simultaneously oh so buttery, rich and light. It’s none like any other frangipane.

It's prepared just before the tarts have finished blind baking. It’s piped ⅘ of the way to allow room for rising as I wanted it to be flush with the top of the shell. The tart from this point on is baked to a sun-kissed golden brown.

𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘫𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘭 — this caramel is made differently from a normal caramel. A pot of milk, butter and sugar is whisked constantly over heat until a golden amber is achieved. The tea-infused cream deglazes the caramel and is incorporated vigorously to emulsify thoroughly. A generous pinch of salt is then added to taste. Like I mentioned in my previous post, salting caramels is a definite must.

This is whipped to a stiff peak once chilled. It pipes like a dream; it’s soft yet stable enough to withstand the harsh arid weather of any day.

A flourish of flakey Maldon sea salt atop isn't compulsory, but highly recommended.

The voluptuous, silken caramel melts on the tongue, overflowing with richness that's cut through by a profound salted burnt sugar abyss. The earthen hōjicha waltzes with those toasted notes as the soft frangipane and shattering pastry bestow an addictive textural change. The salt in the whipped caramel undeniably enthroned this tart, uncovering an other-worldly profile for each element.

Espresso infused caramelized white chocolate ganache with a salted lavender caramel centre.

Another adventurous macaron bake from last December. This one was inspired by floral lattés that have been around for some time. I, unfortunately, only then had the plan to incorporate their flavours into a bite-sized delight.

The idea of incorporating floral elements into baking has always intrigued me; it made the bakes feel as if they were a tribute to nature. Not only that, but they impart an exquisite delicate perfume that gift richer flavours an unparalleled nuance.

But do note that florals are meant to be used sparingly; they can be quite overpowering in high doses and will leave an unpleasant aftertaste in the mouth.

𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘴 — I didn’t lace the shells with either lavender or espresso because I thought if I did, one would easily overshadow the other. That isn’t very ideal here as I wanted both flavours to be equally present on the palate. Leaving the shells plain provides vast room for me to pack as much intensity (or as little) in the filling as possible.

I did, however, dye them a dreamy mauve; I played around with the red and blue food colourings I had on hand until I achieved the shade that I wanted. You don’t necessarily have to splurge on specific colours, if not baking as often; as long as you have the 3 primary ones—red, yellow, blue—and basic knowledge of the colour wheel, you can mix and match as you please. But if you’re wanting a rather specific shade, it might be best to just purchase it straight from the bottle.

𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰 𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦 — I thought long and hard about this ganache. I went back and forth contemplating between having a milk chocolate or a white chocolate base.

A milk chocolate would’ve given the ganache the creaminess inherent to a latté. But I thought about the cocoa solids still present in it and how it would be too prominent when combined with the other flavours.

A white chocolate would’ve let the espresso shine through, giving it a blank canvas to display its beauty. But the one flaw white chocolate has is its nauseating sweetness. It’s best paired with fruit, preferably one with a higher acidity to battle through the sugar high. 

I couldn’t let go of the idea of using white chocolate, it was the perfect base for this ganache... almost perfect.

Then caramelized white chocolate crept into my head; it was perfect. By roasting it, the sugars would toast and a whole new flavour profile would be brought to life. It was not only the most unblemished stage for the espresso’s opera but it also had an adequate creaminess.

𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘭 — a caramel was definitely the way to go to infuse the lavender. I couldn’t even fathom the disaster that would’ve occurred if I were to have placed it into the ganache along with the espresso. I swear I heard sirens blaring in the distance at the slightest thought of it. The two elements had to be housed in different elements to be distinct yet complementary.

Only a couple grams of dried edible lavender buds were used to be steeped into cream that deglazed the caramel. Like I said in the beginning, florals are great to eat but only in small amounts; especially one like lavender, that tends to produce a bitter and soapy taste when overused. 

It is then salted generously to preference. I always look forward to tasting a caramel before and after salting it. The way the salt elevates the complex notes intrinsic to caramel is an experience like no other.

It’s a top tip of mine to always salt your caramel. Always.

The espresso sings charmingly on the tongue while the caramelized notes from both the chocolate and caramel uplift it in flawless harmony. The lavender carries a floral flair to finish the show with the salt trailing just behind.

❝ Her iridescent body glows in the depths of midnight, illuminating everything in sight. Speckles of stars accompany her roughed and lonely vessel. She sits above, watching upon those of love and life, rue and woe, fire and destruction; showering pity over their heads and hearts. And to those who seek solace, along with shoulders to catch their tears and hands to wipe them too, she is present; listening empathetically and blessing their souls. After a long night of etching into her calloused skin the burdens of the spirits down-under, she bids them a good morning as her edges ebb into the pale azure sky. ❞

— la luna, the first mother

I remember when I tried a NY-style cheesecake for the first time. My mother decided to try making it after years of baking her signature Japanese cheesecake which I wasn’t as fond of (taste and texture wasn’t doing it for me). But when I took my first bite out of that crusted-baked cheesecake, a new world was opened up to me. The way the richness of the cream cheese coats your mouth while the digestive biscuit crust gave a crunchy-slight-toasty bite that took the edge off the cheese’s indulgence? Magical.

I never looked at another cheesecake the same again. Until this phenomenon came about.

I found out about the Basque cheesecake not too long ago from when Bon Appétit posted a video about it. It was intriguing to me as it defied all the rules of a textbook NY cheesecake as well as its Japanese counterpart. But I regret to say that I didn’t eat or make it until only last year.

The cream cheese, preferably Philadelphia and at room temperature, is whipped until just silken before the sugar is added. No air should be incorporated as the aim is not to make a fluffy batter. It should be smooth and lump-free.

Then, the eggs are added one at a time for proper emulsification. Eggs are the main binding agents in this recipe; they lend the necessary structure to the cake to properly set it as this batter is quite a fluid one. The coagulation of their proteins are significant in preventing the cake from falling apart into a sad cheese puddle. Again, excessive whipping is advised against; this isn’t a cotton-soft cheesecake.

A generous amount of heavy cream is added followed by a contrasting weight of flour. The minimal amount of flour is there to—like the eggs—lend its binding properties but not as it would in a standard cake. That’s why the cake looks the way it is. There isn’t enough gluten to hold up the cake; the absence of a raising agent aids in this as well, thus, giving its crater-like centre.

The cream, on the other hand, provides the delicate-lusciousness by keeping the batter liquid enough to bake through, and brown on its surface without becoming over-cooked.

Vanilla and salt are optional, but highly recommended as the ambassadors of the flavour enhancing committee. And did I mention the rebellious parchment-lining of the cake tin? A large sheet of parchment is pleated into the sides of the tin so that it towers inches above the edge. This guides the cake when it lifts much higher than you’d imagine.

The Maillard reaction along with caramelization, are what brands the cake its defining deep amber exterior. The former is a chemical reaction that involves the proteins and reducing sugars within the food; it’s a process that most cooked things undergo. While the latter, is the browning of sugar, hence its name attributing to sugar turning into a caramel when cooked long enough.

And the result is, at first, a tall, aggressively wobbly specimen, cracked along the top when it is right out of the oven. But once left to cool in its tin, it gradually sinks and condenses into its true self.

The cake is originally meant to be served at room temperature, but I found that it tastes worlds better after being chilled. 

The velvety interior dances dreamily on the palate and offers nothing short of pure cream cheese sin. Prominent caramel tones accompany it, bringing with it the longing for another bite.

❝ The sun kisses the lips of the horizon, who embraces while lulling her to sleep with its dulcet hymns. She plunges within, not knowing of its depths, slowly, but wilfully. Her fingers lace around the veils of vermilion and clementine shades that tint the earth and waters beneath, hauling them towards their long awaited slumber. And finally, as her crown fades into the harsh skyline with her softened crimson streaks trailing closely behind, the ritual of dusk comes to an end. ❞ 

— an ode to her majesty, il sole

It’s not a secret that most love a good French pastry, if not, everybody. Thanks to the modern times we live in today, French pastry has evolved into more than just a mere ending to a meal, they’ve become a source of indulgence and craving-satisfaction. You couldn’t ever find flavours or textures such as those in a French pastry, in something like your grandmother’s humble layered cake.

Oh no, French pastry is much more than that. Endless ideas have been born and bred for these petite gâteaux and entremets from the minds of pastry geniuses. Be it pairing flavours indigenous to countries from opposite ends of the earth or thought-provoking techniques that make you go, “Now, that’s smart. What exactly did they smoke to come up with that? I’d like some.”.

Praliné feuilletine base, hazelnut dacquoise, followed by a dark chocolate crémeux, finished with a milk chocolate chantilly.

I’d first been introduced to this unit of heaven when I was studying in my pastry school. This was one of the many cakes that we learnt to make in our first modern French pastry class. And it was no surprise that it’s the most loved out of everything else. Four layers might seem intimidating at first but once familiar with them, they’re a breeze to execute.

𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦 — if you haven’t been introduced to praliné paste up until now, I assure you you’d be salivating where you currently lie, craving for a taste.

It’s made up of caramelized sugar and any roasted nut of your choice. I like to call it: nut butter on roids. Seriously addictive, and rightfully so. As you can tell, I used a mix of hazelnuts and almonds. No special reason honestly; I just didn’t have enough hazelnuts.

There are essentially 2 ways to make praliné paste. The first: toss the roasted nuts in your pot (preferably a copper bowl) of sugar syrup until they’ve crystallized and gone cloudy, with the heat off. Then, the heat is brought back to melt and caramelize the sugar around the nuts, stirring religiously but not aggressively, to prevent recrystallization (an absolute nightmare, please avoid at all costs). The mixture is then cooled out on a flat surface; larger surface area, higher cooling rate. It’s then ground up into a paste, as smooth or as chunky as you’d like. 

That would be the traditional way. The second would be the definite fool-proof method; toast your nuts and caramelize your sugar separately. Some would argue that the latter method would be the best for the sake of efficiency. Others would say making it by the former is for the sake of tradition. And to both I say: whatever floats your banana boat, man.

This base comprises praliné paste, dark couverture chocolate and pailetté feuilletine. The praliné paste is added in a higher quantity so as to give a softer bite and cut to the component. Flying feuilletine and broken plates are not ideal here.

𝘩𝘢𝘻𝘦𝘭𝘯𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘤𝘲𝘶𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘦 — you could say dacquoise is the younger sibling of the macaron. Or vice versa. I’m not one to tell you how to imagine your pastry lore.

But dacquoise is much easier to whip up compared to macarons. No macaronage step needed here! As long as the dry ingredients are fully incorporated and the meringue hasn’t lost much of its air, you’re free to pipe or spread them into whatever shape or size you desire.

𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘶𝘹 — a crémeux would be an extension of the ganache, but definitely a creamier, silkier one.

A crème anglaise is poured over the chocolate and whisked to emulsify. An immersion blender would be used here but I currently don’t possess enough coins to purchase one (I’m aiming for a Bamix, the og hand blender), so a whisk would just have to do.

𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘬 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘺 — a nice way to spruce up good ol’ chantilly is to add chocolate to it. Pretty much a way to spruce up anything don’t you think?

The result is an almost soft-serve-like texture; the airy lusciousness is one to die for. I chose a crown-like piping tip to give the chantilly the most mesmerizing pattern that is worthy of, well, crowning a cake such as this.

In the original recipe, this cake was to be made in a large rectangular frame as an entremet or cut into smaller rectangles for petite gâteaux. I don’t have a rectangular frame on hand, but while I do have square tins, I thought a round number would also suit this marvel. Chocolate garnishes were to be put on the cake as well, but I can confidently come to a conclusion that they aren’t a necessity. 

The slice you get is one of taste and textural euphoria; the first to hit your palate would be the chocolate, the airiness from the chantilly combined with the rich velvety crémeux makes for a chocolate high. The hazelnut comes next, elevating the chocolate with its toasty-nuttiness, the dacquoise lending its soft chew while the feuilletine briefly steals the spotlight, delivering a crunch to outshine the rest.

Matcha flavoured shells paired with a rose petal jam and a milk chocolate whipped ganache.

My first adventurous bake from early last July. They were the first of my now ever-growing list of macaron flavour combinations that I have tried and yet to try.

Macarons are addictive to eat and make to say the least, despite their infamous reputation for being one of the toughest cookies to make. They impart troubling questions among amateur bakers and non-bakers alike as the extensive research macaron novices go through are nothing like any other baked good.

Everyone has their own way of going about these finicky gems which provides little to no help to fellow beginners. Some swear by the use of certain ingredients (e.g. aged egg whites, albumin powder, powdered food colouring, etc.) as the sole catalyst(s) of their (and to them, should be everyone’s) success. Others opt out of these and instead shift their focus to external factors that could potentially alter the result of these cookies. Some go all out and combine both so as to ward off any evil macaron-failing spirits that probably lurk in every kitchen regardless of the frequency of its usage.

𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘴 — if there’s an easier way to do something, you bet I’ll do it that way. I adore making macarons with French meringue; it’s quick, easy, and oh so little fuss (no sugar syrups, no bain-maries). The only downside would be the stability of this meringue. It’s the least stable out of the prime trio and much, much more time and touch sensitive.

Not to exaggerate but the many times I failed when first attempting to make macarons will forever be up there as one of my most trying times. And when I finally succeeded, that was quite the start of my macaron enslavement.

The shells were baked at a respectable 150°C, after developing a matte finish on their surface, for 4 minutes without fan force, and a further 10 minutes with. The first 4 minutes are for building their feet while the other 10 are to give them a thorough cook.

These vivid shells were flavoured with just a few grams of matcha powder. Finding a good quality matcha is important, not only to bestow a vibrant colour, but to also lend its signature slight bitter, earthy notes with just a small amount. With all good things, a little goes a long way.

𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘫𝘢𝘮 — to say I was in awe at the colour of this jam would be an overt understatement. Its beauty is an ode to all things rose-tinted.

The jam was cooked to a strict temperature of 104°C as all jams would be, with a splash of lemon juice at the end to bring back the colour lost during the intense boil and to also aid in the activation of the pectin’s setting ability.

It was then cooled at room temperature then loaded into a piping bag for filling.

𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘬 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦 — as I mentioned earlier, this macaron was and is the first of my many past and future macaron endeavours. To this day I am still learning how to create better flavours and textures best befitting for these little parcels of decadence.

At that time I never played too close to the edge when dealing with ganaches. Albeit simple as it is with just a mix of cream and chocolate, there can be a multitude of other ingredients added at varying ratios to give one a smooth and supple ganache.

But being the beginner I was (and still am), I opted for something simple first. Hot cream poured over any chocolate of choice at equal quantities and whisked to emulsify. Chilled then whipped to just shy of a stiff peak. Any aromatics would be left to infuse into the cream.

But like I said, this is just the beginning.

At first glance, you may think these flavours as ones that would never appear next to each other. Yet, here they are.

The earthiness from the matcha complements the floral perfume of the rose with the milk chocolate rounding everything off with its full creaminess and subtle chocolate profile.