skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Waitress: I've never had lemon meringue pie.
Me: YOU'VE NEVER HAD LEMON MERINGUE PIE! That's gotta be among the rung of top pies - if that even makes sense! (it didn't) You know what I'm gonna do?
Waitress: What?
Me: I'm gonna bake you a lemon meringue pie. Probably the best lemon meringue pie . . . EVER!
Waitress: Haha, okay.
*Two weeks later.*
Me: I made your pie last night.
Waitress: Oh yeah?
Me: Yeah, but . . . it didn't turn out. BUT I'M GONNA TRY AGAIN TONIGHT! HONEST! You'll have it tomorrow! Fr realzies.
And I did try again. I made so sure I wouldn't botch this pie like my sister botched my hair cut that I went as far as to watch an entire cooking show episode devoted to pie baking, namely, lemon merignue, with who other than, Alton Brown. I know, right? Scientific food cooking genius. I was taught everything about pie anatomy, what chemical reactions took place. I'd be ready for it this time - whatever IT was. But, Alton wasn't telling me something; what it was, I'll never know, because I'll never use this recipe again. EVER! I should have listened to my mother, I should have gotten instant meringue. But who are we kidding? Kuuku da. There's no room for imitation, no. Never. Not in the case where I have to impress a co-worker with my culinary skills. Unfortunately, that moment will never come to pass.
So, I got up early, left for the market, got some cornstarch, got some bones for broth, got some lemons, blah blah blah. Came home and I went at it. I was feeling pretty confident. This batch of meringue was nowhere near as soupy as the last. It was firm, it coated the spoon's back; this pie would taste as sweet as the victory I would soon have over it. And why stop there? As soon as I was done I thought it was time I put an eggtart recipe a friend of a friend of mine gave me. So, I got to that, as soon as I chilled the finished meringue and took a nice nap. So I woke up, confident as ever, thinking in my heart of hearts that these egg tarts would be so good, Cecilia Cheung herself couldn't resist. But first order of business, I had to get to work and deliver a pie, before I had to get to work. Does that sound confusing? It should. I'm a terrible writer.
I took the pie out of the garage, fully cooled mind you, grabbed a knife and cut through it like the fabric of time. I couldn't lose face - not this time; I was nothing, and everything.
And nothing again.
I plated a piece only to watch it ooze all over.
I cooked the filling long enough! I knew those shitty egg yolks ate up starch particles like pacman -Alton said so! It was thick! IT WAS THICK! I did everything right! Except one thing: make that damned pie right! Regardless, I could redeem myself. Redeem myself with pure ungranulated revenge. The pie had to die.
Afterwards I got to making the eggtarts. Reading the ambiguous email instructions multiple times, and doing unecessary tasks like converting 5/8's of a cup into mL's, and so on. Here's something I couldn't mess up - though I've never made any kind of custard. But eggtarts aren't custards, really. I mean, how hard could they be? I've eaten enough of them. REALLY! So I beat the eggs (more than I should have), I baked the shells, I added the custard powder, I made the syrup, I filled the tart shells, I pre-heated the oven. I did everything I was supposed to. But someone was holdin' out (motif?). And I can't think of a pun clever enough to crack this egg (see?). Why am still going on about it? The egg tarts didn't turn out either! I'd give you the recipe, but what's the point? Do YOU want tarts with a nice soupy filling? Howabout a pie? Howabout a blog entry written with better finesse? Sorry, can't help you there. Not today anyway. Maybe someday, but not today. At least with all the evaporated milk left over I was able to make some Hong Kong tea. And that's never bad. Don't worry Cecilia. I'm comin' baby. Someday. Eggtarts in hand; you, in a nurse uniform (for either a psychologist or veteranarean. Take your pick.). Someday.
WHAT! Magic's popping up everywhere! It must be the season! Or people's "awesomety" in general. But first, a little perspective. Weeks ago, a friend and I, after meander the streets of the tri-city area in search of a little entertainment and culinary delight, unfortunately came up short, Kitchener-Waterloo generally having ABSOLUTELY no nightlife after 10 p.m. Unless you count bars of course - but I don't. EVER! We had both been hoping to wander into some obscure little joint called Saigon by Night, but, like the rest of this tame city, it was closed. A bar. Closed after 10. So, after that, and after peeking into the City's only karaoke bar (why so many bar's?), and soon running out from embarassment, we settled, much to our apathetic dismay for one of the more generic coffee shops in town - which would stay open, at least until 1. At least there's somewhat of a nightlife - for strung out university students, and pretentious fatheads who enjoy discussing Hemmingway's biting criticisms of F.Scott Fitzgerald's small penis.
So, feeling really terrible for my friend, who was the driver, and taking part in my wild, "let's-go-to-this-place" goose chase, I thought the best way to make it up to her was to buy her a slice of whatever cake the corporate coffee cash cow held behind its counter. Chocolate, generic (again) and kkkiiinnnnda decadent. And being the polite individual she is, she demanded I help her eat it - either that or she knew how terrible it actually tasted and couldn't muster up enough to get through it all alone. Hell, the both of us couldn't. And we left much of the chocolate fondant buried in a pool of table sugar, some shitty rasberry sauce, and pepper. We were bored. And she was an artist. I don't know what abstractions were at mind's work, but somehow, out of the muck, she (and I, I guess) managed to create a delicacy of post culinary delight. Short and to the point it was a portrait of a cockatoo. And if we weren't already strung out on sugar, it might have seemed delicious.
Afterwards, on our way out, having left our work on the table, we tried, as best we could, to decide on a reasonable name. We went through a myriad of possibilities, eventually settling on the powerful name of Bruce Willis, us both being a fan of The Fifth Element, she because of the story, me because of Bruce Willis' beautiful, bleached blonde, receding, yet faded at the side, haircut. We left it at that. We took some pictures, we went home, we went to sleep, we carried on.
Now, about two weeks later, this same friend, having missed Bruce dearly, and consequently me, came for another visit, with the surprise of non-other than an homage to our deceased keeki friend. She could rebuild him, she had the technology. And she did, with more than stellar results. I asked if she went to some kind of pastry academy, she said she thought about it. I said it was marvelous. But what is it I'm talking about?
Why, a cake, of course! A full cake, not just one slice of cake, or mashed up cake on a plate painted into the picture of a tropical bird - oh no, a whole cake, icing and all, made in the image of a cockatoo with great plumage! The cake's side beautifully scripted with none other than the name BRUCE WILLIS written the whole way round, multiple, multiple times. It was dazzling, and delicious. Custards, jellies, spongy goodness, a beautiful portraiture. If only you could see the textures! I mean, really SEE them! I almost regretted cutting it! How on earth did I become so lucky as to know all these magnificent kinds of people? First egg tarts, now this? If only Bruce Willis himself were there to share it with us. Someday, dear reader, someday.
My friend, probably the best friend ever, took the selfless initiative to bring home one of my favourite desserts: egg tarts. They could easily be thought of as the equivalent, or distant cousin to Portuguese custards, made with more or less the same ingredients, but baked differently: custards are caramelized on the top usually with a blow torch, whereas eggtarts are usually baked in a bath and have a milder, sweet flavour with a hint of eggy taste. I'm not kidding. For that reason, the unaccustomed may not like them too much and favour custards more. However, I, being an embassador for all foods favour our eggy overlords and all the deliciousness they come in. These particular beauties come from Queen's Patisserie, who's address escapes me simply because the box only contains a phone number. but I can tell you this: it's located in that Asian influenced, overtly sprawled place known as Richmond Hill/Markham, Ontario. For me, those two places are one and the same - they're my China away from China (not that I've ever been), where stripmalls are full of nothing else but food holes and the occassional "Pacific Mall," which itself is stuffed with even more food holes and hot merchandise. One wonders how on earth that little economy stays afloat, not everyone can own a restaurant, unless they all pay to be fed by eachother - I suppose it's possible. Poorly planned? Not in the least, I just think whomever those city planners were, they were either very hungry, or too busy to make their own meals, which seems feasible; anyone can find any place to eat there. Suburbs, food. This foodie's playground. It's a shame Waterloo doesn't have an Asian oriented bakery. Looks like I'll have to muster up the guts to start one myself, and find someone to teach me to make egg tarts. Oh well, that's what the Hill's for. A beautiful place where I hope to live and eat someday (even if for a little), all while wearing Bape merchandise. But, Waterloo has it's own character to deal with, and I'm sure a myriad of bakeries worthy enough for this mouth. But until then, I've got some eating to do.
Queen's Patisserie
Hotline: 416-497-0098
*why the boxes have HOTLINEs on them, I'll never know; but no worries dear reader, when I visit that magical place, I'll be sure to get the address on here asap.
*oh, and Queen's Patisserie is all over the Greater Toronto area, so if you ever see one, check it out. Love yoooouuuuuuu.
Posts
