Love for the Dough Baby

I don't like doing things I'm not good at.  Unfortunately, learning something new often involves just that.  Recently I decided that this dislike is impeding my ability to learn new things, so I committed myself to learning a couple of new things things, no matter how much I suck along the way.

That is how I found myself in the kitchen at Stella's, staring anxiously at a cup of milky white liquid.

I kept waiting for something to happen – I knew that something was supposed to happen but wasn't quite sure what.  I had painstakingly converted the measurements and carefully measured the ingredients.  I even remembered to proof the yeast in tap water (something I omitted in an earlier, failed attempt at breadmaking).  Why wasn't anything happening?

As embarrassing as it was to falter at this early stage, I decided to consult my Chef G, whose culinary school baking book was the foundation for this endeavor.  He informed me that cool tap water is not the recipe for happy yeast (as every baker apparently knows).  Chef G agitated the milky liquid with the deftness of a confident baker, added a little warm water and a dash of sugar, and moved the yeast cup over the stove.  Sure enough, within minutes tiny bursts of air began bubbling up to the surface.  (I believe these are akin to yeast belches?)

With the yeast in bloom, I combined the ingredients as directed in Stella's professional-grade mixer (I certainly wasn't lacking for appropriate equipment) and kneaded the dough on medium speed until it was "smooth and elastic."  And then began the waiting game – breadmaking certainly requires a lot of patience (not one of my virtues).

As we wait, please enjoy some snapshots of my efforts:

Bread flour:

Active dry yeast (annoyingly, my recipe used instant yeast, requiring yet another conversion):

The kneaded dough: 

After a bit of time to rise:

My dough baby, shaped and ready for the fire:

And once the taught little dough baby sprung back "slowly to the touch," it was time for it to meet Stella's beautiful, scorching hot, wood fire pizza oven.  Here is where I got really experimental, because this dough was designed to bake in an oven much cooler than this one.  But I failed to mention earlier that one of the objectives of this experiment was to determine whether delicious bread could be baked in the pizza oven, so this risk to the success of my experiment (and consequently, to my pride and self-esteem) was unavoidable.

Fortunately, I had the patient assistance of my Chef G.  He informed me that traditional breads such as French baguettes are cooked in steam injection ovens, so to simulate the steam injection effect, he threw in a few ice cubes during the initial scortch.

Here is a shot of Chef G watching over the dough baby:

Just out of the pizza oven:

We decided to finish the loaf in the cooler kitchen oven (so as not to totally blacken crust), and here is the finished product:

A relative success!!  (Pride and self-esteem intact, whew!)

The insides are more dense than I like, but the pizza oven did wonders for a crunchy, brown-black crust. The collective agreement of the kitchen at Stella's is to add more yeast, allow for a longer rise and cook the dough mostly, if not entirely, in the pizza oven. But all things considered, an excellent first try.

Perhaps learning new things isn't so bad after all.

A date with one of my favorite people

Last Saturday night, after two failed attempts at making plans with friends in the City, I decided to take myself out on a date.

After considering several options (the Philharmonic and Bar Boulud? the bar at Babbo or Casa Mono? some jazz or a hipster show on the LES?), I decided to see the Martha Graham Dance Company perform at the Joyce and to treat myself to a post-show dinner at Tia Pol.

The performance was inspired (if somewhat annoyingly political), but I found myself distracted by fantasies of creamy fava bean puree and beyos cheese on perfect little toasts.

When I arrived, I must admit, I ordered like a girl, albeit a girl obsessed with tasty food. First, a salad of frisée and arugula with white asparagus, fried artichokes and a creamy, lemony vinaigrette, paired with a glass of Spanish rosé cava. In this dish, the peppery arugula and slightly bitter frisée are mellowed by the tangy vinaigrette and slightly mushy bits of asparagus, and the whole thing is rounded out with the fried artichokes' crispy pop. The perfect mix of soft and crunchy; creamy, bitter and bright. All perfectly complimented by the bone dry, floral, bubbly wine.

A side note: I am convinced that the kitchen refuses to chop the oversized frisée so that the wait staff has something to snicker about as the diners attempt to maneuver the unwieldy fronds into their watering mouths. I felt ridiculous eating the massive things but was also too proud to chop my own salad into baby food.

Next came the much-imagined toasts, which did not fail to meet expectations. The fava bean purée is smooth as silk but retains enough texture to firm up on the crisp buttered toast, and the dusting of mild white beyos cheese adds salt and augments the creaminess of the dish. I could eat 2 or 12 of these just about every night and die a happy woman.

Sadly, as I was just one person, I had to stop after my final dish: a special salad of sweet peas with cured pork loin and a sunnyside up egg (Chef G calls me his egg slut – I couldn't pass this one up). My first move was to break the yolk, which oozed over the salad to make the world's most perfect dressing. The egg-soaked tender sweet peas were divine, well-balanced in both flavor and texture by crisp radishes and fresh croutons. If I were to complain about anything, it would be not enough piggy (I do love my piggy) – and this salad was equally awkward to eat, but on whole, it was totally worth the embarrassment. And equally well-complimented by a second glass of delicious rosé.

I briefly considered passing up on dessert (is it ridiculous to order dessert when taking yourself out on a date?), but the seduction of fried custard balls and a jammy dessert red proved too strong to resist. This dessert is covered with a crust like the outer layer of the very best donut you've ever had and is filled with an eggy yellow custard the consistency of melted brie. I am a great fan of flavor complexity in desserts (i.e., desserts that taste something in addition to sweet), so perhaps a sprinkle of sea salt would serve this dessert well, but the dried cherries with which it is served add some tartness to balance the super sweetness of the custard. As I took my last sip of the full-bodied, grapey red, I decided that I need to take myself out on dates more often.