Chocolat, Mon Amour

I get a lot of flack for my breakfast selections. But keep in mind, I grew up in a household where I was taught how to make brownies as soon as I turned eight years old, and a mixing bowl full of M&Ms was a quickly declared dinner if the electricity was out.

In other words, a very sensible household.


Is it any surprise then, that this chocolate tart, along with a cup of green tea, was how I started today?

It's another recipe from the September issue of Gourmet, which is all about eating Paris, one buttery croissant at a time. Instead of its chocolate crust, I made a regular graham-cracker version, which seems a better canvas for the intense chocolate filling and satiny glaze.

Of course, its photography makes mine look like a crass kindergarten crayon etching, but I was too busy eating the tart to take the picture of the three remaining slices until a few days later.

Chocolate-Glazed Chocolate Tart
Makes: 8-10 servings.

Crust:
8 (5- by 2 1/4-inch) graham crackers, finely ground (about 1 cup)
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1/4 cup sugar
Filling:
1 1/4 cups heavy cream
9 ounces bittersweet chocolate (not more than 65% cacao), chopped
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt
Glaze:
2 tablespoons heavy cream
1 3/4 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
1 teaspoon light corn syrup
1 tablespoon warm water

1. For crust, preheat oven to 350°F with rack in middle. Stir together all ingredients and press evenly onto bottom and 3/4 inch up side of 9-inch tart pan with removable bottom. Bake until firm, about 10 minutes. Cool on a rack 15 to 20 minutes.

2. For filling, bring 1 1/4 cups cream to a boil, then pour over chocolate in a bowl and let stand 5 minutes. Gently stir until smooth. Whisk together eggs, vanilla, and salt in another bowl, then stir into melted chocolate.

3. Pour filling into cooled crust. Bake until filling is set about 3 inches from edge but center is still wobbly, 20 to 22 minutes. (Center will continue to set as tart cools.) Cool completely in pan on rack, about 1 hour.

4. For glaze, bring 2 tablespoons cream to a boil and remove from heat. Stir in chocolate until smooth. Stir in corn syrup, then warm water.

5. Pour glaze onto tart, then tilt and rotate tart so glaze coats top evenly. Let stand until glaze is set, about 1 hour.

Note: Tart is best the day it is made but can be made, without glaze, 1 day ahead and chilled. Bring to room temperature before glazing.

Chocolate and green tea are a stellar combination, so I brewed up some Uji Mecha, which just may be the happiest medium between a Japanese and Chinese green tea, to complement with the rich tart. And it's cheap (around $3 an ounce, which works out to 30¢ a cup- and yes, I had to use a calculator for that), which was welcome after coughing up over $20 for all that Scharffen Berger chocolate.

It's like making a good cup of tea, however: With so few ingredients, you have to use the highest quality you can find to make it shine.

Taim: Israeli Good

This may be a blog about tea, but I'm going to let you in on a secret: where to find the best falafel in the city.


It's at the diminutive and immaculate Israeli spot Taim (222 Waverly Place @ 7th Ave.), and it comes in three flavors (green, red and harissa). As you bite through the balls' crispy, crackly exterior to get at the ethereal, steaming, fresh filling, tears of joy will come to your eyes.

And this isn't completely off topic, because there are several tea offerings there as well. Accompanied by an incredible jewelry designer, I stopped in the other afternoon, passing up the homemade pomegranate iced tea and milky chai for a cup of mint tea with honey ($1.75). There's approximately 3.5 stools inside, so I needed something that would keep me warm as we sat on the bench outside and watched the new autumnal dusk overtake the West Village.


It's not better than the Moroccan mint tea I like to make at home, but for less than $2, it manages to be simultaneously refreshing and calming. Where else in Manhattan can you find a deal like that?

Cha on the Cheap

An incredible jewelry designer I know recently surprised me with a green tea I'd never heard of: aracha.

She handed it to me right before departing on a long trip- explaining that she found it in one of New York few Japanese groceries- so unfortunately, I couldn't brew it up for us to share. But I made myself two cups this morning anyway, so I could generously drink one on her behalf and appreciate her thoughtful gift.

As I sipped, I did some research.

Aracha is referred to as crude tea, but this doesn't mean it's comparable to crude oil versus the delicious product that ends up in your car's gas tank, for instance. Aracha, which usually undergoes a second round of processing and blending before being consumed, is still eminently drinkable in its unrefined state.

Also called primal or unfinished tea, the aracha tasted smoother than I expected for this "simple" green. It was thicker on the tongue than more refined (and expensive) Japanese senchas, and had a slightly cloudy, duller green color, but it was still delicious.


Like other Japanese greens, aracha has that characteristic vegetal, grassy taste, stemming from the steaming of the leaves. This preserves their natural chlorophyll- and for those of you who weren't as riveted in biology class as I was, that's the green-light-loving pigment that enables photosynthesis, and what makes salads taste like they're good for you.

If you're not familiar with Japanese green teas, aracha is a good entry, thanks to its reasonable price and more forgiving brew. You still want to ensure the water is well below boiling (about 170°-180°F), and that you don't steep it for more than a minute and a half. If you still need more guidance, don't beat yourself up: just see my self-proclaimed essential tea brewing guide.


Try to have some company for it, too, so you don't feel quite as insane setting out two teacups when it's just you. (Although I did score both of these beauties at the Salvation Army for 79¢ the other day, and I've been just itching to use them. See, I know how to survive in a depression. Whether I'd want to is another question.)

Beneficial Wall St. Bubbles

These days, the financial district is is home to many things: broken promises, shattered dreams, fortunes lost. And practically nothing edible within spitting distance from Wall St.


However, there is a new way to drown your economic sorrows, at the few-months-old e-TeaHouse (29 John St., btw. Nassau and Broadway). What could be more appropriate, in these times, than bubble tea?

Bubble, or pearl milk (as it's known in China) tea is said to have originated in Taiwan in the 1980s before rolling into Canada and then to American Chinatowns on both coasts. It comes in a seemingly infinite number of varieties- black or green tea mixed with flavors like coconut, almond, mango or taro- and for the brave, a sunken treasure of chewy tapioca balls at the bottom.

I had it for the first time right when I moved to New York in 2000, and almost did a spit-take at the little cafe table: The sensation of sucking up gelatinous, black balls in a sip of hot, sweet tea just seemed terribly wrong. By the second cup, though, I was relishing having something else to do besides just drink tea- those tapioca balls were like the childhood favorite gummi bears matured into a hipper, chicer shape, and they were really fun to chew on, or jettison back out through the giant plastic straws while walking around Chinatown. (In fact, one of my friends could have won a gold medal for his remarkable accuracy and distance, if the Olympics ever had such worthwhile events.)

Even now, it's hard to find any decent bubble tea outside of Chinatown, so I was a bit wary of this new place- and its website did little to reassure me. A friend I haven't seen in ages was up for the adventure, though, so we ventured in.

It is a miniscule, brightly colored spot- not the most relaxing to sit in- but the service is attentive and the selections are notable for the location: my friend had a passionfruit green tea ($2.85), and I had the rose milk tea ($3.05), a flavor I'd never seen before.

My tea was quite nice- not too sweet, not too creamy, with a faint rose essence and soft, chewy tapioca balls.

There's a selection of traditional Chinese pastries, but the cookies on the counter looked more appealing, and they didn't disappoint.


It may be hard to believe, but there is a good deal to be had by Wall St.: $1 will get you four rich almond cookies, or a dozen thin, crispy coconut wafers.

It doesn't appear that they're house-made, but whoever is supplying the shop knows their sweets. The almond cookies in particular were ideal for dipping into the hot, milky tea, and justified calling the meal lunch.

On the way out, I noticed a sign offering a new special that I've not seen before- coffee bubble tea. In this country, I suppose you have to entice the non-tea drinkers somehow. Perhaps I'll convince my next victim to try it when I go back.

Still, my favorite bubble tea spot remains in the heart of Chinatown, where you can always see a free economy successfully at work. I'll reveal it someday.

The Great Pumpkin Cake

In case you missed it in the papers, I grew a pumpkin this year. An organic pumpkin, due to a free packet of organic seeds and a very natural (completely absent after toeing them into the ground) farming method.


And now it's official: I love pumpkins. I love watching them grow, I love how they taste, I love them sitting on my kitchen counter, patiently waiting to be consumed.

To commemorate my first hand-produced food, I needed a special recipe. Was it divine gourd intervention, then, that led me to In the Sweet Kitchen's Pumpkin and Orange Breakfast Cake? Whatever it was, I owe it my gratitude.

This golden orange poundcake will warm you like September sunrise; alongside a bracing but smooth cup of Earl Grey, you may find yourself, as I have, repeating this breakfast for lunch and dinner.


The first bite is moist, dense and instantly conjures the beginning of autumn: the pumpkin isn't overly assertive, but rather offers a fresh, vegetal sweetness. A drizzle of hot, sugary orange syrup and a dollop of vanilla yogurt are exceptional accompaniments: The citrus intensifies the bright flavors, and the vanilla adds a subtle, creamy layer to each forkful.

Pumpkin-Orange Breakfast Cake With Fresh Orange Syrup
Makes: 10 servings.

Cake:
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup sugar
2 tablespoons finely grated orange zest
3 large eggs, two separated, all at room temperature
1 cup pumpkin puree (homemade or canned)
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup cake or pastry flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
Syrup:
Juice of one large orange
1/2 cup sugar
Vanilla yogurt, for serving

1. Butter and flour a 9-inch Bundt pan. Heat oven to 350°. Cream butter, sugar and orange zest together until light and fluffy. Add the whole egg and two egg yolks, one at a time, beating well and scraping down sides of the bowl after each addition. Beat in pumpkin puree.

2. Sift together flours, baking powder and salt. Add to pumpkin batter in three stages, blending gently but thoroughly after each. In a small, clean bowl, whip egg whites until they hold soft peaks. Gently fold into batter, then pour batter into prepared pan and smooth surface.

3. Bake for 50-60 minutes, or until top of cake is springy when lightly touched, sides are beginning to pull away from the pan and toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Cool in pan on rack for 10 minutes; turn cake out of pan and let cool completely.

4. For the syrup, combine the orange juice and sugar in a small saucepan over low heat and stir until sugar is dissolved. Increase heat, bring syrup to a boil, and simmer, without stirring, two minutes. Use while hot, or let cool and refrigerate.

5. To serve, place a slice of cake on a plate. Pour some warm syrup over the cake, then add a spoonful of vanilla yogurt.

To make your own pumpkin puree (even if you didn't grow the pumpkin yourself): Slice off the top and bottom of the pumpkin, and roast the whole thing in a 350° oven for 45 minutes to 1 1/2 hours, depending on the size, until it feels soft and tender. Let it cool slightly, then slice in half, scoop out seeds and pulp, and scrape the flesh into a blender or food mill and puree until smooth. Let the puree cool before using.

Making your own is hardly more complicated than opening a can of pumpkin puree, and it not only tastes better, it makes the entire house smell heavenly.

Is growing my own tea next? If I ever leave Brooklyn, perhaps.

Do Donuts Dream of Electric Jelly?

I can't say, but I can tell you any Dunkin' Donuts munchkin dreams of being one of these: a warm, pillowy aebleskiver.


Aebleskiver are traditional Danish donuts that I first heard about while nearly falling asleep during a meeting with some jam purveyor, back when I was a food editor and companies would come to pitch their products in the hopes of getting into the food pages. They'd shower you with samples and gifts, seeking that priceless printed editorial approval (otherwise known as free advertising).

This one came bearing marionberry jam, an adorable, seven-holed cast-iron pan and instant mix for making aebleskiver. And it worked- I made sure the company's jam was featured the next holiday issue gift guide.

I never forgot how delicious those hot little donuts were, dusted with powdered sugar and slathered with the berry jam, but years went by before I stumbled across a recipe for them in a 1960s New York Times regional America cookbook.

There it was, tucked into Midwest breads and desserts section, from Iowa. And I just knew aebleskiver would be perfect with a cup of green tea (oops, a Japanese sencha, not Pi Lo Chun- all that sugar made me forgot yesterday's vow) for breakfast today.


The only problem is how many I made. Someone has got to come help me eat these. Iowans, Danes, whoever.

Aebleskiver
Makes: about 35 donuts.


2 cups buttermilk
2 eggs, separated
1/2 teaspoon vanilla or almond extract
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
Vegetable oil
Confectioners' sugar and jam, for serving

1. Mix buttermilk, egg yolks and vanilla extract together. Sift flour, baking soda, salt and sugar into a medium-sized bowl.

2. Beat egg whites until stiff but not dry. Pour buttermilk mixture into flour and stir gently to combine; gently fold in egg whites until just mixed.

3. Brush holes of aebleskiver pan lightly with oil and heat over medium-low. Carefully spoon batter into holes until about two-thirds full, and cook about 3 minutes for side, flipping with a knitting needle.

4. Remove to a serving platter and dust with confectioners' sugar. Spread with jam just before eating.

A few tips: Yes, traditionally you flip these with a knitting needle- possibly the best use for one yet. Resist the urge to fill the holes of the pan, as these do puff up substantially while cooking.

And be sure the pan is hot enough before you add the batter (the oil should sizzle if you sprinkle in a drop of water).

If the aebleskiver seem to be browning too fast, turn the heat down.

You want that beautiful golden-brown crust, but you need to give them enough time to cook all the way through.

These would also be delicious with butter, honey, maple syrup, lemon curd or even dusted with a bit of matcha mixed with the powdered sugar.

I should know, because I tried all of them.

There's something so satisfying about the jam, though, as it saturates the hot, fluffy dough just enough before you devour it.

(P.S. You can get the pan or a set here.)

My Pi Lo Chum

After my last post on Pi Lo Chun, I recently found the bag not-so-subtly buried underneath all those of my senchas and Uji Gyokuro, all the Japanese greens I love.

There's something about Chinese versus Japanese green teas, an earthiness rather than a vegetal greeness that always makes me hesitate a second before swallowing and ask myself: Do I like this?

Chinese green teas are usually processed via sun- or oven-drying, or basket- or pan-frying; Japanese greens by steaming. The steaming typically lasts no longer than a minute, but this is enough to preserve the chlorophyll in the leaves, producing Japanese greens' characteristic vibrant emerald color and fresh, grassy taste.

Perhaps this is why I have trouble with Chinese green tea- the complexities of all those centuries-old processing techniques add range of subtle flavors that sometimes seem to just get in the way of the leaf's natural taste.

Still, I've been trying new Chinese teas to expand my reach here, and also to acknowledge that perhaps my tastes aren't exactly everyone else's cup of tea. The horror. But it's a bit of a challenge to not revert to my old sencha standbys, which is why I'm not allowing myself to drink anything but Pi Lo Chun until I finish my supply or die of dehydration.

And surprisingly, I've been enjoying it more each day.

Keeping the water cooler (around 170°F) and brewing it for no more than 2 minutes really allows this tea to shine. The color may be an uninspiring pale greenish brown, but there's a round, full flavor with a slight astringency that manages to come off as clean, not bitter.

The second brew is still assertive, but with a bit of the edge blunted. That's fine with me. There's more than enough sharpness out there this morning.