Cake displays in some countries simply dazzle. French patisseries are practically a national icon, nudging in somewhere between the Eiffel Tower, a beret and a crusty baguette. Although a feast for the eyes, the effect on the chef (well, OK, me) can be intimidating.
Which is why I loved this story so much. I heard two versions over the same Sunday lunch on a rural southwest farm, between servings of apple-roasted liver, tapioca soup, roast chicken, cheese and of course the dish itself:
the Tarte Tatin (pronounced in a seamless exhalation, tartartan.)
The legend caramalises down to this. A rushed and harassed sister, baking in Paris at the Hotel Tatin, around 1898, accidentally overcooked the sliced apples in sugar.
Recognising the sinister aroma that develops shortly after the ‘golden-brown’ stage, she rescued it from the hob, threw a pastry lid over the top and slammed it into the oven. Depending on the story, the mistakes didn’t end there, with butter-fingers tipping the pie upside down onto the plate.
With the singed smell of desperation closing in, Ms Tatin felt she had no choice but to brazen it out and present this ‘creation’ to the crowds.
And thus, a legend was born.
According to staunch critics, therefore, a true tarte tatin should have the slices balanced upright on the thinnest part of the wedge, to guarantee they have been cooked upside down.
So perhaps I have damned my culinary exploits too soon; the next time I get distracted while cooking, I might be creating a legend.
Photo courtesy of LemonFish. I’m afraid we’d eaten it all before we thought to take a picture…
