À Bout de Soufflé
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IN THIS ISSUE: Sumo, cocktails, cheese soufflé.
Appetizers
What’s New, Pousse-Café?
As an editorial directive, Gourmet Magazine is always here for the bit. But when does it go too far? Over a recent dinner, Friend of Gourmet (FrOG) and Best Food Blog co-founder Anna Hezel opened my clearly-very-shut eyes to a drink that can only be described as a monstrosity. Dubbed a “Pousse-Café” (we will not be making any further jokes about the name, also as an editorial directive), it is what those in the Industry call a “layered drink” (for more about that read this story edited by none other than Anna herself a few years ago). There are a few versions, but the Pousse-Café No. 1 contains equal parts grenadine, maraschino liqueur, crème de menthe, crème de violette, Yellow Chartreuse, and brandy. They are layered atop each other, producing a rainbow-like effect.
Upon hearing about this drink I quickly blurted out, “I’m going to make it!” But then it dawned on me: despite the prismatic tableau, it probably tastes like garbage, right? Two crèmes AND some grenadine? At the very least, a headache. Indeed, many layered drinks are served as shots for precisely this reason. That being said, it's been a week, and I'm still intrigued. But let’s run the numbers. Currently my pantry contains some brandy, maraschino, and Get 27, a French apéritif that—true to its proper pronunciation—is basically crème de menthe + jet fuel. Grenadine, thankfully, runs for $5 at most. Crème de violette, however, is between $20 and $23. Yellow Chartreuse meanwhile goes for probably $70, if I’m lucky. That’s a $113 price tag, excluding the ingredients I already possess. Is that truly worth it for a one-sip gag? Sound off in the comments (my email, I guess), and if I do make it I’ll report back. —C.G.W.
Crushing Hard
In last Thursday’s issue of Gourmet, I wrote in defense of the screwdriver—a cocktail that, when made with the freshly-squeezed juice of peak-season navels, is simply unmatched. As a native of the Old Line State, I was chuffed to receive the following response from Emily Norris of Baltimore:
If you have high quality citrus and a countertop press handy, you must make an Orange Crush. Popularized on the Delmarva coast some thirty some years ago, and now officially Maryland’s house cocktail (after a contentious but indisputable battle with Delaware). It’s a spritzed-up screwdriver perfect for sandy, no-shower happy hours. Or as I’m realizing right now, a momentary cure for the winter blues. I don’t normally crave in the off-season, but I'm thinking this could fix me. Thanks for the trigger!
Ingredients
1.5 oz orange-flavored vodka
1.5 oz triple sec
Juice of 1–2 oranges (or grapefruit is beloved by many!)
Sprite
Fill a pint glass with crushed ice. Add vodka, triple sec, fresh juice. Top with Sprite.
Reader, I fucking love Orange Crushes. Sure, I’m a snob: I prefer to make them sans flavored vodka, and with the spendiest orange liqueur I can find, and generally prefer Sanpellegrino Limonata to Sprite. But, honestly, I’ve never met an Orange Crush I didn’t like; few things make me prouder of my Greater Baltimore heritage. I have also always been of the opinion that fresh citrus drinks make as much (if not more!) sense as a counterpoint to cold weather as they do a complement to summer heat. So: Cheers, Emily! Thanks for giving me a reason to keep my citrus press on the counter for another few weeks. —A.B.S.
Sumo Update
Just here to share my favorite reader email so far—a perfect missive from newly-minted FrOG Alison Krieger, who kindly called in a friend to solve Tuesday’s sumo wrestler mystery. Gourmet shared a thrift-store photograph of two men of the wrestling persuasion snacking on a foot-high short stack on a trip to the States, begging for help identifying them. Ask and we shall receive:
I’m a retreat center/Buddhist monastery kind of cook in Portland, OR…
My friend Christine White also of Portland is a local sumo expert. This is what she tells me about the photos you posted of two wrestlers in Santa Barbara:
The wrestlers in the photo are Tochiakage Takanori and Kurama Tatsuya.
They were both high-ranking sekitori in the 1970s-1980s and oddly enough both died at 42 but two years apart
Toshiakagi was also known as Toshiakagi Masao. He died of a heart attack, Kurama of leukemia
My source says there was a tour of LA in 1981
Hope it helps if you haven’t already gotten to the bottom of this mystery!
Peace and kind regards,
Alison
Alison adds that eating is considered a form of training in sumo: Consider us ready to wrassle! Thanks, peace, and pancakes to you, Alison. <3 —A.T.
À Bout de Soufflé
A slow, purposeful journey towards cheese soufflé
Everything I cook lately is very well-browned—hot and fast, counter to stove to plate. Even the soups and braises feel like they’re happening in all caps. The raw power of a cast-iron skillet turning a fried egg’s edges to lace, a whole meal in a half-sheet pan shoved in a screaming hot oven. (“Young hoes cook everything on high.”) These are the forces that get dinner on the table and color in my cheeks.
I’m ready to trade it all in, at least for a little while, for a less direct route. I’m ready for soufflé.
The writer Kathryn Jezer-Morton coined the term “friction-maxxing” about a month and a half ago to describe the act of “building up tolerance for ‘inconvenience’” to “know the difference between suffering and friction.” She presented the idea as a way of pumping the brakes on technology’s creep into every aspect of our lives, from A.I.-powered grocery lists to iPad-addled kids, and I want to bring it into the kitchen.
To make a cheese soufflé is to drive a trusty Peugeot slowly but purposefully down a road signposted in French: whisking a pale roux over low heat, slowly thickening the subsequent béchamel, forming a liaison with the egg yolks, making sure the beaten egg whites get folded in doucement but also complètement, all the way to baking the soufflé itself, an act of hope. You can't power your way through it as you would with its Italian cousin, the frittata—the Ferrari of egg cookery, built for speed and crowd-feeding efficiency. But there’s nothing like a soufflé if you’re cooking dinner for four, where those same ingredients get more space to breathe (nearly literally, as the soufflé lets out a long, slow sigh after leaving the oven).