Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,93
And I remembered, as I read, just how it felt to be eight years old and setting off on a great adventure.
I reached for the next issue. Stahlhut had drawn something called “Chilean Paella,” a ridiculously old-fashioned concoction surrounded by fussy little artichoke hearts stuffed with olives. But when I opened the magazine I was reminded of all the reasons I’d first treasured Gourmet. In September 1960, most Americans were happily sitting down to sturdy meals of meatloaf with mashed potatoes, but those early issues offered an alternate foodscape. Here were recipes for Indian dal, lasagna with handmade pasta, mushrooms stuffed with snails, empanadas, Viennese boiled beef, even home-brewed vinegar. It was an international cornucopia, and I thought, proudly, that the magazine had truly been a pioneer. Then I turned another page and found myself staring at a recipe for German apple pancakes. It had been years since I’d tasted this particular dish, but the memory was so sharply etched that I could literally taste it.
My family had only one ritual: dinner at Lüchow’s, a Wagnerian opera of a restaurant that looked, even in the fifties, like it had sailed onto 14th Street sometime in the very distant past. Lüchow’s was famous for its enormous size, its classic German food, and the towering Christmas tree that soared above the tables during the holiday season.
We dined there once a week all through my childhood. We went because it was an easy walk from our apartment. We went because it reminded Dad of home. But mostly we went because Mom, normally so indifferent to food, was in love with Lüchow’s apple pancake. Over the years Dad and I sampled every dish on the menu; Mom never ordered anything but that pancake.
I had never thought of making it myself, but now, overcome by a desire for this taste of my childhood, I studied the recipe. I had everything I needed: apples, eggs, lemon, sugar.
There’s something soothing about peeling apples, about the way they come whispering out of their skins. Slicing them is another pleasure, and I listened for the juicy crunch of the knife sliding through the flesh. I cut into a lemon, treasuring the scent of the aromatic oils as they flew into the air.
Soon the seductive aroma of apples melting into butter drew my family to the kitchen. Even the cats came, twining around our ankles as we opened the oven and pulled out the pan. The smell was so alluring that we burned our fingers snatching bites from the pan.
Then there was an awful silence. Finally Nick said, “Your mother really liked this?”
Looking at that sad concoction, I remembered the yaffy and how restaurant recipes always needed to be tweaked. In 1960 Gourmet had neither kitchens nor cooks.
“C’mon, Mom.” Nick opened a bottle of wine (he’s almost thirty now), and handed me a glass. “I’m sure you can figure this out.”
I tried to remember. The Lüchow’s pancake wasn’t fat and puffy, like this Gourmet version, but svelte and elegant. I pictured Mom, saw her face begin to glow as the waiter doused the pancake with rum and set it on fire.
Working from memory, I began breaking eggs into a bowl. The batter should be thin: a lot of milk and just enough flour to frame the apples.
As the scent of melting butter filled the kitchen, Nick’s partner, Monica, wordlessly began to peel more apples. Michael poured himself a glass of wine. Outside, the sun began to set, filling the sky with a blaze of pink and orange. Sam Cooke was singing as I heated up the skillet. We stood there, shimmying around the stove, waiting to see what would happen.
Sometimes you know, before the very first taste, when a recipe is right. When I slid that floppy crepe out of the skillet, it looked exactly like the one my mother used to love. I sprinkled it with sugar, rolled it up, then heated rum and struck a match.
The flames leapt up, and as they died I wished, for just a moment, that my parents could be with us. They’d encouraged me to follow my passion—even though it was one they did not share. It’s been a long and very satisfying journey.
I hope they know that.
GERMAN APPLE PANCAKE
•••
2 tart cooking apples (Granny Smiths are good)
1 lemon
½ stick (4 tablespoons) unsalted butter
¼ cup brown sugar
½ teaspoon cinnamon
Small grating of nutmeg
3 eggs
¾ cup flour
Pinch of salt
1 tablespoon sugar
1 cup milk
Sugar for sprinkling
Rum or cognac (optional)
Peel the apples, core them, and slice them thinly. Shower them with about 2 tablespoons of lemon juice.
Melt half the butter (2 tablespoons) in a medium skillet, and stir in the brown sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Add the apple slices and cook over medium-high heat for about 8 minutes, until they’ve become quite darkly caramelized and smell impossibly delicious. Remove them from the heat.
Meanwhile, beat the eggs. Gently whisk in the flour, salt, and sugar. Add the milk. The batter should be thin.
Melt a couple of teaspoons of butter in an 8-inch skillet, and when it’s hot, pour in a third of a cup of batter, tilting the pan so that it covers the entire surface, making a thin crepe. Cook just until set, about 2 minutes.
Evenly distribute a third of the apples over the crepe, pour another third of a cup of batter over the apples, then turn the pancake (this is easiest if you have two pancake turners) and allow the bottom to brown. Turn out onto a large plate, sprinkle generously with sugar, and roll the pancake up like a jelly roll. Sprinkle with a bit more sugar and, if you like, a splash of lemon juice.
Repeat this until you have three plump rolled pancakes. If you want to flame your creations, lightly warm a few tablespoons of rum or cognac for each pancake in a pan, add the pancakes, spoon the liquor over the top, and set the pancakes on fire.
Serves 6
For Laurie Ochoa, who has made every
writer she’s ever worked with look better,
and Jonathan Gold, who blazed a path
for an entire generation of food writers.
I couldn’t have done it without you.