Just Desserts, Episode 9: The Old Battle Axe

The sun is shining chez Fractured Amy and it's glorious outside. I got my first bump from a real food-writer and Just Desserts was fun, fun, fun. Today, my enthusiasm is boundless! Maybe gluten-freedom is finally beginning to cure my Irritability Disease.  The Nutritionist said my life would miraculously improve in six to eight weeks: could it possibly be true?

It all started this morning when I found in my Inbox a lovely note from Andrew Scrivani, whom readers will know as the muse and mentor for yesterday's sushi gohan studies. He included in his missive a tempting link: upon subsequent clickage, what did I see but my own bowl of brown rice, confident as ever, eyeing me saucily from my hero's website! I admit, the moment was one of the more intoxicating I've experienced in my brief blogging career. Equally thrilling was the discovery that, by way of several more hyperlinks, I could navigate from The New York Times website (via the Diner's Journal blogroll and Making Sunday Sauce) all the way back to yesterday's post. My life was complete.

Moleskine was so proud!

It was with a spring in my step therefore that I sat down with my very early morning cup of coffee to catch up on the DVRd exploits of my favorite pastry cheftestants. My elation continued unabated as the quickfire was announced. The stars were truly aligned: a gluten-free challenge at last! Or as good as, since the remit was to create a box of four chocolates for the great Francois Payard (whose Lexington Ave. patisserie I visited on more than one occasion before its untimely demise). Our four gallant competitors were required to use their life stories as inspiration for their boites, which I thought was quite adorable. It was fun hearing them talk wistfully about their 'golden moments' in one breath then spit venom at the competition with the next. Flour, thankfully, is not a usual ingredient in ganaches and nougatines, although the gluten freedom-fighter must always be on the lookout for unwelcome crispy bits. Danielle failed the challenge miserably, in my book, by adding pretzels to her otherwise blameless chocs - although even that reckless adherence to gluten could not dull my euphoria.

On to the elimination round! This was pretty great, if only because there are so few chefs left these days we must necessarily spend more time looking at, talking about, poking, tasting, and judging their offerings. So we actually heard some useful discussion, which cheered me more than I would have thought possible. Sylvia Weinstock was the guest judge and her owl-like glasses filled me with unutterable joy.

• Morgan produced, with minimum fuss, a very plain cake covered in white buttercream. I was admiring of its Zen simplicity until the judges pointed out the uneven piping and gaps between layers. Morgan, apparently, broke the cardinal rule that 'if it's simple, it must be perfect.' This is just the sort of thing we need to hear about, I think, and I welcomed being able to eavesdrop on some expert criticism. Now I, too, will know what to look for when I examine the birthday cakes at our local supermarket. I can only inspect them visually, of course, but I'm sure the bakery employees will welcome and benefit from my freely-expressed opinions.
• Yigit offered one of his usual complicated, multi-layered, excessive, 'look at me I used to work for Daniel Boulud' creations. It promptly fell apart when he tried to excavate slices for the expectant crowd. Was that a scoop of sorbet unceremoniously dumped on top? Really? And we've seen those artfully scraped chocolate flowers before. Next!
• Danielle's grey-covered cake demonstrated only that she ignored Sally Field's advice in Steel Magnolias. The judges declared the cake delicious but my favorite part was the egg laid by the Pompadour during the judges' tasting, when a description of the icing as 'battleship grey' prompted a free association with Sylvia's sixty-one years of marriage. Oh, Johnny, no you didn't!
• Zac, poor Zac - his cake was one big hot mess. Sadly, his fate was sealed the second he threw caution to the wind and brought out the disco dust and blue food coloring. The judges declared it tasted like cocoa powder and The Owl said it looked like a bar mitzvah cake. More damning censure, I gather, cannot be experienced and survived.

So, I bid Zac a fond adieu and prepared to face my day with a light heart and a song on my lips. Could my delight have been any greater, my exuberance any more annoying to those around me?

There was one final treat in store: the news that Top Chef All Stars debuts in just nineteen days!

Next up: my cup runneth over