Just Desserts, Episode 10: Chia Later!

I feel I must comment on the end of Just Desserts, even though the outcome was predetermined in, like, the third week. As usual, there was an awful lot of gluten on display (coconut cake! chocolate pudding cake! passion fruit cannoli! hazlenut cake!) although I was intrigued by Yigit's presentation of something called 'milk jam', which caused Gail to swoon with joy. Sadly, the recipe on Bravo's website is very strangely written and makes it appear as though the jam was served frozen, which cannot be right. Anyway, it's good-bye to all our crazy pastry cheftestants, the Pompadour, the Shoes, and She Who Isn't Gail. We'll see some of 'em soon, no doubt, on Top Chef All-Stars. I think we've already seen enough of Yigit (or his tatt'ed torso, anyway) to last a lifetime.

Of far more interest to loyal readers, I'm sure, is the news that I produced 100 billion new cells yesterday! Yes, campers, I miraculously regenerated one percent of myself - just like a red-bellied toad or an Alpine newt. By tomorrow I should be feeling 'energized, stronger, smoother (huh?), and younger', having consumed as much magnesium as may be found in 2.25 pounds of broccoli and enough iron to build a battleship.

What precipitated this thaumaturgy, you may ask? It's all thanks to Salvia hispanica (known to the layperson as chia), which I purchased at the supermarket a couple of days ago to replace my delicious, toasted, but tragically gluten-filled flax seeds. The only certified g/f version of chia I could find in the three minutes I allotted for the search is marketed as Anutra and comes to us courtesy of Arnold Palmer, who (if his picture on the container is to be believed) looks very well-preserved indeed, if not positively mummified. The seeds are ground up to resemble the contents of our ash pit at winter's end and taste, I imagine, similarly. Fortunately, once I have buried them under a pile of yoghurt and fruit, I can pretend they're not even there. I am, after all, quite bleary-eyed first thing in the morning and generally do not yet have my reading glasses on. And what is taste, texture, and olfactory appeal when balanced against life eternal?

Anxious to find out more about what I was eating, I made a cup of Earl Grey and settled down for some overdue research. The data unearthed by my inquiry brought to mind Hannibal Lecter's assessment of airline fare:  'It isn't food at all as I understand it.' According to the European Parliament's Regulation (EC) No 258/97, chia seeds are a 'novel food', which means either they do not have a long history of being nibbled by humans or are fabricated using a method not traditionally related to food production. Yikes. This does not fill me with an overabundance of confidence, despite Arnold's assurances that Anutra will induce me to live forever.

Of course, the position that Salvia hispanica is not actually edible is a typically Eurocentric view. Chia (which is an herb in the mint family) was apparently valued by the Aztecs and other pre-Columbian civilizations and given as annual tributes to nobility and religious leaders. Whether they ate it on yoghurt or used it to grow amusing Shrek-shaped topiary is, I'm sad to say, a mystery lost to the ages.

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

Wolf's Lair

It should surprise nobody that I love my Wolf cooker.

Yes, yes - Americans call them stoves. But my Wolf is so much more than a stove!

Quite a lot of my self-esteem is bound up in the behemoth that anchors the west wall of the kitchen - that, indeed, anchors one whole end of the house. If a tornado comes roaring up the street, strewing everything in its path like matchsticks and spreading destruction far and wide, I am confident the Wolf will serve as a beacon for first-responders, firmly planted exactly where it was installed, impervious to driving rains and tempestuous winds. 'All-shaking thunder, strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world!' exhorted King Lear. But he never saw my cooker.

A big comforting stove has always been part of my dream kitchen. In England and Scotland, where we lived for many years, I was envious of friends and rels who owned Agas and Rayburns - not that many did, as these cast iron leviathans are fiendishly expensive and mind-bogglingly impractical for all but the largest flagstone-floored farmhouse kitchens. The really awesome ones are fueled with coal and, since they are always fired up, can double as boilers with which to power the central heating. We briefly looked into the possibility of installing a Rayburn when we bought our first house in a Borders village outside Edinburgh. The plumber came to have a look and shook his head sadly. Not only would we have needed to reinforce the floor to take the weight of even the smallest offering but, given the diminutive size of our kitchen, a second (electric) cooker would have been needed in the summer months to avoid the problem of roasting us while we slept upstairs. So a Cooker That Makes a Statement remained a fantasy and nothing more.

Then we moved to the States and our current house, and belatedly discovered the entire kitchen was one big fire-code violation. Our gas stove, it transpired, was in imminent danger of setting the cabinetry alight. We had several choices: go electric (shudder); lower the floor; raise the cabinets (which would have involved ripping out all the soffits together with the wiring and ductwork concealed inside); or create a horizontal gap between the stove and the cabinets to act as a primitive yet effective fire-break. This was easily the most practical solution and we set to work removing the cabinets and counters from one of the kitchen walls, leaving a six-foot void where the old stove and fridge used to be. The question of how to fill such a tempting space arose not long afterwards.

Around the same time, I experienced the jet-engine power of a Garland industrial range, owned and operated by The Crusading Young Lawyer from the Big City in her domestic kitchen. I knew the time had come and started searching for a cosmic cooker to call my own. Reasoning that I had about forty-eight inches to work with, the choice was easy - a natural gas Wolf range, with four huge burners capable of a whopping 16,000 BTUs each (not quite a jet engine, but enough to keep a twelve-quart pot of pasta water on the boil); an infrared grill (just like in Kitchen Stadium!); a griddle (that doubles as a warming plate for delicate sauces and the like) and two ovens (people no longer have to bring their own ovens over for Christmas dinner, which is what used to happen, I kid you not). My life was changed forever.

Of course, it is possible to eat well off a hotplate or a camping stove. There are incredible chefs out there who work miracles on electric ranges half the size of my beast. We have been to fine restaurants du terroir where the entire kitchen had a footprint only slightly larger than the Wolf possesses all on its lonesome. I am the first to admit the Wolf does not make me a better cook, just a happier one.

What is practicality or necessity compared to a dream come true?

Erratum
Thanks to the sharp-eyed reader who called to my attention a flagrant error in my latest discussion of Just Desserts. It was Yigit, not Morgan, who chose as his inspiration Guy Ritchie and Madonna. Morgan chose Reggie Bush and Kim Kardashian. How could I have got this so wrong, when Moleskine clearly recorded that it was KK's bitterness that prompted Morgan's citrus gelee?

In other macaron-related news, I have two new Best in Show nominations, provided by loyal readers: Laduree in Paris (with outposts in Tokyo, Beirut, and London should one happen to be in the neighbourhood); and - on this continent - Patisserie 46 in Minneapolis (a foodie destination of which I am becoming increasingly - and jealously - aware).

Just Desserts, Episode 8: Meringues and Macarons

I enjoyed this latest offering from the good folks at Bravo, I really did. It might be because, with only five pastry-cheftestants remaining, more screen time was given to the food than the insecurities and tics of the competitors - although there were still plenty of those on display. Did Morgan deliberately destroy Yigit's isomalt vases with a well-timed jerk of his right elbow? Who cares? Yigit is starting to become annoying with his overblown sense of entitlement. At the same time, his emotional fragility (precipitated, apparently, by Heather's untimely aufing for the unforgivable sin of thick and unwieldy pastry bases) brought to mind the phrases 'man up' and 'grow a pair'. I also wished to tell him that it is inappropriate to be 'devastated' when the production crew takes your chocolate away - I think that is a response more suited to the news that you have just contracted a serious case of the Black Death or your house has been invaded by bedbugs.

Conversely, I appreciated Morgan and Zac much more than I generally do. Morgan's look of stupefaction at the idea of a 'celebri-tea' was too endearing to be believed and his subsequent reliance on supermarket magazines for celebrity-couple inspiration struck a chord (although his choice of Guy Ritchie and Madonna was so two-years-ago: he must have picked up some back issues by mistake). Zac stole my heart by choosing Julie Andrews and Blake Edwards, his perfectly proper pairing of Captain Von Trapp Crunch Cake and Pink Panther Pavlovas - dubbed 'a hoot' by She Who Isn't Gail - propelling him to a well-deserved win. Zac may lament his own dorkiness, but I thought he was just swell. What that says about my own dorkiness I leave for others to judge.

Perhaps I enjoyed this episode so much because it took as its central conceit my most favoritest ritual of all time.

I am a tea drinker, in case that hasn't been made clear by my scribblings to date. While it's true I drink two cups of coffee to get going in the morning (generally Ethiopian Yirgacheffe or Sumatra Mandheling at present) and might have a vanilla latte to mark high holy days, the majority of the time it's tea for me. Earl Grey, Lapsang, jasmine, sakura sencha, whatever - I find a good cup of tea restores equilibrium and promotes well-being in a way few legal substances are able to do.

Also, I love the edible bits and pieces that generally accompany tea - although it has been something of a trial in recent weeks to find gluten-free companions for my cuppa. Meringues and macarons are two of the most obvious choices and I am a big fan of both, so I was gratified to see them so prominently represented in this episode. I am compelled to point out, however, that the criticism of Morgan's macaron as 'too large' caused me to laugh uproariously and splash orange pekoe down my front. I happen to know from macarons, both as a fabricator and end-user, and I can say without fear of contradiction that many superior examples of the breed, found in high-end patisseries all over la France, are bigger than hockey pucks.  They are most assuredly not ladylike or dainty. Eating one is akin to eating a cheeseburger - it takes some time and effort, with bits tending to fly everywhere in the process.

The very best macarons in the world come from Dalloyau, near the Bois de Boulogne in Paris. Of their noble offerings, the macaron a la pistache reigns supreme. The pale green meringue bookends for these delicacies are made with pistachios rather than the traditional almonds, and the buttercream novella in the center evokes mysterious Middle Eastern exoticism - A Thousand and One Nights all bound up in a simple teacake. I once carried two back to our home in southern England, a journey that in those pre-Chunnel days involved three different trains and a brisk sea voyage. Even flattened, twelve hours old, and covered with the fluff from my purse, the macarons were a triumph of simultaneous marshmallow and crispy deliciousness.

Which brings me to some exciting news. Next weekend, Toad is coming for a visit and - coincidentally - a marathon macaron-baking session. Fresh supplies of almonds and pistachios have been ordered from my favorite New Jersey nut shop and I am busy supplementing my butter and egg inventory. The sacred text, Hisako Ogita's I Heart Macarons, is at the ready. Flavors are still up for grabs: chocolate meringue with Cointreau-scented buttercream? pistachio meringue with rosewater gelee? coffee and caramel? basil with strawberry jam? The possibilities for these gluten-free gateaux are endless.

I can't wait.

Just Desserts, Episode 7: Ye Olde Gluten Shoppe

According to The Shoes and The Pompadour, Restaurant Wars is the Top Chef episode most anticipated by fans. If they say so, it must be true! Moleskin and I settled ourselves comfortably with a cup of Earl Grey and the usual prurient sense of anticipation, eager to see how the highly-strung and, let’s be honest, mentally-unhinged pastry cheftestants would rise to the challenge, usually so rich with recriminations and under-the-busings. They did pretty well, all things considered, with less bickering and back-stabbing than is customary. The most exciting part, it transpired, was when The Shoes referred to Team Rainbow’s empty display case as a vitrine, cocking her eyebrow ironically as she did so. Moleskine and I always cheer when Gail exhibits her whimsical side.

Maybe drama was lacking because the gang didn’t actually have to open restaurants, but bakery-cafes where the vast majority of the fare was produced beforehand. Having only one cook in the kitchen definitely seems to have its advantages! With so few theatrics to entertain us, and bored with the usual layer cakes, doughnuts  and fried pies (what is it with Morgan and his freaking fried pies?) Moleskine and I were left to consider the ultimate futility of such establishments for gluten-freedom fighters such as ourselves.

The fact is, I have not been out to eat since the dictated-by-the-powers-that-be-anti-gluten-regime was instituted last month. Upon reflection, that’s not strictly true – at various power lunches and breakfasts demanded by my rather unusual employment, I have sipped coffee whilst watching (with some discomfort, it must be said) others gobble pancakes, eggs Benedict, cheesesteak sandwiches, and burgers-with-everything. I have not yet visited an eatery where the term ‘gluten-free’ is likely to be understood, much less catered for: this is a challenge still to come.

Nonetheless, I like to torture myself occasionally by visiting Wegmans' bakery counter to see what I’m missing. I’m continually put out by the casual disregard of us poor g/freers as would-be-customers. Even a well-known local vegan patisserie, famous up and down the East Coast for the amazing deliciousness of its offerings and recommended to me by my pal The Crusading Young Lawyer from the Big City, typically has only one gluten-free offering in its display case (sorry, vitrine). The last time I visited, the single wheatless gateau was obscured by a snowy avalanche of coconut, possibly my least favorite ingredient in the culinary universe. It was one of the more dispiriting experiences of the last several weeks, and devoted readers know there have been many of those.

Is it too much to ask bakeries and cafes to offer up one or two g/f treats as sops to the punters who would like to sit there imbibing something more than coffee? 'I have a dream,' Steve Martin once said, 'Not a big dream, a little dream.' I would like to stop having to carry my own food out to lunch.

Just Desserts, Episode 6: Ode to Le Bernardin

I settled down with the latest installment of Just Desserts with few hopes for anything other than the usual shameless product placement and pastry cheftestant craziness. I was not disappointed in either regard. But did I mind that the quickfire was a bizarre one-pot challenge dreamed up solely to promote our sponsor, some washing-up liquid whose name I can't remember? Did I mind the feeble accusations of sabotage? Did I mind Team Rainbow's ridiculous one-upmanship?

I did not. All this silliness was an nothing when the guest judge entered the Top Chef kitchen, revealing himself to be none other than the great Michael Laiskonis, head creator of dessertful delights at Le Bernardin, Eric Ripert's Manhattan temple to all things fishy.  I admit to ignoring much of what came later on the show itself, as I was deep in reverie, admiring Chef Laiskonis' chiseled bone structure and elegant suit, pondering Le Bernardin's mystical - nay, spiritual - magic. It doesn't matter where I am or how awful my day is going: all I have to do is meditate on one of the many spectacular lunches I have enjoyed there and, Zen-like, I become tranquil and at peace with the world.

What is it about Le Bernardin that fills me with such a sense of well-being?

Well, there's the setting, to start with: beautifully understated decor; gorgeous seasonal flower arrangements; perfect lighting; comfortable chairs; and the most elegant ladies' loo in New York. Not too noisy, not too quiet. If you sit towards the back, the people-watching is superb. DMR and I (my dining companion at Le Bernardin is almost always DMR) once saw a young Japanese guy in torn jeans and a baseball cap drop a cool thousand dollars or so (at lunch! mid-week!) on the tasting menu with wine pairing. We must assume he was a Sony heir - or maybe the sole owner of the rights to Metal Gear Solid. One dishevelled-looking gentleman with a cardboard belt (clearly a regular) could only have been a Greek shipping tycoon. There's the usual masters of the universe, doing deals and rigging the markets over champagne and oysters. And of course, the lucky lady-who-lunches might meet Chef himself (as I once did), resplendent in immaculate whites and flashing that movie star smile. For a couple of gals straight off the Trans-Bridge bus from the rhubarbs, it's divine.

The service is often touted as being 'French', but I have no idea what that means. I've heard complaints that it's cold and stand-offish, but that is a tragic misreading of the situation. True, the waiters emphatically do not introduce themselves or ask you how your day is going - but they are knowledgeable and professional and can answer any question you care to put to them. The service is quiet and understated, subtle and refined. You never have to do anything uncouth like ask for more water or the bill: just cock an eyebrow at the nearest staff member (they're all men, except for one or two of the sommeliers) and your wish will be fulfilled without your having to say a word. Courses are brought with optimum timing: just as you've finished enjoying your starter, had a sip of wine and a bit of conversation, and are thinking, 'Hmmm ... I think I'm ready for my main course' - abracadabra! - it magically appears. To eat at Le Bernardin is to be taken care of. It's heaven.

Did I mention the food? Some might say it's dull or boring, that it doesn't bowl you over with flash or explosive flavours. Again, a foolish misinterpretation. The food is perfection - a  hymn to the freshest ingredients, deceptively simple in its precise presentation, completely modern in its sensibility. Yes, the flavours are subtle: you really have to pay attention to what you're eating. But shouldn't you always? And here's the thing. I always feel really well after a meal at Le Bernardin. Well as in healthy and lively, ready for a brisk walk up 5th Avenue, rather than weighed down and needing a nap. I always assumed it was because, piscatorial as the menu tends to be, there is very little richness or fat in the cooking (Chef Laiskonis' bacon ice cream notwithstanding). But now, I have a different theory. Apart from the odd crouton or petit four, a beautiful meal at Le Bernardin can easily be gluten-free.

The stars are aligned and the heavens happily spinning in their spheres. A meal at Le Bernardin means that all is as it should be. DMR and I have just made a date for lunch in December.

There is No Joy in Soy-ville

Readers are no doubt in a frenzy of anticipation waiting for my weekly discussion of Just Desserts. What can I say after Wednesday's episode? There really doesn't seem to be any point: it was far more Project Runway than Top Chef, with one of the only food-related comments I can recall coming from Pompadour about Eric's 'damn good' cheesecake. The rest was just silliness.

It would be far more profitable (and therapeutic) to discuss my latest crisis, which started on Tuesday when I was contemplating the leftovers from Saturday's gala dinner. What to do with quite tasty, although small and irregularly-shaped, grilled pork-loin bits? A stir-fry! I went to reach for my trusty bottle of naturally-fermented Japanese shoyu to begin preparations and was taken aback to find none in the pantry.

This in and of itself qualifies as An Event. I am never without several bottles of soy sauce, inscrutably labeled in Japanese calligraphy and wrapped in handcrafted rice paper, purchased on my bi-annual trips to Mitsuwa in Edgewater, NJ. Readers may think that my penchant for international food is limited to French pastry - but let me make it clear that if forced to choose my desert island cuisine or what I want for my last meal, I'll go Japanese every time. Mitsuwa, just south of the GW Bridge, is my temple. It's a life-changing Japanese supermarket that has to be seen to be believed: foodies who have not yet made the pilgrimage are urged to do so without delay. In addition to $70 musk melons and authentic wasabi rhizomes (more expensive than caviar) they offer a fine selection of good Californian sushi rice, beautiful fresh fish and beef for sukiyaki, every kind of natto and kamaboko you can imagine, and endless aisles devoted to sake and shochu.

What with one thing or another, my Fall trip has been postponed several times with the tragic outcome that my kitchen shelves are disturbingly low on rice and furikake. And shoyu.

The unfortunate result? I had to go to my local Wegman's and buy supermarket soy sauce to tide me over until my next trip east on Route 80. There I stood in the Asian food aisle. What imp of the perverse caused me to read the labels on all those bottles of Kikkoman and Wegman's own soy sauce? What was I looking for? Maybe it's just habit these days, because soy sauce couldn't possibly have gluten in it, could it?

Wise readers will already have guessed the truth.

I am the last person on the planet to discover that soy sauce is made from wheat.

Sigh. There it was, on every bottle's ingredients list - right after soy beans, right before salt. Every bottle! I felt like I'd been bludgeoned right upside the head by a large sashimi tuna. I ran to the gluten-free aisle, seeing in my mind's eye about 60% of my working-week dinner repertoire scattered to the four winds. After all, what's simpler and more go-to than a nice slice of lean protein, grilled, with some sort of soy-sauce based glaze or sauce? Once again, catastrophe. Nothing labelled gluten-free soy sauce anywhere in the whole freaking place.

I entertained the vain hope that only crass American soy sauce has wheat in it and put in an emergency phone call to Sir, who is still in Tokyo. He agreed to do some research and get back to me. Was there ever a more dispiriting subject line in an e-mail than 'Not Good'? Not in my universe. Sir's Japanese contacts had informed him (rather pityingly, I suspect) that all shoyu is made from wheat: they even taught him the kanji for wheat (komugi, which literally reads 'little barley', interestingly enough) so he could go and harass the shopgirls at the Isetan food hall on my behalf. No joy there either, although Sir reported with great satisfaction that the shop assistants were lithe and lovely and ever-so-helpful.

I did what I always do in these situations and ran to the internet. Several restorative cups of tea later, I had a few answers. Wheat, it turns out, is integral to the brewing of most true soy sauce, which is made by fermenting soy beans and crushed roasted wheat together with salt and water. Tamari, a very old variety, isn't generally made with wheat (it's a product of hacho miso production) but only gaijin use it like soy sauce, as in Japan its overly strong salty flavor is used almost exclusively in Kyoto's kaiseki cuisine. Of the factory-produced soy sauce one buys in five-gallon drums (produced from acid-hydrolized de-fatted soy flour; caramel coloring; and corn syrup) the less said the better.

How was it possible I had not previously heard the news? Well, as I said earlier, the labels on my soy sauce bottles are authentically kanji-fied and thus a mystery to anybody who hasn't attended 6th grade in a Japanese elementary school.  I was pretty sure The Nutritionist had not discussed soy sauce at our meeting, although since The Table went into the circular file after the whisky debacle I was unable to confirm. I went to the admirable cookbook the Diva sent me, which has a whole Asian chapter, to see what it had to say. In its discussion of Asian ingredients, I'm sorry to report it was less than authoritative: 'There are several brands of soy sauce that are certified gluten-free.' Well, that doesn't tell me anything! Just because something isn't certified doesn't mean it isn't gluten-free (viz. the whisky debacle). Plus, a minute's research into international food labelling regulations revealed that, in Japan, the gluten-free certification is virtually unknown. I thought I detected a whiff of double-talk and intentional ambiguity.

I subsequently launched myself headlong into a meta-analysis of internet soy-sauce resources that lasted well into the wee hours. I followed several tantalizing clues, went down many blind alleys, and finally came to a conclusion with which I can live (just as my Excel plot predicted). But that will have to wait for another day.

Next up: I expose a conspiracy perpetrated by fear-mongering American tamari manufacturers.

Just Desserts, Episode 4: Gluten for Punishment

Given the rash of bad behaviour from the pastry cheftestants and gluten's status as a medically-established cause of Irritability Disease, I decided to do a statistical analysis of the latest Just Desserts debacle to determine whether an overdose of gluten could be the cause of our competitors' woes. Dear readers, once you have examined the evidence I'm sure you will agree that the conclusions are incontrovertible.

I based my evaluation on the events surrounding the Breyers All Natural Ice Cream Sundae Quickfire Challenge, as I believe most of the snarkiness (apart from one notable example, to be discussed separately) erupted afterwards. My hypothesis? That gluten in one's frozen desserts can lead to poor decision-making and the sullen grumps. Here's this episode's tally of  who was naughty and who was nice, together with each contestant's respective quickfire ice cream flavor.

Naughty

• Yigit: chocolate chip cookie dough (gluten-rich). Demonstrated appalling judgement by serving the judges a non-Vesuvial dessert.  
• Malika: cookies and cream (gluten-rich). Whined and fussed about who-knows-what, demonstrating a level of self-pity unbecoming in a pastry chef.
• Heather H: vanilla fudge twirl (gluten-free). Just plain embarrassing.

Nice

• Zac: cherry vanilla (gluten-free). Remained calm and composed despite the two crazies with whom he had to work.
• Morgan: mint chocolate chip (gluten-free). Seemed rather nice in this episode, even though I'm not usually a fan. 
• Erika: chocolate (gluten-free). Always classy.
• Danielle: Rocky Road (gluten-free) Didn't make an impression, which (given the variety of unstable personalities on this show) is a good thing. 

We were left with poor Seth, who never got out of the starting gate, and Heather C. who, given a second chance at glory, spent the entire time in a blue funk with a little black rain cloud over her head.  Suspecting that the bad mojo of the unclaimed flavor was the culprit (the gluten doing its damage from afar, as it were) I visited the Breyers All Natural Ice Cream Official Website to see if by process of elimination I could identify the transgressive flavor. It came as no surprise to discover that the most popular variety missing from the challenge - the dreaded and mysterious eighth ice cream - was probably vanilla fudge brownie, a gluten-filled disaster just waiting to happen.

Do we see a pattern here? One hundred percent of nice, even-tempered, reasonable cooks used g/f Breyers to make their sundaes. Seventy-five percent of whiny, difficult, petulant, and crabbed cooks had gluten in their ice cream.

A mere coincidence? I think not!

Next up: I take refuge in the thought that my two favorite Ben & Jerry's flavours, Cherry Garcia and Pistachio Pistachio, are gorgeously, gloriously, gluten-free.

Just Desserts, Episode 3: Irritability, Schmirritability

This week, I was told by two different healthcare professionals that irritability is a disease that can be cured with a gluten-free diet. The first person to offer up this astonishing statement was The Nutritionist, so naturally I dismissed it as a booster's over-enthusiasm. The second instance occurred when I was chatting with my phlebotomist (as one does), who showed me that 'irritability' has an official insurance code in her big fat blood-test book. Since my phlebotomist and I are the best of pals after ten months of quack-mandated exsanguination, I decided to take notice.

The claim required parsing. First of all, I wondered if irritability really could be classed as a disease. Nothing if not thorough, I checked with the Mayo Clinic, the American Medical Association, and WebMD.  None of these esteemed sources agreed that irritability was an ailment in and of itself, but all were adamant that it was a symptom - and of some pretty alarming conditions, too. I convinced myself I had bubonic plague, rhabies, pinworms, and colic before being recalled to my senses by the whistling of the tea kettle. Attentive readers will have noticed I do all my best research whilst waiting for the kettle to boil - I find the anticipation of a good cup of tea concentrates the mind wonderfully.

Having thus decided that irritability is most definitely not a disease, I considered the second assumption - that irritability requires a cure. I am compelled to ask whether a cure is necessary if the patient enjoys her condition. I, for one, obtain no end of pleasure from peevishness and grumbling. Petulance is one of my favorite states of being: indeed, some would say it's my defining characteristic. To paraphrase the philosopher, 'Without choler, I am nothing.' If I am to be cured of my prickliness by a gluten-free diet, that is a good enough reason for me to start eating great slabs of sourdough bread again.

These musings were brought to the fore yesterday, as I watched the latest episode of Just Desserts. The unedifying spectacle of the pastry-cheftestants' bickering and feuding caused me to think that irritability (at least in others) doesn't seem like such a good thing after all. Is it possible that over-consumption of gluten (wedding cakes! peanut butter cookies! brownies! shortcakes!) has caused them all to blow their fuses? Whereas earlier in the series I was alarmed only selfishly by the show's over-abundance of gluten-containing desserts, I am now starting to worry about the contenders' health (Seth particularly, of course - but none of them seems immune from extreme irascibility at present). The Nutritionist said it would take six weeks of gluten-freedom before the magic would start to work and I'd find myself transformed into sweetness and light. I fear it is too late for the chefs of Just Desserts.

Just Desserts, Episode 2: Motherhood and Margaritas

Moleskine and I were under no illusions as we settled down to watch the latest episode of Just Desserts. Last week, most of the pastry cheftestants heedlessly - nay, recklessly - ignored the rich possibilities afforded by gluten-free sweets and created the sorts of tortes and sables I have recently come to regard with deep suspicion and regret. So I suppose it was inevitable that, as gluten-rich batters were stirred, baked and unmolded, my mind would wander and I would find myself contemplating (of all things) motherhood.

This is not such a strange thing in and of itself. Motherhood, for better or worse, has been a recurring theme in art and culture for forever: consider Michelangelo's Pieta, every German folk-tale ever told to scare the crap out of young children, and the Alien movies (especially the second and third ones). It should therefore have been of surprise to no one that Bravo's producers would jump on the bandwagon and choose this deeply complicated and emotional concept as a conceit upon which to build their latest gluten-fest.

Nonetheless, it was pretty bizarre. There was Tim, the self-confessed 'mama' of the house, pouring coffee and making breakfast for everybody (I know the feeling, Tim!).  We learned that Zac's issues with his vegan mom led him to pursue a confectionery career - and a more salutary lesson for would-be vegan care-givers I cannot imagine. Elizabeth Falkner, who would probably be the coolest mom ever, went all nurturing and maternal when called upon to console Seth during one of his many outbursts (see my Pieta reference, above).  As for Seth - well, the relationship he has with his mother will no doubt be grist for innumerable therapy sessions in the decades to come. I hope the other pastry-cheftestants are getting danger money, that's all I'm saying.

On to the competition! The quickfire penny-candy inspiration challenge was kind of funny, in a sickly-sweet sort of way, and I would have thought it ripe for gluten-free creativity. Alas, no. Only Tim, my hero, amassed g/f points for his basil pudding with citrus granita, crowned priapically with an orange lollipop. Zac lost points by asserting that cake-baking (with or without 'cray-moo', one supposes) is the only way that true confectionery skill can be demonstrated to the foolish and shallow judges. Zac is my new villain.

Gluten-veneration continued unabated through the elimination challenge, with more cake (ginger, blueberry, pineapple, cola-spiced and mojito-flavored) than a g/f dessert-lover could comfortably imagine. The episode was not a total loss, thankfully, since several illuminating facts were offered up for our delectation: blue in the pastry world is usually a faux pas; desserts in bowls are Bad Things; pastry chefs feel lost and alone without their recipes; and if you are in the bottom three, you are not the only one (this last concept was elucidated by Seth, who demonstrated that when he is aufed from JD, he can always fall back on a career as a middle-school math teacher).

The Pompadour made his usual vague pronouncements about desserts 'not coming together' and being 'not what he was hoping for', thus earning him a place at the top of Moleskine's list of unsuccessful constructive criticism providers.  Sir, who came rather late to the party, made the invaluable observation that each of the Pompadour's sideburns resembled a relief map of Italy, although the boot on the right side of his head was kicking eastwards towards Albania rather than westwards towards Sicily, as is geographically customary.

So it was good-bye to dear Tim, who made a curdled and soupy (albeit gluten-free) pudding, and congratulations to Erika, whose Margarita bombe won props from the judges for its clear tequila sauce and beautiful layers (easily discerned because she miscounted and had to serve her dessert in halves). It did look lovely - except, of course, for its pastry base.

Next week: A bake sale challenge! Will the heartbreak never end?

Erratum: many thanks to the sharp-eyed reader who pointed out that Tim's lollipop was planted in an orange and pistachio parfait, and not a basil pudding as previously reported. The pudding was his elimination dessert, and thus lollipop-free. Fractured Amy apologizes for this egregious error and assures the public she is putting systems in place to ensure such an incident is not repeated.

Just Desserts, Episode 1: Gluten Gluttony!

I am a keen appreciator of cakes and pastries of all kinds and have been known to skip the entree to leave room for dessert. I will drive for miles to find cake shops and bakeries rumoured to elevate the art (in my part of the world, this can be a very long drive indeed). Paris is my dream destination, where patisseries replete with chaussons, Gateaux Opera, Jesuites, and jalousies can be found on every boulevard. It would therefore be difficult to over-emphasize the degree to which I had anticipated Bravo's new cooking competition, Just Desserts. What could be more fabulous than pastry chefs creating nothing but sweet courses, each more ambitious and glorious than the last? This show was made for me and I impatiently awaited its debut.

Then (cue ominous music), less than two weeks before JD-Day, came the order from On High: no more gluten. None. Outlawed.

Disaster.

So it was with great fear and trepidation that I sat down with my new square-paged Moleskine notebook (creativity and inspiration guaranteed!) to record details of the pastry-cheftestants' opening salvos. I still had reason for optimism. 'There's lots they can do,' I thought naively. 'Souffles. Mousses. Nougatines. I mean, they don't need to use flour all the time, right?'

Of course, I was not taking into account the sadistic streaks in our judges, the luscious Gail (what on earth was she wearing on her feet?) and Johnny 'Pompadour' Iuzzini (I have his cookbook right here: it's called Fourplay - what a naughty, naughty boy!). The quickfire twist? Take a signature dessert and turn it into a freaking cupcake! I think cupcakes are silly at the best of times, but this was just salt in my wounds. Perfectly blameless dishes ruined by the gluten imperative: Tania's mesquite-scented cupcake (smoked gluten); Seth's basil cupcake (herbaceous gluten); Morgan's weird puffy chocolate thing (souffleed gluten). It was all too much to bear: my pen ran out of ink as I logged the roster of disappointments. Only Tim (dear, brave Tim) stuck to his guns and produced a gluten-free cupcake-shaped pistachio semi-freddo - and for his insolence was resoundingly bitch-slapped by the Pompadour. I sighed sadly and watched the devastation unfold.

The elimination challenge was no better. Beautiful mousses and flourless genoises unceremoniously dumped on top of useless pastry bases. Flans and cremeaux needlessly accompanied by fried pies (huh?) and sponges. And what was with all the unapologetic brownies and whoopie pies? It was enough to make a gluten-free dessertophile weep, and I did - the tears staining my lovely new Moleskine notebook.

Will I continue to watch Just Desserts? As a moth is drawn to the flame. There are too many delights in store to deny myself. When will the GE Monogram appliances go phoom? At whom will Zac (mistress of the bon mots) direct his venom - and will he continue to blow fairy dust all over his confections? Who will be the first to use the anti-griddle? How, in future episodes, will Danielle choose to mark her territory? (not like my Siamese cat, I hope). My early prediction for the final three: Seth (who will certainly win the bleepometer award, even if he doesn't walk away with the main prize); Heather H. (who seems pretty bad-ass, actually); and Yigit (because he worked for Daniel Boulud and I think his name is groovy). And who knows - maybe there is a gluten-free challenge still to come. My notebook and I await future developments with delicious anticipation.