Good Cook (26 page)

In my opinion, ice creams are not ice creams unless manually or electrically processed until churned to that correct, very smooth “cream.” The suggestion of occasionally whisking about a bit, breaking down the ice crystals every half an hour or so, is as far away from the nomenclature “ice cream” as it is possible to think. If you like homemade ice cream as much as do I, then having a good machine in the kitchen—albeit an expensive outlay—will, I promise you, be a worthwhile investment.

The following recipe may, initially, appear to be completely bonkers, especially if you regularly make ice cream using a custard base, i.e. egg yolks, milk, cream, sugar and vanilla. That which you are about to read, however, is, as far as I am led to believe, the basis for almost all Italian gelati. What is truly astonishing, of course, is the very ease of making this ice cream. Although this particular one is flavored with coffee, it could be as basic a vanilla ice cream as you would want it to be; just omit the coffee and its infusion, and up the vanilla. Liquid glucose is to be found in the baking section of almost all supermarkets.

Note: do not be tempted to grind the coffee beans for this particular recipe, for it is the pale color and delicate flavor from whole beans which give it its charm.

Put the coffee beans into a pan and pour over the milk and cream. Bring up to a simmer, then stir in the other ingredients using a stout whisk and vigorously, if you like—to promote flavor from the coffee beans, further bruising them towards the liquid, for maximum flavor. Remove from the heat and leave to cool. Pour into a plastic, securely lidded container, place in the fridge and leave to infuse overnight.

I like to shake the container as a maraca, occasionally, to entice the finest coffee flavor into the mixture.

The next day, strain the liquid from the beans and churn, in an ice cream machine, according to the manufacturer’s instructions.

I once had a very interesting conversation over dinner with a fellow chef (we had only just met, but I instantly liked him enormously), who had just cooked dinner for me and some colleagues. To be truthful, the conversation ended up being quite a vociferous exchange of opinions. To some it may have sounded petty, the point I was trying to make, but it concerned restraint where this little wobble of a dessert was concerned.

Chris had chosen to accompany his truly perfect crème caramel (caramel custard) with a “tuile,” a thin, French-style biscuit sometimes also called, as a smaller version, a “langue de chat” (cat’s tongue). Now then, when this custard emerged as flawless as did his offering, I could see absolutely no point in adding anything else to it at all. I think I may have said, “It simply gets in the way, even if you chose not to eat it!” And he may have countered, quite rightly, “Well don’t, then!” I then replied, “Ah, but you see, someone who may never have eaten something so good, so impeccably made, so smooth and creamy as yours, might be fooled into thinking that a crunch on a biscuit will improve it.” It won’t. Believe me. Just leave it alone. And
please
eat with a teaspoon.

Note: you will need 4 large molds (or ramekins) of approx. 6 oz.

Put the granulated sugar into a solid-based saucepan and add 3–4 tablespoons of water. Bring to a simmer and cook slowly until the sugar has turned to a richly colored caramel; take care during the final stages, so as not to burn it. Pour into the base of the molds (or ramekins), dividing the caramel between them. Leave to cool.

Preheat the oven to 300°F.

Put the orange zest, milk and superfine sugar into a stainless steel saucepan and warm together, occasionally stirring, until just below simmering point. Switch off the heat, cover with a lid and leave to infuse for at least 1 hour. Put the eggs and yolks into a roomy bowl, beat together lightly and then strain over the orange-infused milk. Gently beat together, but not vigorously; the last thing you want is for too much froth to form on the surface. Ladle the mixture into the caramel-lined molds and fill to the brim. Place them in a deep roasting pan and fill with tap-hot water, so that it rises about three-quarters of the way up the outside of the molds. Carefully slide the pan into the oven and loosely lay a sheet of kitchen foil flat over the surface of the molds, but don’t secure it down. Bake in the oven for about 40–45 minutes, until the custards are just set—lightly press a finger on the surface, or give them a little shake; they should gently wobble.

Remove from the oven, take out of the roasting pan and leave to cool. When quite cold, cover each mold with a small sheet of plastic wrap and put into the fridge for at least 2 hours. To unmold, run a small knife around the edge of each custard and up-end on to individual, shallow dishes. The caramel will surround the custards, with the top of each one sporting a pretty, golden tan. Eat with teaspoons, nice and slowly.

This little pot of rich chocolate is an old favorite of mine—and, blessedly, also enjoyed by many others. This time, however, its outing here has been embellished by a touch of ginger. The inspiration was to quietly catch a similar moment of biting into ginger chocolate.

Preheat the oven to 275°F.

Warm the cream with the vanilla pod, whisk for a moment to disperse the seeds, then cover and leave to infuse for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, quietly melt the chocolate in the milk. Beat the egg yolks, confectioners’ sugar and ground ginger together until fluffy, then incorporate the chocolate/milk mixture and vanilla-infused cream and blend together thoroughly. Pass through a fine sieve into a jug.

Place the chopped ginger and a little ginger syrup in the bottom of 6 ramekins or small porcelain pots, then pour in the chocolate mixture from the jug until each pot is almost full. Put them into a deep roasting pan and pour in enough tap-hot water to come at least two-thirds up the side of the pots. Bake for 45–60 minutes, or until slightly puffed up and spongy to the touch of a finger. Remove from the oven, allow to cool for a few moments, then lift the pots from the water on to a clean tray. Refrigerate for at least 6 hours before serving. If you wish, eat with a little ice-cold cream poured into each pot.

With a recipe that involves only two ingredients, there might not seem much to say when attempting to explain the beauty of this icy-cold crystal mass of frozen coffee; well, there, I’ve said it. Ironically, of course, that which I explained with reference to the making of a smooth Italian gelato (see Coffee Ice Cream on
page 299
) is exactly what is not wanted, here. A fork is always the best utensil for forming granita crystals, so don’t be tempted to use a whisk, which will make too fine a texture. Also, regular visits to the freezer to quietly coax the crystals from the liquid are important steps (cook a nicely involved stew, or something similar, at the same time, so keeping kitchen attendance levels high); allowing the liquid to freeze to a block, then scraping away at it, will result in a fine powder, not the exquisite crystals which are the delight of a great granita.

Put a shallow metal tray (about 1 quart capacity) into the freezer before you do anything else.

Stir the sugar into the coffee. Allow to become completely cold. Pour into the chilled tray and place in the freezer. Leave in there for about 40 minutes. Have a look and if there are any ice crystals forming around the edge, gently bring them into the liquid center using a fork; if not, leave for a little longer before returning to the scene. Have another look again in about 20 minutes and repeat this forking about business. Keep doing this until the entire mixture is a mass of coffee crystals with no remaining liquid parts. Once this has been achieved, tip the granita into a plastic, lidded container and store in the freezer until needed. Serve in pre-chilled glasses with whipped cream (see Small Meringues with Whipped Cream,
page 309
).