Vintage by David Baker

Author:David Baker
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Touchstone

FIFTEEN

* * *

Plum Cake

Phlaumenkuchen is a dish that understands its role. To those used to rich desserts that scream for attention, this German plum tart might seem out of balance . . . a tad too acidic, a bit dry, not enough refined sugar. But then the phlaumenkuchen has no desire to upstage the moment, and it is happy to accompany a coffee, or a touch of brandy, a glass of eiswein, not to mention casual conversation. It is a facilitator. A reason to visit Grandmother. An excuse to meet with a former lover for whom you still have feelings. To understand this is to realize the true understated glory of this humble cake.

—BRUNO TANNENBAUM, TWENTY RECIPES FOR LOVE

“Bruno! There’s my favorite poet!” Marcy rushed him, engulfing him in a plush, sweaty hug. She was a thickset woman with a pink, expressive face, freckles and a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. She held Bruno at arm’s length, sizing him up. “Let’s have a look at you, then.” She hooked her fingers in his belt with a mixture of alarm and disgust. “You’ve lost a few kilograms, what? Let’s get a meal in you, and quickly!”

Marcy shouted to her waiter for a table and the day’s menu. She disappeared into the kitchen, barking orders in her heavily accented French, and then emerged again to join Bruno with a plate of charcuterie and a bottle of local Pinot Blanc.

Marcy Cooper was an English expat, chef and owner of Petit Écureuil, a tiny bistro on the Rue des Tonneliers (there seems to be a “Barrelmaker Street” in every wine town) in Strasbourg, where Bruno was completing his tour of Alsace before moving on. She’d been a good friend since he’d first eaten there during a brief stint as an inspector for the Michelin Guide, a gig that didn’t last long since giving Bruno a limitless expense account was like teaching a toddler to use matches.

“Tell me your troubles,” Marcy commanded, leaning on her elbows while the waiter brought out bowls of her traditional cabbage soup, which featured slabs of bacon and salted pork, thinly sliced apples and Munster Alsacienne cheese. It had legendary restorative powers, which Bruno needed after a detour of several days on the Alsatian wine road, and it smelled like a farmhouse kitchen.

As Bruno unfurled his story, Marcy listened intently, her eyes flickering. She furrowed her brow and patted his shoulder when he described the implosion of his marriage (Marcy had been through a number of her own) and she refilled and clinked glasses when he talked about the Trevallier, somehow ending with Claire’s intention of following in his culinary footsteps. Marcy cracked her knuckles, a tattoo of a bulb of garlic on the underside of her wrist poking out of her chef’s whites. “Good for Claire! We need more strong girls in this business. I’ll give her a personal recommendation to LBC London. She can come work for me and I’ll teach her a thing or two.”

She shouted for

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