Third Time Not Always a Charm, Study Shows

At well over 6 feet tall our friend Alvaro is long, lean and always hungry.  On his recent visit we cooked up Basque style clams, Murcian paella and even a semi-homemade verision of Mexican mole, but what he really had a craving for was chocolate cake. I taught him the expression "twist my arm" and after a quick check he confirmed we had cocoa powder on hand.  The only remaining necessity for our weekend project was something to actually bake it in.

We headed to the neighborhood discount store and made our way through rows of fake plants and knock off cosmetics to assess the kitchen aisle. After debating the merits of square versus rectangular cookware Alvaro suggested we just get one of each, but on 5€ a day I had my sights set on a vessel with high multi-purposing potential, and the rectangle it was.  Having gone Dutch at the register we walked out as proud joint-owners of our shiny new pan and spent the walk home dreaming up all the loaf-shaped delicacies we could now create.

In the end our schedules clashed and Alvaro had to head home before we even had a chance to scrape off the gluey label, but I knew he'd want me to go on without him. That weekend my friend Marina invited me to have lunch at her place ("oh, Yolanda's gone for the day? And you were just going to eat alone? No, no be here at 2:30.") and I didn't have much time, but I decided it was plenty to whip up our chocolate cake ingredients for a nice contribution to the meal.

Before he left town, Alvaro and I had come across a  recipe that used yogurt instead of buttermilk, cocoa powder in the batter and baking chocolate in the icing. At the time I figured it would be a snap to find again later.  Instead, the minutes ticked away as I tried to hunt it down on the World Wide Web with only exceedingly generic search terms to aid me. By the time I came across it I was officially in a rush, and then realized that when Alvaro had assured me there was cocoa powder in the cupboard he actually meant an abundant supply of Nesquik. I guessed at adjusted quantities of flour and sugar to offset the added thickeners and sweeteners in the drink mix and to my relief the resulting batter wasn't half bad.  I figured I had a fighting chance at a respectable cake but still had to change out of my pajamas, so without ceremony I set the pan off on its maiden journey in the oven and ran upstairs.

Soon I was back in the kitchen to start on the icing but amongst the packages of boquerones and cans of Asturian partridge stew in the drawers there was no powdered sugar to be found.  Then it was only after I had mixed a heap of the crystalized variety with cream that I realized the chocolate we had was all wrong for the job.  While the packaging featured a sepia-toned, abuela-at-the-stove motif and displayed the word "cooking" prominently on the label, it turned out to be a far cry from the bitter "baking" variety I thought it was.  Despite its culinary designation and higher price tag, the only unique thing about this heavily sweetened bar was that each square had been imprinted with its weight for easy measuring.  As I noticed the time, that just meant I knew exactly how many 10 gram units to begin cursing silently.

I reduced the quantitiy of chocolate in an attempt to avoid overwhelming sugar levels, but that still turned out a bubbling pot of glossy sauce that was too cloying even for me.  Like a cocoa-scented quicksand, the more I struggled against it, the worse it became. I threw in a fistful of bite-sized dark chocolate pieces from our candy stash but that left me with a pile of wrappers and a now even larger volume of inedible icing.  I remembered an old Cook's Illustrated tip employing espresso powder to boost chocolate flavor but the stale Nescafé in the cupboard just turned things dusty and bitter.  (I knew the Cook's recipes always bloomed the powder in hot water first, but with time running short I had sprinkled, and then poured, the grains directly into the mix.)

Once I found myself dousing the pot with more cream and stirring in extra salt, I knew resistance was futile.  For the first time since arriving in Spain I decided to cut my losses and admit defeat.  Telling myself I'd done everything I could, I tried to look away as I poured the entire batch down the drain.  At least I could still walk out the door on time with a nicely crescendoed cake and half a jar of raspberry jam that I planned to pass off as a traditional accompaniment.  Or so I thought, until I stuck in a fork in the middle to confirm it was done and rather than pulling up a clean set of tines actually dislodged a sizeable mound of underbaked crumbs.  I could almost hear David Attenborough narrating the scene as I recalled an image from high school science class-an enterprising chimpanzee showing off his simple tool skills by lifting a substantial snack out of an ant hill by way of a stick. But while I remember that chimp looking positively delighted with himself, I was at a loss. I called Marina and told her I'd be late.

Twenty minutes later I knew the cake still wasn't done but going into double overtime was not a viable option. When I finally arrived Marina and her roommate were very hungry and very enthusiastic about the promise of a rich, chocolatey dessert.   Marina's cocido and bacalao croquetas would be a tough act to follow under any circumstance and I found myself having second helpings of everything-partly because it was all so delicious, partly to stave off dessert for as long as possible.

When they started clearing plates from around me I knew there was no more stalling and approached the counter.  As I cut the first piece I realized that the consistency was closer to a steamed pudding than an actual cake and a nibble confirmed that a tasty batter is not a reliable indicator of final results.  As I weighed my options (serving the cake while attempting self-deprecation en Español, staging an unfortunate accident involving the garbage disposal) Marina walked by, pointed at the thin slice I was contemplating on the plate and said "esto es muy poco, no?" In her eyes I was just being a tease if I thought such meager rations would satisfy a chocolate craving that had been mounting over the duration of the two hour meal.  I then noticed she didn't actually have a garbage disposal and decided that if I couldn't dispose of the cake I wanted to finish it up as quickly as possible. I portioned out hearty helpings and as everyone took their first bite I smothered my piece with raspberry jam in an attempt to assure them it wouldn't hurt my pride if they did the same.  After looking at each other they smiled graciously, and promptly followed suit.

A couple weeks later I heard about an international crowd that got together for potlucks and it seemed like an excellent excuse to try out a recipe from a new Murcian cookbook I had found at the library.  My budget was already spent for the day so I chose a recipe that wouldn't necessitate a trip to the store. I landed on simple sweet buns topped with sugar and nuts called Toñas and everything was going along just fine until I followed the instructions for the quantity of water to add and found myself  stirring a large bowl of whitewash rather than dough.

With 300 grams of flour and half a kilo of sugar already invested, there was no turning back. So I did what any sensible person with no knowledge of baking science would do.  I started dumping in more flour straight from the bag.  Several heavy-handed shakes later it was still nowhere near the consistency I'd need to bake up free form buns, so I reframed the situation as a great chance to use the loaf pan again and poured the lot inside.  Again, the lofty top crackled with promise and again, after excessive amounts of time in the oven, it had still not cooked through.  Unwilling to wait any longer I opted for a makeshift filling of chopped nuts and the remaining raspberry preserves in hopes of providing a distracting counterpoint to the dense, pasty cake. When I brought out the sweetened dough brick that night, people cut off polite slivers to taste and one girl commented "Oh, there's jam..and almonds..in the middle..I've never seen that before,"  her feeble smile suggesting she now she understood why.

I decided to relegate the loaf pan to savory status after it produced a solid Pastel de Zarangollo, but the siren song of quick breads lured me back and less than a week later I found myself purchasing over-ripened Canary Island bananas from the reject pile at the market to make another sweet for the next International  meet-up.  I had found a simple recipe using yogurt in the mix and then employing the empty container as the unit of measurement for all other ingredients meaning I couldn't botch things up by adding too much or too little.  Finally I had proportions on my side, I was using Spanish fruit famous for its flavor and my cooking vessel was a now-seasoned veteran.  This all led to a full fledged daydream starring myself in a soft-focus cake-baking montage and I imagined whipping up the fool-proof recipe at a moment's notice for people who invited me over to learn the secrets to perfect paella or tortilla Española.  Would I know the steps by heart and have a trusty yogurt cup on hand with its squared edges already cut off for easy scooping? Of course!  Could I tie the cake up with a decorative bow or attach a little note on craft paper? Sure! Should I consider buying blackened bananas in bulk? Why not!

My fantasy came to a swift end with the ring of my kitchen timer. Yet another well-baked facade masking a nearly liquid core.  When it was finally done I just stood there staring at the loaf pan, wracking my brain for an explanation and envisioning good-cop/bad-cop scenarios where the latter slams their fist on the table and barks "dammit man, I want answers!" I may have done the same if Yolanda hadn't been sleeping upstairs.  I pulled myself together and decided that I'd whip this sorry excuse for banana bread into at least a moderately desirable dessert, no matter how long it took me.

Midnight came and went as I finished shaving off the now overly hardened exterior and the last shard fell to reveal an anemic looking slab within.  I roasted the rest of the bananas (originally bought in the vain hope that the recipe would be so fail-safe I could bang out two in a row and give away the second), then mashed the result for a creamy filling.  There, somewhere in the early hours of the morning, I was making progress.  I cued up a CD of Flamenco music, set in on the lowest volume possible, and decided this cake wasn't so bad after all.  In homage to the icing flop weeks before I melted a couple pieces of dark chocolate for a topping that would see the light of day but knew there was still something missing.  Taking a cue from my mother the chocolatier, I remembered that there's nothing like a decorative garnish positioned on the bias to really bring a confection together.  On went sliced walnuts, and with that I was done.

The final yield was hardly enough for the number of people who showed up to the gathering, but it turns out that tupperwares full of potatoes mashed with garlicky vinaigrette and puff pastry layered with jamón and queso are much more popular than ersatz petit fours.  At least my container was empty when I left, and it only took a few tries to successfully hawk the last piece on an unassuming French Erasmus student.

Yes, I admit the sample size is small, but empirical evidence clearly shows that while my baking competency remains at an all time low, at least my dessert-pushing skills are showing steady signs improvement.