Pastry Bitch

I’m not entirely sure how it happened, but over the course of the past few years I’ve found myself spending more and more time standing in front of huge bins of flour and sugar. I once fancied myself a completely one-dimensional meat cook, completely unwilling to step outside of the delicious and savoury box that surrounded me. So when I was told that I was next in line to be the next pastry person (they say bitch, I say person), I was a little bit nervous. It was like being taken out of hockey, only to be placed directly in a figure skating class. So long helmet and pads, hello leotards! Good-bye expensive Japanese knives, greetings whisk!

Despite considering myself to be “the cook least likely to…”, I am now found fussing over doughs and chocolate five days a week. I’m shaky by nature, so to be put in a position where it is extremely important not to shake has been a bit of a shock to my system. To carry a tray of anything in a bain marie from a counter to an oven is to know true fear. One false move and you’re starting from scratch; a custard isn’t a custard if you’ve spilt water into it. Besides the seemingly impossible requirement of stability, I’ve also had to smooth out my previously rough edges. I’m not used to working closely with rulers and spatulas, squaring corners and weighing my ingredients. I am, however, adjusting to it in a goddamned hurry. You can’t bake like a cook, and this is why so few cooks can bake. There is zero room for messing about with the recipes and procedures. One of the most valuable lessons a cook learns is that he can reverse almost any disaster. A pastry cook is rarely afforded that luxury, and instead must turn all mistakes into some kind of ice cream. A few weeks ago, for instance, I destroyed a batch of maple flans. After some tweaking, it became a delicious gelato that I lovingly refer to as “maple fuck up”.

I’m not what you imagine when you think about the person who meticulously crafted the delicate finale to your meal. No floppy chefs hat, nor checkered trousers, not even a fancy little scarf around my neck. Instead I’m beardy, tired looking, and a dead ringer for Paul Bunyan’s runt of a brother. It has become increasingly rare to find a proper pastry chef in restaurant kitchens; it seems that their kind have gone the way of the dinosaur, their clogs left to be filled by line cooks that swing both ways. This, I suppose, is how someone like me ends up in such a position. I’m told that I’m diversifying, but it mostly just feels strange. A transformation is taking place. I don’t cut myself anymore, and haven’t suffered a burn for a while. My hands and arms are looking “normal”, and are no longer candidates for receiving worried glances from strangers. It’s a welcome change not to have salt and pepper perpetually beneath my fingernails; they actually look clean, because they are. Maybe this pastry thing isn’t so bad after all.

Your Friendly Neighbourhood Pastry Person | Jacob Galbraith