Early in my baking education, I bought a tinned-metal plaque with a dozen shell-shaped indentations. It was an indulgent purchase, since the pan was designed expressly to make just one pastry, a madeleine, a sweet I had not only never baked but one I hadn’t even tasted. Over the years, I’ve accumulated a stack of madeleine pans; the original plaque shares cupboard space with nonstick, silicone and mini-madeleine pans too. They’ve all seen plenty of use, but never more than recently: Since September, when I met Cédric Grolet, I’ve made, I think, at least 200 of the little teacakes. Come for dinner, and the odds are good that the last morsel I’ll serve you will be a madeleine. A perfect madeleine.
Grolet, named Best Pastry Chef in the World last year by the World’s 50 Best Restaurants group, is almost as well known for his smile, playfulness and stylized tattoos as he is for the stunning desserts he creates for Le Meurice hotel in Paris, where we met. The day before, I went to his patisserie around the corner from the hotel — he has since opened a large shop on the nearby Avenue de l’Opéra — and bought a few of his specialties, many of which are finished only when you order them, as they would be in a restaurant, so that all the elements that are meant to be crackly or chewy or warm or cool have a fighting chance of being just that when you settle down to eat them.
Among my stash was a pair of Grolet’s fruits, a lemon and a fig. Like the 34-year-old chef’s million and a half other followers on Instagram, I knew that when I cut them, their trompe l’oeil shells would break with a crisp snap, and there’d be a layer of cream and a tumble of fruit — cooked and jammed — sliced in different sizes, offering different textures. The Fabergé-like pastries, each tasting essentially like the fruits that inspired them, reminded me of those Russian dolls that reveal something new as each layer is lifted.
When I asked him about that cascade of flavors, Grolet said, completely without artifice, “I’m a pastry chef, good is easy for me.” And then he added that what he wanted was for his desserts to déranger, to astound people. I’d experienced how his intricate pastries could disorient, but I wondered if there were rules of dérangement for a home baker like me. As he talked about his work, I made mental notes about simplicity: Grolet uses the word “simple” to describe even his most complex desserts; about focusing on a single flavor — remarkably, each of his pastries is built on one flavor; about concentrating on ingredients, taste and texture and letting these, rather than extraneous decorations, make a dessert beautiful. It was when Grolet asked if I’d tasted his madeleines that I knew he’d found a way for me to understand the principles that guide him. And that’s how I went home committed to madeleines, simplicity and dérangement.
Madeleines are simple in every way, but one batch can be a master class in baking. For starters, a madeleine has a specific look. You get the lovely ribbed-shell shape with no effort — the pan dictates the form. But the cake must be golden brown, and the shell side should have a light crust — generously buttering the pan and dusting the interior with flour gives you the crustiness. Then there’s the characteristic bump, the counterbalance to the roly-poly shell. The bump can be a hillock or an Everest; it depends on the recipe (this one has baking powder and the power to bump high) and something called oven spring: get the batter really cold; get the oven really hot; get a big bump.
In general, the flavor of madeleines is mild, and that’s true of the Earl Grey madeleines that I’ve been perfecting. Their seductive flavor — and their aroma — depend on a quartet of complementary ingredients: Earl Grey tea (if you use a fine-quality loose tea rather than the powdery leaves from a bag, you’ll have better flavor); citrus zest — Grolet uses bergamot, the fruit that gives Earl Grey tea its distinctive flavor, but it can be hard to find, so Meyer lemons or a lemon and a clementine can stand in; honey; and browned butter. In French, brown butter is called beurre noisette, hazelnut butter, and it’s a good name to remember as you melt and color the butter for the madeleines. The butter is fundamental to the flavor, and so you must cook it until it is unequivocally brown and until you catch the whiff of hazelnuts. It will have dark specks — they’re meant to be there, and they’re delicious.
Madeleines are essentially spongecakes, génoises to be specific, and the key to obtaining a sublime sponge is patience and precision. It’s most important that none of the ingredients be cold: the eggs must be room temperature and the butter-honey mixture and the milk must be warm. Think cozy equilibrium. The fact that the butter is stirred into the batter at the end is unusual, but vital. Trust tradition here. Also trust that the texture of your madeleines will be better — and the bump bigger — if you give the batter a long rest in the refrigerator and use it when it’s cold. Chilling the batter is convenient, too; with batter in the fridge, it’s possible to make just a couple or an entire batch of madeleines in minutes and to serve them warm.
And warm is key. The fragrance is most present, the texture is most supple and the pleasures are most pronounced when the madeleines are freshly baked. Grolet serves his teacakes within five minutes of their coming from the oven. And I do, too. Like his, my simple, toasty, brown madeleines are now a quiet dérangement.
