her mother, “Ravenna is really more interested in going shopping, so she’s going to give us a call when she’s ready.”
“Ready to milk the guilt money.”
“Mother, please. Could we go one day without the sniping?”
Gracie thinks for a moment and then says, “I can’t make any promises.”
“Ah! Here’s our host now!” I’m relieved to see my pal, the executive pastry chef, making his way over to us.
Charlie Romano is a brown-eyed, handsome man with a sweep of dark hair, sheeny olive skin and an Italian accent, which Gracie at least seems to appreciate. She takes his arm as he leads us away from the lobby, through a side door and down into the wonderland that is the Waldorf Astoria’s kitchen.
Or should I say “kitchens”? The food preparation area spans an entire city block. It’s almost like a culinary department store down here—avant-garde reception party nibbles prepared here, sixteen-dollar soups
du jour
over in the West Wing . . .
“You know the Waldorf Salad originated here?” Charlie chirps.
“The clue is in the name,” Gracie tinkles.
“Also Thousand Island dressing.”
“And the Manhattan cocktail!” I chime in.
“And Red Velvet Cake . . .” Pamela’s eyes widen as Charlie opens the doors to the chilled baking department.
“It’s so spacious,” she coos as she enters. “And immaculate.”
She’s right. There’s not a sprinkle or crumb out of place. Just acres of marble countertop and a fleet of stainless steel stacking trays on wheels.
Charlie has already set out all the ingredients, including, rather surprisingly, beetroot!
“We don’t use any dyes or colorings,” Charlie explains. “The beetroot gives the basic chocolate cake batter a red hue, plus beetroot is great for keeping the cake moist.”
Pamela nods in agreement as she takes in the mascarpone cheese and double cream that will make up the filling, as well as the thick layer of “icing” that will cloak the entire cake. This is going to be delish!
“Have you ever tasted pure cocoa before, Laurie?” Charlie asks, directing my attention to a small glass bowl of what appear to be dusty dark chocolate buttons.
“I don’t think so,” I frown.
“In that case, the answer is no,” Pamela laughs. “If you had, you’d remember.”
“Try one,” Charlie holds out the stash. “These pieces are ninety-nine percent pure chocolate.”
How can that be bad? I pop one in my mouth.
Almost immediately my tongue is encased in bitterness. Oh my god!
They all laugh as my face contorts and I try to shift the powder-dense coating.
“Some water?” He offers me a glass.
“Yes please!” I wince, then watch as he empties the rest of the buttons into a metal bowl set over a saucepan of boiling water and gently melts them to a sheeny sludge.
“It tastes better combined with other ingredients.”
From this point he starts juggling assorted bowls, mixers and baking tins. As he does so, I recall one (possibly apocryphal) story that tells of a woman, back in the 1940s when the Red Velvet Cake was first introduced, writing to the hotel requesting the chef’s secret recipe. The hotel obliged by mailing her a copy, along with a bill for $350! She consulted her lawyer who said she was liable for the cost and so, by way of revenge, she distributed the recipe far and wide, to every friend and family member, which actually served in spreading the popularity of said cake.
“Excuse me a moment.” As Charlie steps away to check on the oven, Pamela’s phone rings.
“It’s Ravenna.” Her face falls. “She’s ready to go shopping.”
“Do you think she needs an escort?” I ask, a little bemused.
“Oh, would you? I’d be so grateful! I really don’t think she should be left unattended at the moment.”
Ah. I’ve just inadvertently talked myself out of an up-close-and-personal encounter with my favorite cake.
“Of course,” I tell her, though my heart has just collapsed in the middle.
“Ready to milk the guilt money.”
“Mother, please. Could we go one day without the sniping?”
Gracie thinks for a moment and then says, “I can’t make any promises.”
“Ah! Here’s our host now!” I’m relieved to see my pal, the executive pastry chef, making his way over to us.
Charlie Romano is a brown-eyed, handsome man with a sweep of dark hair, sheeny olive skin and an Italian accent, which Gracie at least seems to appreciate. She takes his arm as he leads us away from the lobby, through a side door and down into the wonderland that is the Waldorf Astoria’s kitchen.
Or should I say “kitchens”? The food preparation area spans an entire city block. It’s almost like a culinary department store down here—avant-garde reception party nibbles prepared here, sixteen-dollar soups
du jour
over in the West Wing . . .
“You know the Waldorf Salad originated here?” Charlie chirps.
“The clue is in the name,” Gracie tinkles.
“Also Thousand Island dressing.”
“And the Manhattan cocktail!” I chime in.
“And Red Velvet Cake . . .” Pamela’s eyes widen as Charlie opens the doors to the chilled baking department.
“It’s so spacious,” she coos as she enters. “And immaculate.”
She’s right. There’s not a sprinkle or crumb out of place. Just acres of marble countertop and a fleet of stainless steel stacking trays on wheels.
Charlie has already set out all the ingredients, including, rather surprisingly, beetroot!
“We don’t use any dyes or colorings,” Charlie explains. “The beetroot gives the basic chocolate cake batter a red hue, plus beetroot is great for keeping the cake moist.”
Pamela nods in agreement as she takes in the mascarpone cheese and double cream that will make up the filling, as well as the thick layer of “icing” that will cloak the entire cake. This is going to be delish!
“Have you ever tasted pure cocoa before, Laurie?” Charlie asks, directing my attention to a small glass bowl of what appear to be dusty dark chocolate buttons.
“I don’t think so,” I frown.
“In that case, the answer is no,” Pamela laughs. “If you had, you’d remember.”
“Try one,” Charlie holds out the stash. “These pieces are ninety-nine percent pure chocolate.”
How can that be bad? I pop one in my mouth.
Almost immediately my tongue is encased in bitterness. Oh my god!
They all laugh as my face contorts and I try to shift the powder-dense coating.
“Some water?” He offers me a glass.
“Yes please!” I wince, then watch as he empties the rest of the buttons into a metal bowl set over a saucepan of boiling water and gently melts them to a sheeny sludge.
“It tastes better combined with other ingredients.”
From this point he starts juggling assorted bowls, mixers and baking tins. As he does so, I recall one (possibly apocryphal) story that tells of a woman, back in the 1940s when the Red Velvet Cake was first introduced, writing to the hotel requesting the chef’s secret recipe. The hotel obliged by mailing her a copy, along with a bill for $350! She consulted her lawyer who said she was liable for the cost and so, by way of revenge, she distributed the recipe far and wide, to every friend and family member, which actually served in spreading the popularity of said cake.
“Excuse me a moment.” As Charlie steps away to check on the oven, Pamela’s phone rings.
“It’s Ravenna.” Her face falls. “She’s ready to go shopping.”
“Do you think she needs an escort?” I ask, a little bemused.
“Oh, would you? I’d be so grateful! I really don’t think she should be left unattended at the moment.”
Ah. I’ve just inadvertently talked myself out of an up-close-and-personal encounter with my favorite cake.
“Of course,” I tell her, though my heart has just collapsed in the middle.
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