The Toque

I love the egg,  so compact, so fragile, so versatile:  an egg can be breakfast, lunch, dinner, snack, even dessert!  What other food can boast such versatility?  Take that hard-boiled egg, the ultimate snack:  protein, fat, portable and just the right size.  Mush that egg with your whisk and some mustard and mayo and you've got lunch.  Add some lettuce and tomato slices and you've got a salad.

A chef's toque, or hat, has 101 pleats, symbolic folds that represent the egg and the 101 ways a French chef can transform it.  I know, your mind is racing through your repetoire:  scrambled, hard-boiled, sunny-side up, omelette...got 10?... maybe 15?  The toque evokes images (Chef Boyardee?) and inspires a certain kind of awe.  In this recent era of cooking shows and celebrity chefs, may I take a moment to celebrate the struggle behind the hard-earned toque?

When I was trying to earn my toque, the devotion to the egg and its nuances was never clearer than when I was in pastry spending an entire day on the egg's most mysterious, most awe-some disguise:  the souffle.  Eggs, milk, sugar:  the simplest ingredients transformed into a dessert that waits for no one.  We gathered around our Genius Chef as he mumbled ingredients and measurements.  He weighed (important!), he cooked slowly (important!) he beat those egg whites and folded gently (SO important!).  We waited for those rising clouds, perfectly formed, to come up and out.  Ooh!  We applauded with our eyes, applauded with clicking spoons scraping the ramekins, and then our Chef looked at us over his glasses and mumbled, "Your turn!"

We measured.  We stirred.  We added our own signatures:  star anise, orange peel, cardamom.  We beamed at our egg whites, poufy and glossy.  We folded with our rubber spatulas (please don't use anything else!), and gently slid our ramekins into the ovens.

Cassandra's fell over the edge, lumpy and drooping.  She cried.  Dahlia's didn't rise at all.  "Why me?"  she wailed.  Mine rose!  I beamed.  Chef pulled mine out of the oven and lifted the top of the souffle off like a muffin top.  "Cake," he grimaced and threw it in the trash. 

We did it again.  Chocolate.  Mmmm.  And again.  Nougat.  Oh my god!  And again.   Lemon.  Oh!  I call this day "The Day I Ate Ten Souffles."

If you can conquer the souffle, your dinner, no matter what you served, becomes Dinner.  They'll talk about The Evening.  They'll eye your potluck contributions with new respect.  A small salad and a cheese souffle isn't lunch, it's Luncheon.  It suddenly warrants opening that bottle of rose.( Really, do it!  It works!)  Where's your flowery dress?  Put it on!

A souffle is empowerment.  It suggests mastery.  Like all things egg, a souffle is not just a recipe.  It is technique, respect, patience, and knowing the proper tools.  A souffle starts so simply.  You may have only 4 or 5 ingredients in front of you, but your sink will be full of dirty before it's over.  You may survive this ordeal only to have your guests sit down too late.  It's possible you are missing a pastry brush, a scale, or that rubber spatula we talked about.  Well,... then,...

I earned my toque in so many ways:  I learned another language, lived halfway across the world, let grown men yell at me and throw things, spent more hours than I can count standing with a hot oven behind me and a hot stove in front of me, but the souffle is one of my proudest accomplishments coming out of school.  The recipe for a great souffle is nothing without the how and why behind each step, and that savoir-faire says it all when a perfect souffle slides in front of you.