Chocolate Discs and Gianduja Rosettes

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, in November when I flipped through Notter's The Art of the Chocolatier to find inspiration, I settled on a recipe for cointreau butter ganache pralines. The suggested method, though, was completely foreign to me. It called for piping the ganache onto a chocolate disc and then dipping the entire piece into couverture using a fork. While the book has many beautiful photos, there wasn't one of this particular confection. I found myself wondering how precisely that would work and whether you would see a ridge between the disc base and the piped ganache once it was dipped. I decided instead to use my standard truffle method: scoop the ganache and refine the shape by hand before hand-rolling in two thin coats of chocolate. Based on the feedback I received, they were a hit. But the method outlined by Notter stuck in my head and I decided that in the new year I would have to revisit it. And so tonight I am reading about chocolate discs and gianduja rosettes.

Notter suggests that chocolate discs are a common base for a variety of confections. They are formed using tempered couverture chocolate, a disc template, and a piece of acetate. It's also possible to make the discs without a template, but it's difficult to get consistent results. I've watched chocolatiers on YouTube depositing chocolate on one piece of acetate and then carefully laying a second sheet on top, causing the chocolate to spread into a thin disc. This method takes more practice to perfect (kind of like trying to pipe macarons of the same size). 

Notter has a number of recipes that employ these chocolate discs, including one that caught my eye -- "Hidden Hazelnut Pralines." It's a gianduja rosette piped around a sugar-sanded hazelnut on a chocolate disc. 

I've become obsessed with gianduja since taking my professional chocolatier course. It is the most delicious filling imaginable -- the thicker, nuttier, more mature cousin of Nutella. With roasted nuts ground into a paste and mixed with couverture chocolate, it's pure heaven. I've molded it into tiny Easter eggs that I then enrobed in chocolate, I've slabbed it and cut it into squares that were later dipped with a fork, I've pipped it into an Easter bunny. Its flavour, texture, and consistency make it ideal for so many applications -- but I can honestly say that it never occurred to me to pipe it the same way you would buttercream icing. 

Gianduja is quite fluid when it is first made, thanks to the nut paste combining with melted chocolate. As it cools, however, and the chocolate begins to crystallize, the texture thickens. By the time it is fully set (depending on the ratio of nut paste to chocolate), it can be quite firm. The trick, I would imagine, is piping it at exactly the right temperature. Just like there's a sweet spot for piping ganache, still fluid enough to be piped but firm enough to hold its shape, there will be a sweet spot for piping gianduja -- and the only way to find it will be to wait, watch, and test periodically. And of course take the temperature and record it for future reference!

And so in anticipation of an experiment in the not-so-distant future, I'm assembling the necessary tools. Piping bags and tips are no problem. My cake decorating stash has everything I need to pipe gianduja. I also have acetate (food safe, of course) from when I did my chocolatier program (it was on the list of recommended supplies, but because we could choose from a number of techniques for our various assignments, mine went unused). I have couverture and I have nuts. But a disc template? My stash of chocolate molds is pretty impressive, but there's ne'er disc template among them.  

Cue Amazon. It does, after all, have everything you need from A to Z. And it did not let me down. Sure, it took a few tries with the search terms to get exactly what I wanted, but I persevered and was rewarded with the listing for this beauty. As it turns out, you can also buy these in a variety of shapes, including long triangles. That one is used to create decorations for desserts. Once the chocolate begins to set, but before it is fully crystallized, it's possible to manipulate the acetate so that the pieces set with a curve or twist. I'm trying to resist the urge to order the triangle stencil, but the more that I think about it, the more I want to try that as well...

One of my friends always says, "You can't have Barbie without the Malibu Dream House." It's dangerous to take that advice to heart. So, because I have a plan, I'll stick with the circle stencil. For now. 

There are Hidden Hazelnut Pralines in my future. 

 

"I do not think it means what you think it means."

Back when I did my professional chocolatier program, I wrote a blog post titled, "What the heck is a truffle anyway?" On the surface, the term seemed simple, especially for anyone who's enjoyed a Lindt milk chocolate truffle at Christmas (perhaps following a Festive Special at Swiss Chalet, but I digress). 

Throughout the course, "truffle" was used to refer to both bonbons of a particular shape and ganache-based confections generally (including those cut into squares and those molded into a variety of shapes). I remember discussing this with my friend and colleague, the late Robert Campbell. He felt it didn't matter what a truffle was made from, so long as it was produced without a mold and resembled a truffle (the fungus). But the proliferation of "truffles" made from cookies, cookie dough, cake, and other ingredients that are coated in candy melts -- and devoid of any real chocolate -- give me pause. As my thinking on it has evolved, I believe it's part form and part formula, so for me it's a hand-formed, ganache-based confection in a spherical or conical shape. 

As I continue reading Notter's The Art of the Chocolatier, I once again find myself questioning a word I thought I understood: praline. I've always known the term to refer to a caramelized, nut-based confection (one that, in my mind, is crunchy) -- yet in front of me is a recipe for a butter ganache praline that doesn't contain any nuts and definitely isn't crunchy. 

In my head, I can hear Inigo Montoya from The Princess Bride saying, "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

And so down the rabbit hole I go -- it's hard not to as a researcher. 

As it turns out, there are multiple uses of the term praline. It can indeed refer to a nut-based confection, usually almond or hazelnut, as I had thought (turns out that one is French). There's also an American praline, where pecans are combined with sugar and cream, resulting in a fudge-like confection. And in the Belgian use of the term, praline can refer to any soft centre contained within a chocolate shell. Regarding the latter, pralines have apparently always exhibited significant variety in terms of shape and flavour, are more sophisticated in their decoration than truffles (which tend to be simple, more rustic), and are popular in gift boxes. 

Now, that last description has me thinking. That blueberry iceberg bonbon that I made during my chocolatier program? That seems closer to a praline than a truffle, given that it was comprised of a molded dark chocolate shell hand painted with coloured cocoa butter and filled with a soft blueberry white chocolate filling. 

That leads me to two thoughts:

First, there should be a game called Truffle, Praline, or Bonbon? and the prize should be chocolate.

Second, I wish I could pick Robert's brain in the cafeteria one more time and discuss in depth the term praline. 

Rest easy, friend. You will be missed.

 

Conversation Hearts

Is there any bigger season for a chocolatier than the lead up to Valentine's Day? I think not. Chocolate is love. 

About two weeks ago, I began my holiday prep -- doable only because I make chocolate for a limited number of people. If I were actually selling chocolate, my prep would have begun right after Christmas. Knowing that a friend loves white chocolate, I molded a few solid white chocolate lollis. I don't normally post photos of this sort of project, because, other than getting the temper right, there isn't a lot of skill or creativity involved. 

Well, that's not entirely true. There is the skill of foiling molded chocolate. Mine could use some work. 

I do have an excuse -- I'm limited by the supplies available to me. I'd probably need an 8" square of foil to properly wrap them, but in my experience it's very rare to find food-safe coloured foil larger than a 6" square (and if you do find it, it's pricey). Consequently, I did a bit of a patch job on the back to ensure all the chocolate was covered. No big deal, right? The foil is only going to be ripped off anyway. Then to really make the design pop, I gently rubbed the surface of the foil with a soft cloth. 

Next up on my list was something for my boyfriend. Last February, after the big day, we were strolling around Michaels looking at all of the seasonal products that arrived after Valentine's Day thanks to wonky supply chains. Everything was marked down and hanging on one rack was a silicone baking mold in the shape of conversation hearts. It was meant for small cakes, but my head immediately thought Valentine's cocoa bombs! 

I pulled out the mold from my stash, but had already decided that cocoa bombs weren't the way to go. I'm very much in a decluttering mood lately and part of that is seeing what's in my cupboards and using up the odds and sods and bits and bobs, as my friend Di would say. And so I needed a plan to use up some peanut butter chips that I bought when making peanut butter bark for a friend. 

Fancy heart shaped peanut butter cup, you say? Don't mind if I do!

Armed with an idea, I tempered some chocolate to shell the mold first. Now, let me just say, as much as I love this mold, I hate that it's silicone. During my chocolatier program, they warned us not to use silicone. They claimed that's because you can't get the same shiny finish on your chocolate as you do with hard plastic. In my experience, though, it's not an issue of shine. The real problem is how hard it is to manipulate a floppy mold. (Note to self: next time, cut the mold apart.)

Once the chocolate had hardened, aided by a quick trip to the fridge, I put a second coat of tempered chocolate on the sides of the hearts to be certain they wouldn't break during the unmolding process. And then a third for good measure, because, let's be honest, there's no such thing as too much chocolate.

While the mold was once again chillaxing in the fridge, I combined the peanut butter chips with an equal quantity (by weight) of milk chocolate couverture, and then tossed in a few tablespoons of peanut butter for good measure. Once it was all melted and stirred together, I let the mixture sit until it had dropped in temperature to 28 degrees. Next, I poured it into a piping bag and filled my shells. I popped them back into the fridge to speed up crystallization. 

Ok, so that's not the typical filling for a peanut butter cup, which would be peanut butter and icing sugar. But I'm allowed a little artistic license here, with my quasi-gianduja filling...

Then, finally, I tempered more chocolate and capped the hearts. They went back into the fridge for a few minutes and, once set, I unmolded them and let them come to room temperature before packaging them in the cutest bags ever (a gift from a friend). 

And there you have it! A quarter pound of peanut buttery goodness to convey your love!

Except for a few air bubbles in some of the text, I'm definitely happy with how these turned out and can't wait to cut one in half with a hot knife.

With only six in total, my next challenge is deciding who to add to the recipient list. 

You Can't Juice An Apricot

Still with apricots on my mind from two weeks ago, I decided that this week as a break from reading I would experiment with my pâtes de fruits recipe. I did some research on apricot juice, which it turns out is referred to as apricot nectar, to see whether I could purchase it locally. No dice. If I wanted apricot nectar, I was going to have to make it myself. And so off I went to the grocery store to purchase fresh apricots. 

I had no idea how many apricots would translate into 3/4 cups of nectar. I also had no idea how many apricots were in a pound and the store didn't have a scale. After sizing them up, I concluded I should buy eight and hope for the best. Five dollars later, I was on my way back home.

Uncertain how best to proceed, I consulted Google. There were many recipes available for apricot nectar, but they all involved added sugar. Considering how much sugar is in a pâtes de fruits recipe, I thought that might lead to a cloyingly sweet confection. Instead, I decided to go off book and simply juice the apricots. People seem to juice everything these days, so I had no reason to think juicing apricots would be problematic. Indeed, armed with a high end juicer, I assumed this would be a breeze.

It was not. 

I cut my apricots in half, removed the stones, dropped the fruit down the chute, and switched on the motor. And then watched in confusion as the juicer quickly chewed through the apricots providing me with a bowl of pulp and only about a tablespoon of juice. Was the juicer assembled correctly? Or can you really not juice an apricot? Undeterred, I put the pulp back through the juicer for round two. The auger struggled, but eventually did fill a Mason jar with a thick apricot puree. I was in business (and made a mental note that next time, I'll just use my food processor). 

And so into the pot I measured the apricot puree, lemon juice, and sugar. Following the recipe I used during my chocolatier program, I cooked the mixture on medium heat until it hit 113 degrees, then added the remaining sugar. Now, my recipe stated to cook the "juice" mixture to 238, but Notter's table indicated that apricot pâtes de fruits should cook to 225, so that's what I did. Once I hit temperature, I added the pectin and cooked it for 2 more minutes. I poured some of the mixture into a measuring cup so that I could fill the cavities of a silicone jewel mold, and poured what remained into a parchment lined loaf pan. I sprinkled the tops with sugar and let the pâtes de fruits sit for two hours to cool and set. 

Now, let me just say that boiling sugar is always terrifying to me. This wasn't quite so bad as making peanut brittle, where you exceed 300 degrees, but it's still liquid hot magma. It can burn. It can boil over. And living in an apartment, I'm always worried I'm going to set off the alarms and be the reason the building has been evacuated! Mercifully, none of that happened. 

I made some notes regarding the changes I made to the recipe and read a few more pages of Notter's The Art of the Chocolatier. When two hours had passed (incredibly quickly, I might add), I unmolded the jewels and cut the slab into 1" pieces. I then mixed a touch of citric acid into a bowl of sugar, and dusted all of the pieces. When I tried one of the end pieces, I was thrilled with the results. The apricot flavour was bright and the citric acid brought some complexity to the flavour. Definitely an improvement over my earlier attempts. 

Based on the reactions I received from those who had a chance to taste these, the apricot flavour was very present and the little bit of sour pucker from the citric acid definitely made a difference in the experience of the confection. 

And me? I give it an A -- for apricot!