Chocolate Cake for Imaginary Lives

DEAD DOVE

Yesterday at work someone put a paper bag labelled dead dove | do not eat in the fridge. Now I want to find them and ask them to marry me. Anyone can write a passive-aggressive note to not eat their yogurt or Cobb salad, but this was almost a dare. I had never eaten dove. I had drinks with someone once who went on at length about Tierra de Campos being the place to have squab. I refused to go beyond that one drink, so I never knew if they were correct. I wondered if it was a regular dead dove that required the services of the work fridge as an ad-hoc morgue. A freezer might have made more sense for that sort of thing. When I was a child my best friend’s parents were a vet and a biologist. This meant the occasional run-in with dead animals in the freezer in our pursuit of an ice lolly. My favourite find was the goldfinch that had lace-like ice crystals on its yellow feathers, placed so casually next to a bag of peas.

I opened the fridge again and looked at the bag. How does one prepare dove for lunch? Was it part of a leftover pie? Considering how lazy I am about laundry, my chances seemed worth the risk of having my nose pecked off. When Colin from marketing and his salad of quinoa saturated with a cheerless dressing of self-satisfied aspirations had finally left, I opened the bag. It was a pigeon— with a face! (It looked mildly bemused, as if I had interrupted its nap.) It looked like the ducks that hang in the windows of Chinatown restaurants, but much smaller. It looked so beautiful and glossy. There wasn’t much flesh, just enough for someone’s lunch—in a selfish, perverse moment I decided: my lunch. It was luscious. Like a surprising kiss that continues a little longer than anticipated. Though it had been in the fridge, the skin was crispy and slightly sweet. I could taste ginger, garlic and something like vinegar but much richer. In the bag there was also a small container with a couple of lemon slices. I squeezed it onto the meat and it lifted everything even more, making me feel flushed and excited. I began to wonder if I could cook this. How to get the recipe without giving myself away? I finished the bird, disposed of the bones, and then placed my sad sandwich inside the bag (I wasn’t a complete bastard. I would never leave anyone hungry) and placed it back into the fridge. I quickly scribbled a note asking How do I make that pigeon? and slipped the piece of paper into the bag, then left.

Tuesday. I had limp pasta, and curiosity over what I might find in the fridge. The bag was still there—as was the now day-old tuna sandwich. And a note.

You must provide me with something better if you wish to know how to make that dish. Sandwiches and salad don’t cut it.

Today I would have to eat my little lunch and find a way to please this chef. I didn’t know where to find a pigeon with ease. Were they looking for entremets? A complete peacock redressed in its feathers? I would present them with my own subtlety. It wouldn’t be four and twenty blackbirds baked into a pie, but I knew it would have many flavours. After work I gathered ingredients from the supermarket. Yes, I even spent the money on pistachios, as I was preparing a dish for an honoured guest. Whoever they are.

I ate cheese on toast for supper and began to sauté pieces of chicken. No puritan chicken breasts that try to flirt with gilded decadence in the high church of seasoning. Thighs and legs were needed. Something that has an unashamed relationship with flavour and adapts quickly to assorted culinary desires. I set them aside while cooking down onions and garlic in spices that spread their perfume in the most generous way—like an auntie’s expensive scent that lingers on babies and children after many hugs. Warmth and cosiness. I had to add more cinnamon. And saffron. This dish needed a little more life. Between stock, eggs, nuts, and everything else, a pastilla was born in between the delicate sheets of phyllo and butter. I dusted it with sugar at the end so that the meal would begin with a mystery: “Is it sweet? Is it savoury?”

The following day, I placed two slices in a container in the dove bag as an offering. (Always two slices. In my eyes it is a sin to leave anyone unsatiated.) I wanted to watch like one waiting for elves to make shoes, but there were meetings and other inane tasks to trudge through. When I returned later, I opened the fridge and bag to a container empty of pastilla. It had been cleaned, and within it resided the recipe for Chinese fried pigeon, with the comments: A specialty in Hong Kong. Your contribution was worthy. Leave me your recipe and I might allow you to be greedy another day. I took my prize and left my own, with an added note: The best dishes and gifts require a little wrapping.

How long would I have to wait before something would appear? Would my recipe be rewarded? I hedged my bets and brought hummus and vegetables, and a slightly woody satsuma. (It is what I call my “pretend diet lunch”, as it will always be followed by a furtive, stress-induced Snickers around 3pm when the lunch proves to be unsatisfying.)

It appeared when I was about to give in and pick something out of spite from the vending machine. A note on top of the goods. You asked for something to undo. Your pastilla nearly undid me. Don’t forget the salsa. Tamales! Parcels, wrapped with care using corn husks. I untied one and tasted the fluffy and moist masa that hid the filling of poblano chillies and cheese. There wasn’t the usual watery jarred sauce calling itself salsa. This was salsa verde. Slightly sweeter because the tomatillos had been roasted. I might have been happy just tasting that, but I remembered to add it to the tamales. This person wanted to cause me to lose my emotional balance. They had wiped my memory of what I had eaten at noon. Something with vegetables? This was my lunch and saviour now.

There had been three tamales; I briefly thought I might save one for later, but one shouldn’t lie to oneself about food. It was eaten. Quickly. No recipe though. I would have to earn it with another dish. I had no idea where I was being guided, but I knew I wanted to please. I would leap across the Mediterranean this time and produce something that brought out passionate arguments about how it ought to be made.

Gazpacho. It isn’t just a few vegetables, old bread, and some tomatoes blended together and served cold. From village to village it can shift in appearance. Most don’t realize it can come in a number of colours, and some people insist upon certain ingredients. I wouldn’t have a búcaro to serve it in, but I would make sure they knew they were having something different. I began with the most sensual, life-giving force in the garden: garlic. Mashed down with a pestle so it can release that sticky, unashamed scent. I had gone to the bakery at the end of the day to buy a baguette that had been waiting for me. It was stale enough. I tore it apart and let it soak in water before adding it to the waiting garlic. People think tomatoes are the base to gazpacho, but they are not. The bread and garlic—the foundation of comfort and pleasure—will do things to the vegetables (and hopefully my teasing chef) that will touch them with life. Salt, olive oil and vinegar are a clever trio of muses who enhance existence. Tempting the tongue with the possibilities of going this way and that, but still allowing one to keep one’s balance. What I made was so inexact. Breaking down a bit of this and that and slowly turning it into a puree that was much more than its appearance might suggest. It wasn’t just a soup. It was a meditative elixir.

I waited the next day to put it in the fridge (along with loose instructions on how to make it, and a small container of garnish. Details mattered between us now) because the soup should be chilled but not iced. Then I ran off to file reports and pretend I knew what I was saying when I threw around empty phrases to fill the space and time that makes up work. I wanted that recipe, and to have my taste buds astonished.

At the end of the day, again there was a clean container with the paper token and a further note. You weren’t honest with your recipe. There must have been something else in there. What was it? Are we going to add secret ingredients now?

This game had taken a different path in the woods. Where would we end up? The next day my senses were thrown into an ocean. Mul naengmyeon would force me to relearn every sense. A new cold soup. A pheasant-based broth (the note told me to look out for certain things as if I was on a scavenger hunt, but it gave me a few clues) with long buckwheat noodles that I had to slurp—being dainty was for others, not for anyone eating this. It took me a while to eat it. I had to stare at the arrangement of the noodles, vegetables, pickled radish, the mustard oil floating on the surface, the seeds offering more texture, and the boiled egg. Scattered layers that had such an exact placement. This artist knew what they had to say. It was an abstract painting in a bowl. What were they trying to tell me? I almost felt angry by the end. I had felt too much in public and I had no way of stopping my feelings. I was powerless. In that sudden rage and excitement, I wanted to seek a kind of revenge and make them taste something that was almost too much. Maybe offer them an ortolan and a towel and a note saying: Top that. Use the towel twice. Once to cover your head and once to wipe your tears. That would be seen as a tantrum. Instead I would find a way to drown them on land.

I claimed I had a dentist appointment. Instead I woke up early and bought octopus from the market. They even cleaned it and removed the beak for me. I came home with that, prawns, and a citron. My spite was leading me towards many suppers of cheese on toast that week. In my kitchen I massaged the octopus and quickly boiled it. (My nonnina said massaging it would make it tender and gentle. She thought it needed to be treated well one last time before offering itself. She found spirits in everything. She also cooked hers with a wine cork. My wine was cheap and screw-top.) I found myself at 9am on my tiny balcony barbecuing octopus and prawns. If the neighbours said anything, I would bring up how I said nothing about those parties where their guests left vomit or knickers on my doorstep. (Always have a means of blackmailing neighbours who think they are DJs.) Setting aside the seafood, I grilled artichoke hearts. Smoke would touch nearly everything, its own elusive perfume. Then it was a race. Soon it would be lunch and I had to make this imaginary appointment end in time. Chopping up the octopus, tossing it together with the prawns and artichokes, dressing it quickly with olive oil, small pieces of citron (and a touch of the juice), the feathery leaves of fennel found in the park, celery leaves, capers, and that loving sprinkle of salt. Nothing else. They should taste like a moment by the beach on a warm day. Where lunches are lazy and intimate.

I made it to work, slipped it into the bag that held secrets, and made a bit of a show to my manager about being threatened with a root canal. The truly great performances are not on screen but in lies told to bosses where medical issues allegedly exist. I was impatient. Sleep deprivation and excitement are almost as good as inebriation but terrible to experience at work. By the afternoon search for coffee, I had to check the fridge. There was a note that said, Are you a witch? You have stolen something from me today with that dish. I will find a way to retrieve it. Tomorrow I leave you a simple treasure.

I went home early. I was craving sleep, though I was worried it wouldn’t come that night. I kept considering dishes. Wondering if I could ever match them. Would my imagination fail me? Would my appetite to please ruin me? My ambition could turn into something reckless and obsessive. Morning came once more, and lunch brought me a sandwich. Was this a violation of the rules? Or were they allowed to do as they please? It came with a note:

I had this sandwich once. Long ago. On a street. Sitting on a curb where loitering was an encouraged past-time. Let this sandwich haunt you. P.S. don’t forget to look under the cup by the microwave.

This wasn’t a challenge. This was someone showing me their heart. This wasn’t just any bread. It was pane di Altamura. The kind of bread that sings when you break it. It was filled with fresh chevre, prosciutto, and fig jam. A few simple fillings that stand prettily on their own, but together they become like Schubert’s Piano Trio No. 2. I was being led with authority to experience a taste of their own longing to go back to that street. Every flavour was available to us. We didn’t need to be anywhere else.

Once I finished I wanted to return to the beginning. I looked at the note again: the cup. Under that cup was a perfectly ripe persimmon. And another note: Eat me with a spoon. Would I grow big or small? I cut it in half and began to eat this honey sweet pudding that made me briefly wonder if I was hallucinating because I thought I could taste cinnamon. I returned to the surroundings when Colin and his acai bowl wanted to get to the utensils. I couldn’t stay in that room and listen to him discuss chia seeds. I had to hide away because I felt that persimmon on my lips, my tongue, and every other nerve ending. I needed more. I had to capture that moment. There was only one way to do that. Yes, there would be food, but sometimes one leaps out of the kitchen because there is more to be done. I was without sleep again.

I arrived the next day in my altered state to a tragedy.

Our bag was gone. Someone had cleaned out the fridge (leaving a shaming note about people not being considerate of others). I had two creations. Where would our secrets reside now? One could not be hidden under a cup. It was time for a declaration that was taped to the fridge:

Persimmons are only for people who understand ephemeral joy The ones who appreciate the cordial torture of anticipation Dear khormaloo, that fruit of the Gods, likes to play coy That brilliant titian with its pert nose doesn’t offer easy elation It demands to be put on display so that you can watch it ripen Eventually those days of waiting (with quick touches) come to pass Cupping that soft candy-sweetness, all senses seem to heighten Yet that ambrosial toothsome flesh is gone too fast. Alas.

Though the fridge was clean, and the cups were washed and put away, the cupboard remained full of forgotten bags. I took one, and wrote, Loaves and Fishes: more where that came from, and placed a salmon and dill piroshky in it. I put it in the fridge for someone’s lunch.

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CHOCOLATE CAKE FOR IMAGINARY LIVES

We all have imaginary lives, and if we are lucky we have a dish to go with them.

You begin by making a cup of strong coffee. I tend to use espresso. I think of that scene in “The Freshman” where espresso is made and lots of sugar is added, and it is implied that drinking it will make you a man. Really it just makes you feel like you are on a speed trip. Maybe this is what the Italians are aiming for? They get up, have that tiny dose of coffee and then race around in their cars, engaging in scandal. Then they cause the government to fall, all before lunch. This is also why every place closes for a few hours in the afternoon. Everyone needs to recover as they begin to come down from the morning espresso/scandal frenzy. Then they spend the afternoon reading about the morning scandal. If that isn’t enough, they engage in their own private scandal (that long[1]standing affair with the spouse of an old family friend), and maybe go for a walk to clear their head before dinner. Unfortunately, you won’t be doing that with your coffee. Though you could, but you would need to make a second cup of coffee that would need to cool—if you still want to make this cake.

Cream together four ounces of softened butter (and for all that is holy don’t try and use cold butter, or speed up the process by using a microwave it to soften it. Get the butter out when you are making the coffee. While you wait for things to cool down or warm up, you can read about pleasant scandals while drinking that cup of coffee. See, there is a rhythm to all of this.) with eight ounces of granulated sugar and seven and a half ounces of brown sugar. If there are small people lurking about, you may have to keep them from taking tastes of the butter and sugar. Add two eggs (one at a time) and beat until smooth. In another bowl (because we are going to dirty many dishes today. Just accept this now.) you will whisk together one half cup of cocoa powder with one half cup of boiling water. What you want to achieve here is a smooth paste (like you would if you were making hot chocolate from scratch). Pour that into your butter/sugar/egg mixture and mix until things are dark and chocolatey. Sift in eight ounces of flour and one teaspoon of baking soda. You want to mix this just enough so that there aren’t any white streaks left.

Then you can return to your coffee that has been sitting on the counter looking woeful. Pour that into the thick cake batter along with one half teaspoon of vanilla. Mix mix mix, and it will turn into a fairly thin batter. But that will be alright. You will pour the batter into two 8- or 9-inch pans (which will have been greased and floured and, if you are one for details, lined with parchment) and bake at 350°F/180°C for about 20 or 25 minutes. As with most cakes, you will want to do the toothpick test to make sure it is done. This isn’t some molten lava cake, folks. We aren’t going to burn our tongues and then slightly regret dessert. Take the cake out and let it cool on racks before you think about frosting anything.

As you wait you can read some Dante and reflect upon how that Florentine understood humanity and all its foibles and did it so beautifully in the common tongue. Or you can slouch to one side in a slip dress, wearing dark glasses, and pretend you are in a Fellini film. You are on your own for finding circus freaks and sex workers to stand around with you. God, this coffee is good.

Now it is time to assemble your cake. For the filling you could put in raspberry jam or apricot jam (if you want to pay a sort of homage to Sachertortes but don’t want to wrestle with trying to get a mirror-perfect chocolate icing.) I had chocolate raspberry jam in the cupboard. If you really want chocolate raspberry jam but only have the raspberry, why not melt down an ounce of unsweetened chocolate and mix it in with some jam? Ta-da. Spread about a third of a cup on the bottom layer of your cake. Then pop the other layer on top.

Then we come to the question of icing. We want to avoid something grainy and disappointing that puts the brakes on the passionate momentum that is building with this cake. Melt down a few ounces of sweetened chocolate (anywhere between four and six will suffice) in a pan over simmering water. Take that off the heat and add about one half cup of sour cream. Not light sour cream, thank you. We are having cake, not penance. Maybe add one half teaspoon of vanilla if you are up for it. Or maybe some bourbon. Yes. Bourbon. Once you have whisked everything together and it is a silky satin brown, you will want to spread that all over the cake. (It should be just this side of warm). Do a crumb layer of icing, and then spread the rest over the cake. It will look lovely.

The wonderful thing about this cake is the variety of flavours and textures. The cake itself is moist and very sweet, and there is the tartness of the raspberry filling and the balance of sweet and sour from the soft frosting. The flavour is a little more sophisticated. Not that there's anything wrong with the likes of confetti cake and red velvet, but this is a cake for adults with petty problems and a desire to flirt with chaos and embrace a little madness.

This is a cake where you recall a heady weekend in someone’s Schloss (especially if you use apricot jam) sometime between the wars. You were only going as the guest of a friend of a friend, but you stayed far longer than you thought, because you became acquainted with a gentleman. He had rumours swirling about him being some Russian duke who had to leave his country, and of being a cad who was likely the bastard child of some minor noble from a backwater in Swabia. You didn’t really care because the cake was good and he was charming. It was likely having that cake with him on a picnic that sealed the deal to become his mistress.

Of course, you could only stay for a while because life got in the way and you had to return to work in the bookshop. Like Fellini said, “There is no beginning. There is no end. There is only the passion of life.” Have some in your cake.