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It's a 'Piece of Cake'?

Or a 'Sacher Torte' ?

By Paul MerkleyPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
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The famous chocolate cake of the Hotel Sacher, Vienna, Austria

“We’re running out of time. I don’t see why we can’t buy the dessert from a high-end pastry shop. It’s just a chocolate cake. Anyway what Miss Spaceshot said—”

“Hold it right there,” I ordered. “When anyone in this kitchen refers to the governor general, you will say ‘Her Excellency.’ Clear?” I looked around the room. Everyone nodded. Even Wendell. “Okay I need those ingredients pronto.”

Wendell left the room with my list, muttering ‘Saskatoons? Where do I find Saskatoons?’”

Wendell meant well and he was right in a way. This GG, an astronaut, was hard to work for. She snapped at Chef again this morning for things that weren’t his fault, and he walked out, apologizing for leaving me, his assistant, in charge of a state dinner, for the final visit of Angela Merkel with a European hospitality industry delegation, for which everything had to be perfect. Oh and Her Excellency had managed to tick the purveyors off, so we had few ingredients on hand. And dessert was going to be a problem.

The GG is the representative of the Queen in Canada. Rideau Hall is the GG’s residence, except that Her Excellency is the first GG who chooses not to live here. Some aspects of the Hall are well staffed, even over-staffed, some understaffed for certain events. We had a small kitchen group, employed at the GG’s private residence in Montreal. For a large dinner like this one in Ottawa temporary staff were added. I didn’t know them and I didn’t know what they could do. On my personal stress level this was a nine and half, meaning if I could find a trap door I’d get out of here pronto.

“You,” I pointed. “Your name?”

“Emile.”

“Do you know how to make kickshaws, Emile?”

“Yes Chef.”

“Good. Find the seafood in the fridge, second shelf. Escargot, muskellunge, prawns. Wrap them in filo dough only. Brush lightly with olive oil and bake them at 425 for 11 minutes. Make—how many guests?” No answer. “Someone? How many guests?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Okay, make seventy. Go!” Emile hopped to it. “You—”

“France.”

“France, assist Emile and write down all the ingredients. Get a calligrapher to copy them out. There must be someone upstairs filling out place cards.”

“Okay how many vegetarians?” This time the answer came immediately.

“Four.”

“Vegans?”

“All four.”

“Okay Emile subtract twelve kickshaws. Someone get mushrooms, brush them, avocadoes, slice them, pulverize some cashews in the processor. Find ginger, get it pickling in some vinegar. Emile?”

“Yes chef?”

“Don’t use the smoked salmon. I want it for the sauce.”

“Yes chef.”

“Who are you?” I asked as the door swung open and a serious-looking woman entered.

“The calligrapher.”

“Good. Follow France and make a fair copy of the ingredients of each dish.”

Wendell rushed back in record time, and with the right quantities of everything. Mussels, I checked them, fresh, so good. Chicken broth, onions, tomatoes, tomato paste, basil, oregano, cheese. “Who’s ready?” Cooks stepped forward. I put two on the sauces; that was straightforward, as were the mussels. “Dice the onions, clean the mussels well, bring them to a boil in the chicken broth, and simmer then a bit. When they open they’re done.”

Wendell had been successful. “Okay someone simmer the Saskatoons for ten minutes. Not too much water. I don’t want to use a thickener."

I assigned one chef to bake the trout, stuffed with shallots and chives. Rideau Hall was well stocked with Canadian wines, thanks to the last GG. “Who’s free? Go the cellar. Find Gewurztraminer, Niagara or Prince Edward County, doesn’t matter. Spaetlese Riesling if there’s not enough. Put this Johannes berry juice in the fridge for anyone who doesn’t want alcohol. Chill all beverages, but don’t make them too cold. Wendell did you get those rolls from the baker? Good.” Emile, having finished the appetizers, obviously knowing the craft, moved on to the sauce station without being asked. I assigned the last cook to a vegetarian entrée, tofu and eggplant. “Wendell, you’re with me. Dessert.”

“I don’t get it,” he said. “You let me buy the rolls. Why not the cake? These are simple ingredients. It’s just a piece of chocolate cake we’re giving them.

“Bite your tongue and work with me. We are making a Sacher Torte.” Seeing his puzzled expression I took a minute to explain. “In 1832, the Chancellor of Austria, Prince von Metternich, was hosting an important diplomatic dinner. His chef was sick. He told the assistant chef, who was just 16 years old, that he needed an extraordinary dessert to impress these guests, and not to let him down. The assistant made a chocolate cake the like of which the world has never seen since: simple, beautiful, elegant, in a word ‘Perfekt’.”

Wendell caught on, “Okay, Perfekt. And I’m guessing the name of this chef was?”

“Franz Sacher,” as in the Sacher Torte, as in the Hotel Sacher, as in the Hotel Sacher chain.

“And today you think, even though you’re older than 16, that you’re”

“That’s right. Sally Sacher. Follow me. Ovens 350.”

Wendell melted the couverture chocolate in a double boiler while I put parchment paper in the spring forms, greased the sides, and dusted lightly with pastry flour. He’d found good vanilla beans. I scraped the seeds out while he separated the eggs, then whisked the butter together with the sugars: Stevia and powdered maple sugar. “Okay you know this is risky, right? Stevia, how much, how sweet, and the structure?”

“The maple sugar will make it stand up. And maple trumps Stevia on flavor receptors. They’ll eat Stevia but taste maple.”

“Listen to you, Ms. Sacher, taste receptors.”

“Whisk, whisk!” Good thing he has strong arms.

A gang of servers appeared at the door. “Her Excellency says the guests are seated.” I tasted one of Emile’s kickshaws. Just right. I nodded.

“Plate the appetizers,” I said. “And send the list of ingredients with it.” Done with dispatch. “Thank you Emile, France.” The dishes made their way upstairs. “Someone cut those spaghetti squash in half and scrape the seeds out. Put them in micros for 25 minutes. Then use a fork to put the squash on the pasta bowls. When will the sauces be ready?”

“20 minutes.”

I tasted. “Good. The spices are right. Put it over the squash as soon as it’s ready. Grate that cheese in the mean time.” The more I checked the boxes the less stress I felt. The shellfish had opened, except for one. “Mussels in soup plates, but not that one.”

“Yes, Chef.”

Right on cue the servers appeared for the mussels course.

Twelve minutes to go for the spaghetti squash and sauce. Should be about right, I thought. Trout and tofu underway, and the timing was right.

Next my cakes were placed on cooling racks.

The servers came for the mussels and handed me a note from the boss. ‘One of the guests has asked to sit at the chef’s table. I have assured him you will comply.’ “Set the chef’s table,” I said. It’s not supposed to be up to her, I thought, it should be me inviting someone to sit here…

A small, bespectacled man in his 50s, I judged, shyly entered the kitchen. We welcomed him. He didn’t introduce himself, but straightaway complimented the appetizers.

A salad course followed (fiddleheads, of course), then a sorbet to cleanse the palate (raspberry). Course after course was served on time, and our guest was appreciative of each one, intrigued by the ingredients, and admiring of the preparation and plating. Wendell and I took strings to cut the cakes in half horizontally. We’d reduced the Saskatoons to the consistency of a compote, and I added some orange zest and a dash of Kirsch. The dessert in particular seemed to catch the interest of my guest.

“I have never heard of a Sacher Torte with those berries,” he remarked.

“Saskatoons,” I said easily. “I wanted to give the Chancellor a taste of Canada.”

“Oh I am sure she’s most impressed with your attentions,” he said, and I scrutinized him carefully. He continued, “I am wondering, how did you know that she is diabetic?” he asked.

Wendell turned to look at me, getting the point. “That’s the reason for the sweetener, no thickener, filo dough, and the ingredients list?”

“Yes,” I answered him. I turned to our guest. “I know someone who knows her chef,” I said simply.

“Well it’s impressive that you respect her restrictions. And,” he added, “every dish is exquisite,” he said admiringly.

We spread our compote, reassembled, glazed, and finished the cakes and I carefully cut slices while Wendell plated. The servers came, this time with two notes, one from the GG, “All is going well.” High praise from her, I thought.

The other was in a European hand, “Alles ausgezeichnet und perfekt prepariert, A.”

“Even at this distance I recognize the Chancellor’s handwriting,” our guest noted. I allowed myself to relax, just a bit. We sent dessert upstairs, and I myself served the guest at my table.

“I am especially curious to taste this,” he mused. He took a small fork. I could tell what he thought by his eyes. “Maple. I thought you might use a non-sugar sweetener, but then of course the texture would be more of a challenge.”

Who was this man? “There is just a bit of maple sugar, but it comes to the fore. Mostly I used Stevia. As for the structure, the berries help, and I made Wendell whisk. A lot.”

He nodded appreciatively. “Am I correctly informed,” he asked, “that you were the assistant chef here until today, and you have taken over at the last minute?”

I nodded. “And all of these extraordinary dishes you have planned and executed…”

“Just today, yes.”

“This dinner reminds me of my ancestor.” I regarded him quizzically. “Would you think of being a chef at a hotel?”

“You are most kind,” I said. “Of course, if there were an opportunity…”

Just then the GG’s personal assistant appeared. “GG wants you upstairs right now.”

“I will accompany you,” the guest said.

What can have gone wrong? I wondered. Too much basil? It would be the first time I had a complaint about that. Maybe someone was squeamish about the skin on the trout. That’s the best part, really. The garnish? I used orange instead of lemon. We went directly into the dining room, a beautiful, candle lit museum piece of the nineteenth century. The guests sat at a long, carved mahogany table. The chancellor, elegant as always, sat between the GG and the prime minister. It was high-level culinary diplomacy. But which dish went wrong? The chancellor spoke English easily, with just a hint of an accent.

“I wanted to thank you personally for this splendid meal, elegant, beautifully ordered, and every dish designed to match my dietary requirements, which I did not even tell you about. Oh and how can you make a Sacher Torte like that? What did you think, Franz-Joseph?”

The PM beamed. Then everything clicked into place as the Chancellor looked to my guest from downstairs.

He turned to me, “I have been remiss in not introducing myself. I am Franz-Joseph Sacher, head of the Sacher chain. We are building a new hotel in Vancouver, and I would very much like you to be the head chef, and plan the menu.”

Do you see? It’s not just a piece of chocolate cake…

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About the Creator

Paul Merkley

Co-Founder of Seniors Junction, a social enterprise working to prevent seniors isolation. Emeritus professor, U. of Ottawa. Fellow of the Royal Society of Canada. Founder of Tower of Sound Waves. Author of Fiction.

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