A Choux Story

I’ve made pâte a choux before.  I followed a recipe in Gourmet magazine earlier this year for gougeres, and the result was a tray of puffy, airy, cheesy, golden, adjective-filled pastries.  I was awfully pleased with myself for tackling such a difficult and traditional recipe, and to great avail.

So when I realized that making pâte a choux was a part of Saturday’s lesson plan at school, I couldn’t have been more excited.  Finally!  I’d finally make something worthwhile and impressive!  I’d finally get through a lesson without verbal abuse from Chef!  I made flash cards containing the recipe and committed it to memory, along with that for pâte feuilletée, the notoriously fussy “puff pastry.”  I walked into class cocky as all get-out, swinging a brand new sparkly, pink spatula.  (I’ve begun slowly creeping my personality into the kitchen, and with each rose-tinted tool, Chef bristles a little more.  My tasting spoon is a baby’s rabbit-adorned ceramic spoon.)
The first thing we did – after a demo and lecture – was make the détrempe – the dough portion of puff pastry.  It went surprisingly well – my beurrage (literally, a brick of butter) fit perfectly into my détrempe, and as I rolled it into a rectangle, the edges stayed perfectly square.  I turned it twice, wrapped it in plastic, and set it in the refrigerator, bored with the long, involved process. I wanted to kick some proverbial butt in pâte a choux!
I half-listened to Chef’s lecture, spending the half-hour crunching on a cup of ice and rocking back and forth on my clogs.  Bo-ring, booooring, boooo-red, I was ready to make the choux.  I wanted so badly to impress him, my classmates, myself.  When he sent us to our stations, I was off like a rocket – I grabbed a russe with slanted sides and immediately dropped my butter (cut into small pieces), water, salt and sugar into it.  I turned the heat on and waited for the fat to melt while I readied a pastry bag with a circular pastry tip.  As soon as the butter disappeared into the water, I took the pot off the heat and dropped in the portioned, sifted flour.  Foomp!  It fell into the pan, and I began stirring like mad.  Once it was the consistency of play-dough, I put it back over the heat and stirred for two minutes more.  Dessecher, to dry out.  I transferred the dough to a work bowl and waited a few minutes until it cooled.  I then cracked and added three eggs, stirring like a maniac after each. 
I was doing everything perfectly.
After the third egg, Chef poked his finger into my dough.  ”This is ready!  Moving it into your pastry bag!”
I piped six rows of puffs and a few more of long éclairs.  I had a bit of dough left, so I piped out a bunny rabbit shape for good measure.  I brushed it all with egg wash, and showed Chef.  ”Ready?” I asked.
He put my sheet pan into the oven, along with seven of my classmates’.
We had a quick break for dinner, and as I tucked into my salad, Chef checked on the baking pastry.  They were done.
“Lynn!  Good!”  Chef yelled, passing a pan to my partner.
“Mark!  No good!” he barked, tossing Mark’s failed choux at him.  Poor Mark, I thought.
“Jordan!  Good!”
“Derek!  Good!”
I held my breath.
“Rochelle!”  (I put a smile on my face.) “No good!”  (I frowned.)
“Ah, shoot …” I said and walked across the kitchen to receive my choux.  They were flat and rather burnt.  I picked one apart with my fingers – just to check.  Instead of being hollow and airy, my choux were dense and eggy, mostly raw.  ”Eww,” I said, tossing the puff back onto the sheet pan and stabbing a leaf of lettuce with extra force.
Later that night, Chef decided we would all benefit from making the choux once more.  ”All the good people are going on this side,” he said, sweeping his arm across the left portion of the room.  ”And all the no-good people are go going on this side.”  
I poked Derek and tried to laugh.  ”No-good people?”
Chef threw daggers at me with his eyes.  ”Can I FEENISH?”
“Yes, Chef.”
“All the no-good people are on this side so I can help you and not run around like a monkey!”
We made choux again – all of us, good and no-good.  This time, I did so with Chef breathing over my shoulder. As I stirred vigorously, a quarter-cup of buttery dough splashed out onto the stovetop.  Chef mercifully chose to ignore it, but rolled his eyes when I added a bit too much egg.  (“I SAID AN HALF, NOT AN WHOLE!”)
I was flustered.  I was doing everything imperfectly.
Still, I piped puffs and eclairs.  Not feeling particularly cheeky anymore, I left out the rabbit shape.
This time, we baked our choux at our own stations at 400 degrees.  After 15 minutes, I peeked my nose into the top of my oven.  Mine were perfectly brown, with pridefully puffed chests.  ”Chef, can we lower the oven temperature and dry our choux?” I asked.
“No, they are not ready.”
“I think they might be,” I countered timidly.
“No, they are not.”
I sighed and closed the oven door gently.  After five minutes, Chef checked the choux.  ”NOW you lowering the heat.”  
I did, sneaking a glance at my pastry.  They still looked okay.  Lynn and I propped our oven door open with a towel and lowered the heat to 300. 
When my choux were properly dried and cooled, I cut them in two and piped whipped cream into the hollow insides.  ”These are good choux,” Chef said, giving my pastry the once-over.
“So I’m not no-good anymore?” I quipped.
“I didn’t say that; I said your choux were no-good.”
“But I don’t understand what I did wrong that first time.”
“Rochelle, I don’t know.  It could have been being many different things.  Maybe you add too many eggs, or not enough, or dessecher too much.”
I stuck out my lower lip, nodded, and trotted back to my station to eat my choux.
So that was it.  Making good choux is a matter of feeling, not knowing.  
I can’t feel it yet, but with Chef on my side, maybe someday I will.
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