An apple a day is supposed to keep the doctor away, but with the current cases of influenza the news keep talking about, I felt two apples were more reliable to do the trick than just one, or yet even more, trust is good, overdosing is better, and so I pelt, cored and sliced lots of apples, lots, an awful lot, actually, laid them out on some yeast dough, quite fatless a dough, I once read when you feel like having some cake, if you really, really need to have some, you are to have yeast cake as it is much less sinful a cake, much less calories, but we’re talking influenza prevention, not dieting, anyway, with some calvados sprinkled on it and dusted in vast amounts of cinnamon – cinnamon, by the way, is quite healthy, too, I forgot what good it actually does, but you can’t have enough of it, believe you me – it looked and smelled very yummy before I put it in the oven, and even yummier when it came out. As I’ve had several pieces, I think I had enough apples today to declaim in full health (and with kind of a Shakespearian accent): Influenza, where is thy sting?
If I were a raspberry, I would hope to end up on a tiny little cake by Sprüngli. You don’t live long when you’re born a berry, you grow, you get plucked, you get devoured. Hence, it is of the utmost importance to achieve some importance, to make yourself heard, to be recognized as the wonderful individual that you are and make yourself unforgettable. You have to rise from the raspberry fields and seize culinary power in Zurich, if you play it right, you end up on Sprüngli’s Himbeertorte before you get eaten by some self-styled gourmet, just like Napoleon rose through the ranks of the military, seized political power and crowned himself emperor of France before he was devoured by Europe.
If you want to gain weight, for whatever reasons, do the following: buy three packages of assorted chocolates, pick your favourites from each package, arrange them casually in a bowl and serve them with at least four episodes of any show interesting enough to make you stay put in front of the TV no matter what happens or who’s at the door. Wash each chocolate down with a generous helping of non-skimmed milk, Baileys or, why not, some banana milkshake. Repeat. Bon appétit and bonne chance!
When God came up with cocoa beans, he must have been in a very good mood. Cocoa beans are the best beans there are—sorry, Heinz, no offence, but your bean cans were portrayed by Andy Warhol, this is as far as your fifteen minutes of fame go. Anyway, cocoa beans are so very rich in healthy flavonoids, but more importantly, without cocoa beans there was no chocolate, and without chocolate there were no chocolate glazed marzipan cakes, especially the one in my fridge (keeping it in the fridge is important to make the thick chocolate glaze as crunchy as possible), the one I just devoured out of sheer lust. And now I am in such a good mood, the best of moods, actually, just like God himself the day he came up with cocoa beans.
It’s been just another grey winter’s day in Berlin, quite depressing. The moment, I woke up, I knew I needed something to cheer me up big time if I wanted this Saturday to be a day worth living. That’s when I started thinking of cake. Some very special cake. A cake, I couldn’t bake myself. A cake, I had to get out of bed and run into town to buy it from some French people answering to the name of Lenôtre. A cake so yummy, I would not dare to wash it down with milk or tea or coffee, not even champagne, just to make it linger on my tongue. A dough rich of pistaccios and cherries to make it irresistible, some vanilla custard to make it creamy, a crumble topping to make it crunchy, and some maraschino cherries and powdered sugar on top to make it look fancy. That was the cake that got me through the day. I’m still high on serotonine, so I guess, it’ll get me through Sunday, too.
Sprüngli’s truffes cake is a serious matter. It’s heavy duty. It’s heavy weight. It’s nothing but cream and sugar and cocoa and butter and eggs, some flour, more cocoa and cream, and some almonds and hazelnuts. It was obviously made to kill people, to instantly clog their arteries, fatten their hips, and ruining their appetite for days. I know what I am talking about, I am a survivor of endless attacks on my veins’ sobriety, afterwards always claiming in vain I would never lose control again—until the next battered defeat. When I left Zurich and Sprüngli for good, I had to set an end to this cake’s power over me, at least symbolically, and so I made myself its executioner. Inspired by the passing of mostly female English royalty like Mary Stuart and Lady Jane Grey, I put Sprüngli’s truffes cake to death with my cheese cleaver. It took even more attempts to break its neck than poor Anne Boleyn’s.
There are days when nothing goes right. Even though your favourite actress at the moment has won the Oscar for her part in The Favourite, a film that made you smile and laugh and sit in awe at the cinema, but still, that damn coffee machine keeps annoying you in the morning by spilling first water then coffee—never buy a Krups!— and the bus is late again and there’s another grey hair mocking your vanity and, well, you know what I’m getting at, don’t you? One of these days where really nothing bad happens and still you feel like life itself was a bit overrated—until you have dessert, that is. The moment you have some yummy and ever so spongy cake to be washed down with a Sauternes, bottled at a time when grey hairs were not yet an issue, then your day starts to be real’ fine. I mean, really!