Tag Archives: crust

Cavendish Garlic Focaccia

15 Sep

It somehow took the boffins over at Panasonic a month to replace my camera battery. Apparently this is the kind of technological prowess that an electrical (or is it electronic? I can’t remember) engineering degree unlocks. Standing at a nexus of paths, each pointing to a different university course, at least I can firmly cross that one off my list. I can already change a battery, thank you very much.

So now you know who to thank for my prolonged absence. Sure, I could’ve written up black and white, minimalist posts in the meantime. But I like the photos. What’s a food blog without photos, after all?

But fear not, this sabbatical hasn’t been entirely wasted bread-wise! I’ve still been getting my hands floury, though a trip to England to stay with my yeast-phobic mother sort of put everything on hold.

That is, until she spontaneously whisked me and my brother to East Anglia for “a change of scene”. The logic was somewhat lost on me at first, seeing as it was only a two hour trip, tops, to Lavenham from her house in Oxfordshire. But it really is different, largely owing to the characteristic churches peppered around the countryside. There’s almost a mass-produced feel to these churches, despite their ornate windows and design. Kind of like those pre-recession toys you used to get in a box of Rice Krispies, you’re guaranteed to find one in every village.

The other thing you’ll notice is the glut of craft shops, galleries and, bet you didn’t see this coming, gastro-pubs. Long Melford, a suitably snaking settlement, was particularly guilty of this, and if you’re ever there, The Swan is a great place to go for a reassuringly stylish lunch and an equally stylish outdoor seating area. There are two main things I tend to judge a place on, and that’s toilets and the bread basket. Both were very good. (There was even a notice in the toilet that invited job applicants, something which is markedly rare in here in Clonakilty!)

But the bread wasn’t homemade. Which brings me to The George at Cavendish, down the road from Long Melford, where it was. We ordered the focaccia, which seemed to be a cornerstone of the lunch menu. It was one of a kind, really. First of all, it didn’t actually look like bread. Garlic butter was drizzled over the top, and had caramelized in the oven, giving it the appearance of a cuboid hunk of sticky toffee pudding.

But when I bit into it, it was just perfect. It wasn’t the puckered sun-dried tomato focaccia that I know and love, and I’m not sure I would even call it a focaccia. But it was gorgeous. The baked garlic butter created this incredible crispy crust, rich in a buttery flavour that soaked into the soft crumb.

So I did something that I’ve never done before. I asked the chef for the recipe. He obligingly emerged from the kitchen and talked me through the whole process, which had taken him a whole six months to develop, leaving me with one very important tip – once you’ve worked it out, keep the recipe under lock and key. “Which you’ve failed to do,” I joked. “No,” he said. “Because I never told you the exact quantities of each ingredient. That’s the real trick.”

I’ve heard similar things from Darina Allen at one of her cookery demos. When it comes to bread, she said, your granny may have used natural intuition, but most of us are best treating it with the precision of a physics experiment. I’m paraphrasing here, but you get the picture!

Regardless, I’m still of the pinch-of-this-dash-of-that philosophy, though I do try to make a note of the quantities I’m using, just in case I strike gold. Which, coming back to the focaccia, I have done with this semi-borrowed recipe. It may have taken our chef friend at The George half a year to figure out his focaccia, but this is only my second attempt, and this recipe is as near to perfect as you would expect with a temperamental oven.

Better still, I’m going to share it with you, quantities and all.

So, how long does it take to change a battery? Well, apparently, longer than it takes to figure out the perfect focaccia.

A few notes: 

He suggested firstly to use a poolish starter, made with a combination of strong white flour, Tipo 00 pasta flour, a minimal quantity of yeast and, of course, water. Adjust the quantities of each according to how much dough you want to make. I find that a preferment is essential for a nutty flavour, but it makes little difference when it comes to the density of the crumb (the bane of my bread-making existence).

I know I promised I’d play around with preferments, and in my first attempt at emulating the authentic Cavendish focaccia, I did. Ironically, that didn’t work out as well as this beauty, which steers clear of a starter. Furthermore, the dough was actually made by my dad according to the basic bread dough recipe in Jamie Oliver’s book The Naked Chef. My dad claims he can’t make bread, but I have to give him at least half of the kudos.

The chef at The George noted that the dough was olive oil-heavy. Mine ended up being so, but note that the initial dough wasn’t enhanced by any fats, which generally means a more irregular crumb. Also note that it spent a two-day-long character-building session in the fridge, which more than made up for the lack of preferment. I would still recommend experimenting with a starter, though.

Cavendish Focaccia

For the dough…

300g strong white flour (or a mixture of Tipo 00 and SW, or semolina flour)

½ sachet (3.5g) of dried active yeast

7g caster sugar

1½  tsp salt

Tepid water

…and the rest:

c. 50g butter

3 tbsp olive oil

1 tsp honey (I used golden syrup… heresy!)

6 garlic cloves (4 whole and 2 finely chopped)

Dried rosemary

Sea salt


  • Sieve the dry ingredients for the bread into a bowl, including the yeast. Make a well in the centre and combine the water until all of the ingredients bind into a dough that comes away from the edges of the bowl, but isn’t too sticky to handle. (This is how Dad usually makes his dough.) Knead until smooth and elastic.
  • Leave to prove at room temperature for an hour or so. If you have time at this point, bung it into a plastic bag and refrigerate. It’s really up to you how long you leave it in the fridge for (within reason), but ours happily kept for a couple of days which really matured the taste.
  • Remove the dough from the fridge when ready and let it sit at room temperature for an hour or so before baking.
  • Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 200˚C. Grease a regular 8” cake tin.
  • Slice the tops off 3 cloves of garlic, leaving the scaly exterior intact. Place on a makeshift foil tray (to save on washing-up), toss with olive oil and sea salt, and cover with a little more foil. Roast in the preheated oven for a good 35 minutes, or until soft and golden brown. Reduce oven temp to 180˚C
  • While these are roasting, melt the butter in a pan with the olive oil at a medium heat. Once it’s up to heat, toss in the rosemary and leave for a minute or so. Then add the finely chopped garlic.
  • Sauté at a medium to high temperature until the garlic is a pale golden. Stir in the honey. Bring up to a brisk bubble, and then remove immediately from the heat.
  • Take your dough and form a well in it. Knead the garlic-butter-honey mixture into it, folding and pushing back with the heel of your hand. After each push, give it a little half turn, and repeat. Keep kneading until the dough is supple and elastic once more, and the garlic is distributed evenly. See if it passes the windowpane test: stretch a portion of it out thinly. If it becomes semi-transparent without snapping, then you’re good to go.
  • Shape the dough in the cake tin to fit the container. At this point you can either let it prove for 10 minutes or so, or just whip it straight into the oven. I just put it in the oven, because the dough seemed raring to go.
  • Bake for about 30-35 minutes at 180˚C.
  • While the bread is in the oven, skin your slow-roasted garlic cloves and pound up in a pestle and mortar with a clove of crushed raw garlic, a glug of olive oil, a pinch of salt and dried rosemary. The amount of olive oil really depends on how much you think you’ll need to coat the bread.
  • About 10 mins before the bread is due to come out, quickly remove it from the oven and brush with the roasted garlic-olive oil mixture. Sprinkle with sea salt and return to the oven.
  • Once the bread is golden brown on top, and sounds hollow when tapped on the base, it’s ready. It’s quite a thin bread, so if it’s got that lovely caramel crust, the chances are that it’s cooked through.

Garlic on the top shelf & just about to come out, bread on the bottom & just gone in. As soon as the garlic comes out, you can whack the temp down to 180C.

And the best part? You can pretty much serve it there and then! We unfurled the tartan rug in the garden and ate it al fresco with an avocado salad, but it could also brighten up any table or desk with a ray of summer picnic nostalgia.


If Bread Were Dynamite…

18 Jul

The day before yesterday I gave my hybrid starter a go. In English, I made an incredibly wet dough, bunged it in the fridge overnight for a chilly prove, and next day I added more flour to lend it some much-needed surface tension (it barely had enough to rise the night before: it groaned itself upwards a little but swiftly resigned itself instead to bubbling as proof of… well, proof).

In any case, as before, following the first prove, and adding the extra flour, I shaped the dough and gave it some privacy for its second prove on a sheet of oiled greaseproof paper. The dough looked a little lethargic if I’m honest, so when I returned from the gym to see this an hour or so later, I reeled in disbelief:

It went from this:


to this:


Needless to say, it had exploded. If there’s one thing I’m learning – other than how to treat burn wounds – no two loaves are alike. Never a dull moment, eh?

It was messy, too, though. It was like the new Spiderman flick. No, really: the focus is on this monstrous lizard wreaking havoc in an otherwise functional and pedestrian city, and of course Peter Parker as he saves the day. But the real nightmare involved with a rampant giant lizard, or indeed an excitable wodge of dough, is the resulting clean-up operation.

The dough really bonded with the greaseproof paper, and believe me it took some doing to tear the two apart. My irritated wrangling paid off for the most part, but I couldn’t help noticing a sliver of paper while chewing on a slice post-bake. Hopefully I was alone in that experience. The fusion of stationery and food should be left to fortune cookies. They’re the experts.

Anyway, I reshaped the dough as gently as I could, hoping against hope that the crumb wouldn’t suffer too much at my hand. I mean, I couldn’t very well bake bread’s answer to a giant reptile, even though the crumb may well have been a sight for sore eyes.


Apparently undeterred, the loaf rose spectacularly in the oven. Half an hour’s baking at full whack was enough to slightly char one side of it, but I’m resigned to this as a side effect of a stupid oven. It’s what’s inside that counts, after all.

For all its showiness, however, the bread ultimately let me down. Once cooled, it was my brother who eagerly sliced into it. The intersection revealed an underwhelming crumb, reminiscent of the Funeral Bread. Moreover the flavour wasn’t as nutty or as full-bodied as my previous sloppy dough, probably because the more recent addition of flour didn’t have time to truly meet and greet the yeast. The shape, however, was a marked improvement.

This compromise between surface tension and crumb is so tricky! But I won’t say impossible, nothing’s impossible. Perhaps a good starter’s the answer, but I have yet to actually start one. I need to do some research first, but I’ll get there.

For the time being, I’m thinking a good supportive container (like a mould, à la Jim Lahey’s no knead bread – http://www.nytimes.com/2006/11/08/dining/081mrex.html) coupled with sloppy dough. Except I’m still planning on kneading the dough. Perhaps that’s the answer to my surface-tension related prayers. Or perhaps a therapist is. Who knows?

Anyway, in the meantime sink your teeth into the recipe for the above hyperactive bread. As usual, it’s solidly based on a basic French bread dough, and only one variable’s been fully played with. I’d attach a warning, but I think it’s just a misguided dough with a penchant for greaseproof paper. Perfectly innocent.



400g strong white flour and a good deal extra

c. 200g wholemeal flour

1 tsp salt

1/2 tsp dried yeast

tepid water


Sift the 400g flour, and combine with the salt and yeast. Make a well in the centre.

– Add enough of the water to form a wet dough, bordering on batter consistency.

– Knead (I had to effectively stir it, in the bowl, with my hands) until you feel the dough starting to strengthen and fuse.

– Place the dough into an oiled bowl, cover with clingfilm and put in the fridge. Leave for at least 12 hours.

– Once the mixture is peppered with little air bubbles, remove from the fridge and work in the wholemeal flour, and enough of the extra flour so that it forms a dough that is just stiff enough to sit up on its own, and not so sticky that you’re afraid to touch it. Basically, it’s dough’s answer to a teenager.

– Shape into a long oval, leave to prove for a second time, and (all going well) pop into a pre-heated oven at top temperature (mine reaches 250°C). Bake for approx 30 mins (perhaps 5 or so minutes more) with a smouldering pan of water at the base of the oven to crisp up the crust.

Et voilà! Tune in next time for yet another yeasty tragicomedy, folks.

Wet, wet, wet

15 Jul
This bread (baked on Friday) is, as promised, a wetter dough. I have a confession to make, however: I said I would play with one variable at a time, being all very scientific. This bread, though, differs from the last in a couple of ways: the dough was moister; the proving was time much longer (about 19 hours including the second rise); and, of course, the oven time was, necessarily, much shorter.
I did not wish for a repeat episode of the Cremation.
The thing about a longer proving time, as I’ve mentioned before, is that it works in opposition to yeast quantity and temperature. So I bunged in a mere half a teaspoon of dried yeast (need to get my hands on some active yeast at Lettercollum, a local organic food store here in Clonakilty). On top of that, I let the dough prove overnight in the fridge, much to my father’s consternation.
The second thing about the longer proving time is a more complex flavour, brought about by the development of the starches in the flour… I think. It’s a bit like sauté-ing onions. For maximum flavour, a slow, yawning sizzle that massages the flavour out of them is best. And bread, fussy and difficult as it is, needs to be spoiled and coddled in much the same way. At least, that’s the impression that yours truly, amateur baker extraordinaire, gets!
Other than that, I didn’t deviate from the previous recipe.
I’ve devoted a lot of TLC to this loaf, and I think the affection would be mutual if the bread had a frontal lobe. But, oh dear, once again trouble comes knocking on paradise’s door. You see, the compromise I made in wetting my dough (which helps with a fine, irregular crumb), was reducing surface tension. In layman’s terms, trying to get the dough to stay in a nice oval shape was a little like trying to get Flubber to stay still. My sloppy dough refused to be compliant, and, despite my best efforts, stubbornly oozed its way into a flatbread shape.
The pizza stone had turned into an effective chez longue for my lazy, lazy dough.
I remained hopeful that the hot air in the oven would give it a vertical boost. The result? Well, suffice to say that it didn’t rise as much as I’d hoped. Not that I was feeling particularly optimistic. It ended up looking like a flat bread, a lip-smacking and artisan flat bread, perhaps, but a flat bread nonetheless.
Happily it was decimated by the family – who were perhaps so relieved that it didn’t taste like cinders that they praised the flavour mightily. And, I admit, it was good, which bears testament to a nice, lethargic proof.
The crumb was pretty good too – certainly better than my last attempt: springy, more irregular and with a couple of satisfyingly gaping holes. Perhaps the lightness of the crumb had something to do with the dough being vertically challenged: the glucose bonds had less downward force to battle with. One thing I did notice was temperature’s effect on the crumb. My oven, unfortunately, heats in a non-uniform fashion, the back being hotter than the door at the front in general. This much I could gauge from the slightly charred half of my loaf.
But that same half also had a better crumb consistency. It’s obvious when I think about it, but more hot air equals a better rise in the oven.
(On a side note, the predominant oven rise takes place in the first ten or so minutes of baking – which, annoyingly, is also when the oven needs to regain heat lost through the oven door aperture. I wish there was a way of sneaking my bread in without having to open a great big door!)
As for crust, well, I think I’ve cracked it. In professional bakeries (such as the Sullivan Street Bakery in NYC, who offer an interesting “no knead” method) steam injection coupled with insanely high temperatures is common practice to achieve that no-nonsense, crunchy crust that, I suggest, makes bread sing. I just use a baking tin, heat it up to a smouldering temperature at the base of the oven, and tip in a little water. Trust me, it’s foolproof.  For further textural adventures, I sprinkled my dough with polenta (for want of semolina flour) after the second prove. That was a tip I learned at a pizza party last summer – there, the dough was rolled out using semolina flour instead of traditional plain white to prevent the dough from sticking to the counter. It really does boost the whole chewing experience.
When working the dough, I worked with sunflower oil instead of flour, not wanting to meddle too much with my moist consistency. In hindsight, perhaps it could have done with a little meddling after all, but then again, the experiment would then have been void. I think the oil may have had a part to play in the complex flavour of the loaf, too. The reason I didn’t add any lipids to the actual recipe is simply that they can interfere with the crumb. No fear, I will try a buttery loaf once I’ve found a strong foundation to work with.
Anyway, enough analysis. Here’s the basic recipe:
500g strong white flour
c. 200g wheatmeal flour
1.5 tsp salt
1/2 tsp dried yeast (from one of those 7g sachets)
hand-hot water (half boiling, half cold)
1. Sieve white flour into bowl. Combine remaining dry ingredients (including yeast).
2. Add enough water to make the dough sloppy.
3. Oil surface and hands. Knead the dough by gathering it all in hands, and rhythmically tugging at it from both sides in a cross-chest motion. Do so for about 10 mins, or until the dough is more supple and elastic.
4. Place in bowl, cover with cling film and pop in the fridge overnight. Next day, place the dough in a pan or on chosen baking surface. Shape (or try to) however you want. I warn you, this dough won’t allow you to be very adventurous in this regard.
5. Pre-heat oven to max temperature. Leave the shaped dough to double in volume.
6. Bake for half an hour.
Note: once the bread is shaped, I find it pretty awkward transferring it from one surface to another. But I like to use a hot baking stone, and since I obviously can’t let the bread go through its second prove on that (it would cook!), the risky business of moving the dough is necessary.
So I devised a little something something yesterday – I turned a baking sheet upside down, coated with oiled greaseproof paper, and slapped the dough onto that before shaping. That way I had an elevated surface (the tin) which I could carry as near as possible to the baking stone, and a means of shifting the dough slightly more effectively (the paper). It worked reasonably well, though I still have my sights on a pizza paddle.
And there we go!
As for my next loaf, I was just thinking this morning how a moist dough results in a better crumb than a dry dough. And how the first proof seems to be the most significant. Then I got to thinking about starters, about which I don’t know a huge amount. What I do know is that they’re sloppy at first, but then you add some flour to form a proper, pliable dough.
Deduced from all of this positing, I propose this as my next experiment: a wet dough (as above), allowed to prove overnight in the fridge, with flour added before shaping and the second prove. I’ll keep you posted.

The Bread of Death: A loaf dressed for mourning

10 Jul

I just finished the Leaving Cert, and I can safely say that it is cooking’s enemy.

The other day I made possibly my worst cauliflower curry to date – I don’t know what possessed me to follow a Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall recipe over Madhur Jaffrey’s unparalleled equivalent, but I hold my previous exams  at least partly responsible.

Today is also proof of my theory.

This morning, I set about making a basic dough. Plain flour (no strong in the cupboard, alas), a little wholemeal, water and yeast. Simple. So I kneaded it for about 10 minutes (at which point my upper arms were screaming in agony) and popped it into the airing cupboard for a relatively rapid rise.

The general idea is this: the warmer the atmosphere, the less time required for the prove, and vice-versa. My deadline was lunch, so unfortunately I didn’t have the luxury of a long and lazy rise. In other words, I skipped the daytrip around the dusty byways of Provence, and opted for the autoroute.

But needs must, and I still had high hopes for this bread. In fact, I skipped a pleasant, non-figurative walk in the woods so I could knock it back, shape it and tend to it after its second prove. I burnt my hand trying to drag the pizza stone out of the scalding oven. I made sacrifices for it. It had officially become my baby.

So you can imagine how distraught I was when I overshot the timing. Not by a little, but by a long, Provençal country mile. I told my brother how long it had been baking, and then asked when I should take it out. ‘After about half an hour,’ he replied. ‘How long did you say it had been in?’

‘Fifty minutes.’

Cue smoky oven, blackened crust, and my horrified expression as I pulled my mangled child from what had turned out to be its own personal crematorium.

I swallowed, attempted to smile, but I swear I have rarely felt so devastated. I even had to go upstairs to release a very brief sob. Pathetic, I know. But anyway.

Anyway. The crumb luckily wasn’t affected too badly, and remained springy and quite delicious. Unfortunately, it was also dense, an issue that couldn’t even be excused by my timing error.  Shape-wise, it could’ve done with a little more height, but blackened shell aside, it looked very edible indeed. The diagonal score running down its length would have worked a treat, actually. The polenta and flour mixture I rubbed the dough with would’ve also been a nice touch.

I can safely say my lesson’s learned on the timing front.

But the crumb still worries me. While I’m working on a starter, I’ll experiment with a wetter dough, using roughly the same timing and kneading process. One variable at a time.


10 Jul

Call me a bread-head, but I’m on a personal quest to bake the perfect bread.

Yeah, I know. I’m devoting a blog to that predictable hunk of flour and water that occupies a 30×10 patch in your fridge, cupboard or parlour. That dehydrated, pre-sliced white pan that must, must be made of reconstituted plastic because it’s unchanged after several weeks.

But bread is amazing: it’s been a staple of our diets for millenia. I won’t go into the history, but it’s undoubtedly been a steadfast companion to the human race over the years. It’s also the friend of innumerable dishes – curries, boeuf bourgignon, koftas – and serves as the basis of others. Even the term bread covers all manner of different types: it’s incredible the diversity that can be achieved working from such a narrow base of ingredients.

Plus, it’s got to be the most moreish foodstuff I can think of. I hate myself for it (and my hips hate me more), but I turn into a complete pig when presented with a pre-dinner basket of bread. Forget dessert, primi, secondi, cheese and wine: bread is the star of my show.

Good bread, that is.

I’m pretty into my food in general, but The Sound of Music taught me at a fairly young age to start at the very beginning. And perfecting bread seems obvious as the first port of call. I mean, it’s got to be incredibly simple, right?

Wrong, wrong, wrong. There are an overwhelming number of variables – if you want to learn about them in depth, I suggest you take a peak at The Fresh Loaf – not to mention a certain skill involved.

Nevertheless, my current inability to defeat Waitrose’s finest rather warms my cheeks. Right now, I aim to conquer our familiar, Western  loaf or baton. So, what do I seek? An open and moist crumb; a caramelised, crunchy crust; a nutty, full-bodied flavour; a firm shape.

Easier said than done. But when did that stop anybody?