Mocha Mayhem by Probably The World's Best Big Sister

Trey’s 18^th Birthday Cake!

So, for the family supper to celebrate my baby brother coming of age, I decided to give him a dose of mocha unadviseable for minors. Baptism by bittersweet. The cake is Ina Garten’s "Beatty's Chocolate Cake," which is deeeeeeply chocolatey, enriched with a cup of coffee, and the icing is a simple mocha ganache. Really, this is a sinfully simple combination and it delivers astounding decadence in flavor.

I mean seriously. Ganache? Do you know about ganache? Okay, who invented ganache? GOD. Ganache is from GOD. French God. DIEU. It’s food! It counts as food! Now, that’s a miracle. You put chocolate and cream together and that’s a RECIPE? Get out of here. There’s the door, you raving harridan. Bewitch me not with your florid lies. Ah, but it’s true, so true. Heat cream to near boiling, and pour over chopped chocolate, whisk until combined and you have the perfect chocolate glop, imo. Good as icing, filling, umm… marital aid… ganache can do it all. This ganache was mochafied with an eyeballed shake-in of instant coffee, added to the heated cream. I found some recipes that advised espresso powder, but I thought that might be a little more bitter, though mellower. Anyway, I went with the coffee crystals. I think they deliver a reliable coffee flavor, something I take to be the platonic ideal of coffee taste.

HOW YOU MAKE AMAZING:

Greasing the pans for the cake. I asked Handsome Consort, “does the fact that I naturally put a baggie on my hand to grease a pan show my white trash?” but he seemed to think it was admirable American ingenuity. Wait till I show him how you can jack up a car with a cinder block, and give a hungry baby kool-aid.

The parchment paper thing. Alton Brown clued me into this, or at least I’ll credit him for broadcasting it. I think I would have figured it out myself. But it works like a charm. Fold and cut and unfold and no freehand circle-drawing ability fantasies will you watch deflate and die.

About then, my refrigerator door plum fell clean off. Uh, that’s an emergency. Funny how important doors are. Like fences in that poem. Fences : Neighbors :: Doors : Food. Fortunately, we have pretty wicked gender modes going today, so Handsome Consort fixed down on the floor while I stood barefoot in the kitchen baking a cake and trying not to furrow my brow, lest I wrinkle.

The cake recipe is one published by Ina Garten, the cookbook maven I most trust on this kind of classic dish. Alton’s recipes can be a little meh. That his food’s resulting mediocrity originates in a prime-time show with an informatics bent, that endows audiences of both genders with knowledge on activities they are not necessarily compelled to practice is proof to me that Alton acolytes may also be phonies and should be tested in the kitchen properly, subjected to gustatory scrutiny. But anyway. I made the batter, no problem, and I did think it rather thin looking. Oil, and a whole cup of buttermilk and coffee each, to only 1.75 C of flour and .75 of cocoa. But I assumed it would rise a lot. Yep!

I took the cake out, evened one out and tasted the skin I’d shaved off it and was VERY happy. Fudgy flavor but light, rich texture. Like a brownie, in space. Depressurized. The edges were the slightest bit crisp in the most wonderful caramelized sugar way.

For the filling, I heaped the ganche high so it would remain a thick layer, and help the cake be level. Piled it high and then pressed it out a bit with the second layer.

Slice and toast some almonds. Kidding. But yeah, toast them in a cast iron pan, lots of stirring, some will burn if you are not pure of heart. So pray and stir.

Pressing the almonds onto the sides of the cake was a giant pain in the ass; I'm not gonna lie. And the top is indeed rimmed with chocolate covered espresso beans. VIOLA.

As for a media pairing, it’s got to be Oliver! Also known as “The Boys Eating Movie,” to my brother when he was about four. Watch the clip and you can see why a little blond boychik would be dazzled by it. And this paean to the deliciousness of food in the hungry imagination seems an auspicious beginning to our foodie-filmie fête.

If the little blond moppet was identified with by my brother, I’ve got another Oliver! fan identification to add…. And srsly, this musical number is like... my bloody raison d’etre. SMALL PLEASURES! One of the BEST singing prostitute songs. So, ‘ave a slice of choc’late cake and drink yer gin, dear.