When the pastry cream and whipped cream were folded together, something very strange happened...
In 2016, 21-year-old me had landed her first job in yachting, as sous/crew chef on a 184ft private motor yacht. I was wet behind the ears but, luckily, my new head chef was an absolute stand-up guy and was willing to show me the ropes. As first jobs in yachting go, I had fallen on my feet.
It was week two. Everything was still new to me. It was a constant internal battle not to call the galley the kitchen and my radio my walkie-talkie. The boat was in Miami, and the live-aboard owners decided they wanted to throw a party — that night. Twelve hours to put together a seven-course tasting menu for 12 guests. The urgency meant I was in luck — I was required to do some guest cooking. It was my time to shine.
The head chef made beautiful loaves of sourdough, to be served with a silky smooth aioli for dipping. I was put on the aioli. Tick: I could make a garlicky emulsion, no bother. For the main dessert, they would have a raspberry mille-feuille: two discs of crisp, golden- brown puff pastry stacked on top of each other, and the middle section made up of alternating raspberries, piped dulce de leche and piped crème diplomat. I was to prepare the crème diplomat. Again, tick — it had been one of the elements in my culinary school practical exam, so I was a dab hand.
But I learned a big lesson that day. If you look in my fridge now, you will see blue tape labels on everything.
I set about making a crème patisserie and later in the day I whipped an equal amount of double cream to soft peaks and put my two elements in the fridge, ready to be combined when the time was right.
The day had been a busy one, but it had gone well, smoothly even. Everything was lined up and ready to go, with every piece of mise en place present and accounted for. The stews had pulled the crockery, the menus were printed and the guests were arriving. I decided it was time to finish my last little jobs before the amuse-bouches needed to be assembled. I grabbed my blue piping bag of crème patisserie and my blue piping bag of whipped cream from the fridge. I snipped off the ends and emptied them into a large metal mixing bowl. With a flexible spatula, I started to gently fold them together, careful not to knock too much air out of the whipped cream. But something strange happened. Once the two came together, the mixture immediately slackened. Perplexed, I took the bowl to my head chef and asked, “What have I done wrong? Can it be saved?”
After a few quick turns of the spatula, he sniffed the mixture. Then he put it down, got a tasting spoon and tried some. “Oh my God, it’s the aioli,” he said. My face drained of color, and I felt myself go simultaneously hot and cold. He opened the fridge, rummaged around and took out the blue piping bag of whipped cream. I’d put three blue piping bags in the same fridge and I hadn’t put a label on any of them. I was mortified. I’d carefully folded together the crème patisserie and the aioli.
Not only had I ruined the entire batch of aioli, but I also used up all of the crème patisserie, which couldn’t be made again and cooled in time for the dessert. We were minutes away from starting service. I apologized, fully expecting a tirade of swear words and admonishments, but to my sheer relief, he laughed and said I would learn more from that mistake than I would from any of my successes. He was completely right.
We served the guests a quickly made Hellmann’s-and-crushed-garlic number and used plain whipped cream to fill the mille-feuille. The rest of the night went by in a flurry of beautiful dishes, and no one else ever got wise to my faux pas.
But I learned a big lesson that day. If you look in my fridge now, you will see blue tape labels on everything.