It’s been two months since I’ve baked anything, strange for someone who generally whips up some new dessert every other day. The first month was consumed with mid-breakup anxiety and post-breakup morbidity—that period during which trivialities you’ve spewed out to freshly dumped friends start flying back at you, making you realize how full of crap you sounded.
Month two found me in San Francisco and thinking I would bake my way to recovery. That month passed with my kitchen untouched. Healing didn’t come from solitary baking—instead, it involved indulging in the labors of others. Healing came, in part, from Tartine Bakery and my culinary infatuation with its co-owner, Elisabeth Prueitt. Her cookbook was my first foray into serious baking, and the shop was exactly as I imagined her environment—intimate, electric and warm. It felt like home while I was left abandoned and betrayed far from what was truly familiar to me.
San Francisco was also my sexual Rumspringa. I’d spent years with—shall we say—Starbucks pastries. A narrowly avoided alternate reality found me convincing myself that a lifelong commitment to the lemon loaf from the airport Starbucks display case was satisfying. Improving my dessert game meant “coming out” again as an assured, eager, sexual adult. Where better than in San Francisco to throw my gay cotillion?
Studying pastries and men, I devoured every available “good.” These are my favorite Tartine desserts and their oddly appropriate human equivalents, who each recharged me.
The Eclair
Valrhona chocolate glaze. A cocoa-powder dunk making the first bite intensely rich. Vanilla cream crammed with seeds bursting from the shell. If this doesn’t turn you on, what does? The same goes for my gentleman friend, the Eclair.
Like the dessert, he was too addicting. Who can resist Valrhona chocolate?
The Eclair demands attention, but the luscious filling balances the harsh chocolate exterior. Like a protein-powdered Greek god, he was masculine—chiseled. Like the non-meticulous piping of the pastry’s shell, his body, bulged and ridged, was strong and powerful, seemingly sculpted by Michelangelo as a Goliath to pair with David. I adored being seen out with this Herculean spectacle. Balancing that striking anatomy, he was gentle, romantic and enamored with this short nerd.
However, Monsieur Eclair was more of a cronut-style, eclair-croissant hybrid and was therefore flaky. After abruptly cancelling, he reached out to apologize, and I prepared an aloof response. But I’m a glutton for punishment and eclairs. Like the dessert, he was too addicting. Who can resist Valrhona chocolate?
Tres Leches Cake
Coconut-milk-soaked cake, cream filling, goat’s-milk caramel. On the top, shining whipped cream. On the bottom, crisp puff pastry. The naked sides leave layers of cake and cream unobstructed. Something felt right while I was eating this for breakfast after returning from Tres Leches’s apartment—one Latin indulgence after another.
The notion of a Latin lover seems outdated, but Tres Leches fit the bill.
The Tres Leches was an emotionally available tour de force. Exposed and seeking vulnerability, he didn’t get 30 minutes into our date before making personal inquiries. I obliged, but then — CRUNCH. The puff pastry crisp at the bottom. My hesitation toward openness. Fortunately, for my growth, I took the bite and went back in. My vulnerability, for once, felt soothing and sensual rather than debilitating.
The notion of a Latin lover seems outdated, but Tres Leches fit the bill. Every kiss, a Hollywood embrace. His eyes, penetrating. Could this have become something? Not sure. My waspy tendencies would have driven him “loco.” His insistence on talking about feelings would have sent me diving off the Golden Gate Bridge dressed like a Teletubby. But it was perfect for the moment. Although it’s over, I’ll always remember his exquisite smile—the shining whipped-cream topping.
Ginger Torte
The ginger torte reigns over the case. The strong molasses penetrated by the sharpness of ginger. They could frost this glorified super-muffin, but no. It sits, knowing you’ll pick it. The Ginger Torte was a barrel-chested beast. Boldly, he sat in the display case, waiting for me to take the bait, an undecorated super-muffin awaiting the kill.
Brutish. Perhaps the sexually progressive French have a better-suited descriptor, or the sexually terrifying Germans have an encyclopedia. His words and actions would make HBO subscribers blush. But after nice treats like the Starbucks lemon loaf, being pushed by pungent ginger and kneaded by thick molasses was what the doctor ordered.
The dichotomy between his roughness and affectionate nature was comforting. If only he’d possessed ginger’s astringency, I never would’ve gotten involved. But there was always warmth. He was just gingerbread. The ginger torte is what it is. So was he. I never would’ve thought either would make this list. Time has a way of changing palettes. And sometimes palettes just need to be trained.
Passion-Fruit-Lime Bavarian Cake
Lime-syrup-soaked sponge, tangy passion-fruit cream, whipped-cream coating and coconut flakes piled high in a milky white loaf. Its whiteness might suggest that it’s normal vanilla cake. I didn’t expect more than normal from the Bavarian. How wrong I was to underestimate his familiar exterior.
The Bavarian was an intellectually stimulating partner with razor-sharp wit. Our first date, thankfully, was at a well-lit, quiet brewhouse. I wouldn’t have to attempt conversation over club music, the volume of which catalyzes the deafening of millennials and finalizes hearing impairment for anyone who watched Columbo. Before getting the check, he brazenly, tenderly kissed me. Pardon? He was white cake, not some Casanova eclair. We were clearly heading toward that moment, but I was expecting this in privacy.
The Bavarian could’ve covered himself with passion fruit or dyed his whipped cream to avoid the vanilla comparison. But he didn’t. Instead of appeasing everyone’s tastes, he trusted that someone would choose the unadorned, blindingly white cake. The risk in choosing it made the surprise of the paradise of flavors inside quite titillating.
And if someone refuses the cake because the decoration isn’t adequate, that’s also fair. This wasn’t the cake for them.
Lemon Cream Tart
Dubbing this pure, unpretentious tart “simple” does a disservice to the technique and distinct flavor built into each round. Let’s call it clear—honest. And that honesty is comforting.
I’ll find that in a partner. Or I won’t. But life is too short to perseverate on my Starbucks lemon loaf when the possibility of a Lemon Cream Tart is out there.
I can envision Elisabeth Prueitt baking the shortcrust to a shade of brown Sherwin-Williams would name “Perfection.” Whisking lemon cream, filling tart shells, hand-whipping cream (do your superheroes not take shortcuts?) and spooning out a quenelle on top. She could add spun sugar or pipe designs. She won’t. That dessert belongs elsewhere. Not Tartine. Just a single viola on top. This tart won’t yell to get attention. It’ll give an endearing smirk with happy, squinty eyes, and you’ll get it. Because it is happiness.
The Lemon Cream Tart is the friend who held me when I needed support and doubted my worth; the siblings whose faith in my strength only increased it; the friends I barely see who consistently treat me like family. I don’t deserve the tart, but my greatest pleasure in life is always—no matter the circumstances—finding it on my plate.
I’ll find that in a partner. Or I won’t. But life is too short to perseverate on my Starbucks lemon loaf when the possibility of a Lemon Cream Tart is out there.
What I know is that a fulfilled life is waiting on me. I have to get to work. It’s time to get back into the kitchen.
Hey! The Bold Italic recently launched a podcast, This Is Your Life in Silicon Valley. Check out the full season or listen to the episode below featuring Alexia Tsotsis, former editor in chief of TechCrunch. More coming soon, so stay tuned!
