Night 6: Silverash, Mixed Fruit Tarts, Carrot Cake with Kjerag Milk Tea
The Late Night Diner is a part of Rhodes Island's canteen. That goes without saying – to whom had anyone ever heard of a diner in the boiler room?
As the name implies, it opens around midnight. There are only a handful of customers at a time.
Drinks are in the cooler. Anyone burdened by their own thoughts could take one and chug it down, anytime.
Menu? No such thing exists. What the Chef prepares is what you get. It all depends on his mood of the day.
Welcome to the Rhodes Island Late Night Diner. In here, you might even meet a familiar face or two.
It was quite a surprise when Silverash showed up in the waiting line. It's almost as outlandish as the Doctor hanging Kal'sit for shameful display under the ship's bridge instead of the usual, other way around.
Back to the Diner. If the Doctor ever met Silverash here, they might politely invite him to their office for a game of chess. If it was Closure, she would wrap herself around his legs so tightly that he could barely walk, all the while declaring her admiration for his wealth. Currently, a girl in front of him was trying her hardest to fit him in her selfie while pretending to be business as usual. All these, Silverash had accepted in good grace. After all, he is but an ordinary operator among the hundreds and thousands aboard the land ship. There is no need for attitude.
"What would you like?" the Chef was busying himself with dicing pieces of fruit. He didn't even raise his eyes.
It was one of many unspoken rules of the Late Night Diner, that their privileges meant little here. Silverash pondered on what to have for tonight, then placed an order for mixed fruit tarts with a small slice of carrot cake. They were common pastries in Victoria. He would find himself partake quite often during his student years there. But that was in the past. Since then he had returned to Kjerag and started a storm that shook the nation, by the end he found himself settling on Rhodes Island. Cherish the days of yore with a taste of familiarity – it seemed to be a good idea, even if the occasions were sparse.
For the Chef, shaping the crust of the tarts was not hard – butter whipped till puffed up, then added in flour, sugar and eggs. Nead the dough into the shape of the little cups and it was done. However the challenge lies within making the custard cream that would be used to fill in between the fruit and the crust. First, he would need to mix egg with sugar, then dusting in starch powder and mixing thoroughly. Afterwards a pot of hot milk that just about to simmer was carefully poured it into the mixture. All the while, he needed to keep mixing or he would get a bowl of nice-smelling yet useless milk-and-egg soup. When the mixture had fully absorbed the milk, it would be placed in a pot with the more milk and left to simmer. As soon as the liquid lay thick as freshly whipped cream, heat could be turned off. Add in a modest chunk of butter and mix well – a pot of hand-made custard was ready. Smooth yet rich with the pleasant fragrance of egg and milk, it would be left to cool then be whipped one more time so that the smoothness would be improved even further. It would also be easier to shape. Fill a piping bag with it and squeeze onto the freshly baked crust. Then top with a generous layer of diced fruit and there you have it, the most popular Victorian pastry for afternoon tea.
"Please enjoy, " the Chef presented Silverash with a tray of fruit tarts.
"Mister Chef", Silverash raised his hand courteously, "Could you please add some walnuts in today's carrot cake?"
"Ah, a connoisseur I see," the Chef gave a thumbs-up, "It's in there, of course. Bit more icing, perhaps?"
"Less would be good," Silverash subtly bowed.
Compare to the delicate pastry that is fruit tart, carrot cake is rather mundane. Legend has it that the common Victorians of the past could not afford sugar, so instead used shredded carrots to sweeten the cakes – of course, in today's recipe sugar is a must. Eggs, sugar, vegetable oil, mix well together and whipped to puffiness. Then sprinkle in the powders - Flour with baking powder, baking soda and powdered cinnamon – and made into batter. Finally, add in shredded carrot and roasted walnuts crumbs, then pour into a cake pan and put in the oven. The icing would be made from butter, cream cheese and sugar, with a few drops of vanilla extract and lemon juice.
Presently the cake was still in the oven. Silverash took a chunk off a tart and carefully tasted it. The lightly brown crust looked hard, yet crumbled easily in his mouth. The custard cream was silky, and the fruit bits fresh and juicy. With every bite of the tart, he could feel the crust crumbs melting on the tip of his tongue, and with it came a sweetness somewhat muted by a fleeting hint of sour and bitter – the Chef had added tiny amount of shaved lemon rind in the crust dough, making the flavour even more delicate. As for diced fruit toppings, Victorian-style fruit tart never had a fixed recipe. Any seasonal fruit can be used for it. For this batch of tarts, the Chef chose honeydew melon, green grape and fresh blueberry.
Thoroughly savouring the fragrance of the fruit, Silverash closed his eyes. When that aroma dissipated into the back of his tongue, lingering in the aftertaste was the rich, smooth flavour of the cream and cheese. When he opened his eyes again, the slice of carrot cake had already been waiting before him.
He cut into the cake and send a small piece into his mouth with a fork. The first thing he tasted was the cream cheese icing. The sweetness lay thick, perhaps a bit too much so. He could feel its stickiness in between his teeth, yet the intertwining sweet-and-sour of vanilla and lemon worked to tone it down. Then came the taste of the cake itself. Its distinct flavour shined brightly, never overshadowed by that of the icing - a hint of charcoal here, a pinch of cinnamon there, all tied together by the carrots' mulled sweetness. It was as if an elegant ball room dance with restrained passion gradually coming onto the stage before a scarlet velvet curtain. Finally he felt the textures – the roughness of the walnut mixed in with the sponge-like tenderness of the cake. It was a bliss.
Carrot carries with itself a distinctive and somewhat unpleasant flavour. This making it hard to accept alone for the palate is a belief prolific among many culinarians. Yet the act of baking is transformative - what has been left in the cake afterwards was a unique sweetness quite distinguishable from that of the sugar. Thus the carrot cake remained ever popular as a mainstay among pastries in many restaurants.
"A gift for you, my good sir", the Chef gently set down a small porcelain teapot and a tea cup on the table.
Even without pouring out its content, Silverash could smell that awaited underneath the lid. It's a nigh-familiar fragrance. He needed not to question how the Chef acquired the tea and the accompanied ingredients. He had his ways. Silverash poured himself a cup. In an instant, the strong aroma of the warm salty milk tea pulled him from Rhodes Island back to the snow-covered mountains of Kjerag.
The tea of Kjerag is vastly different from its counterpart in Victoria. The denizens of the snowy realm need to ward off the bone-chilling snow and frost. They need ample amount of calories. To that end they added milk, dri butter and pinches of salt in their tea. Just one pot is enough to warm one against the bitter cold for the entire day.
Light brown was the color of the tea. It came from boiling leaves taken off a tea brick and mixing with milk. On top of the tea floated droplets of oil and it smelled heavenly – an obvious sign that the boss added some aromatics in the pot. Silverash smirked and took a sip.
Victorians had always thought the people of Kjerag as uncultured barbarians, consuming raw flesh and blood of dead beasts and drinking from large barrels of spirit in excess. Even if their daintily noblemen and women would somehow acquired this rich milk tea that possesses the power to withstand blizzards, getting a taste of its explosive, passionate flavour, and feel the unbridled energy rising from within after consuming it, they would still consider it as an example of a backward tribal culture, a savage affront to their delicate sensibilities raised on elegant pastries and carefully steeped tea.
There might be a sliver of truth to it, thought Silverash. After all, his homeland was a place where even leafy vegetables are hard to come by. Perishing the thought, he looked towards the counters. There the Chef, bending forward and busy, was adding handful of walnut crumbs into the cake batter.
In the kitchen where his sight could not reach, there was a fine lady in heavy Saintess garments. In her arms was a hefty tea brick, and she gazed on fondly towards the tea cup in his hand.