The trick to crème brûlée is crunch followed by cream. It should make a bold impression and then swoon you over with delicacy. It should be subtle-- not overly sweet no harsh creaminess on the throat. It's subtlety should make you stop chewing and savor the custard. And it should pleasantly linger in your mouth.
Hotel Eychenne's crème brûlée is convincing.
There's always something thrilling about when it's acceptable to play with food, especially in formal settings. It excites me to watch dainty ladies using long silver spoons smash the crusts of their burnt sugar layers revealing the white cream beneath. It's satisfying to hear the shatter.
The crème brûlée had a crunchy burnt layer, formed by using a blow-torch to brown the cane sugar on top. I like things that crunch. The slight acidity of the burnt taste is first relaxed by the initial taste of the cream, and then the cream takes over. The simplicity is astounding. It made me stop and just savor the taste of cream. Like most foods at Hotel Eychenne, their Crème brûlée is traditional: sugar, egg, vanilla and, of course, fresh cream. But why it is so convincing is because it's precise. Crème brûlée often risks going overboard with either the sugar or the vanilla. Too much vanilla and you're left with a yankee candle. This is not what I want to eat. Too much sugar and it becomes childish, and worse risks leaving you that scratchy throat feeling.
For years I subconsciously avoided Crème brûlée. I think this was because I had it once in a restaurant in Chicago and remembered it being an overly sweet, thrill-less desert. It was not until last summer when on one of my last meals that year at Hotel Eychenne I decided I would try this dish, one of France's most famous. And it won me over.
Hotel Eychenne's crème brûlée is convincing.
There's always something thrilling about when it's acceptable to play with food, especially in formal settings. It excites me to watch dainty ladies using long silver spoons smash the crusts of their burnt sugar layers revealing the white cream beneath. It's satisfying to hear the shatter.
The crème brûlée had a crunchy burnt layer, formed by using a blow-torch to brown the cane sugar on top. I like things that crunch. The slight acidity of the burnt taste is first relaxed by the initial taste of the cream, and then the cream takes over. The simplicity is astounding. It made me stop and just savor the taste of cream. Like most foods at Hotel Eychenne, their Crème brûlée is traditional: sugar, egg, vanilla and, of course, fresh cream. But why it is so convincing is because it's precise. Crème brûlée often risks going overboard with either the sugar or the vanilla. Too much vanilla and you're left with a yankee candle. This is not what I want to eat. Too much sugar and it becomes childish, and worse risks leaving you that scratchy throat feeling.
For years I subconsciously avoided Crème brûlée. I think this was because I had it once in a restaurant in Chicago and remembered it being an overly sweet, thrill-less desert. It was not until last summer when on one of my last meals that year at Hotel Eychenne I decided I would try this dish, one of France's most famous. And it won me over.
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