playing with fire and water

pepper cookies

It just isn't Christmas until I've tasted that first warm bite of spice cookies. Gingerbread, gingersnaps, lebkuchen, speculaas, hermits— I love them all!

As their names imply, pfeffernusse, pepparkakor, and piparkakut are spice cookies that are set apart from the rest by the inclusion of pepper. But if you're expecting the fragrant, tingling burn of piperine, you might be disappointed as even the oldest recipes for these cookies contain only small amounts of pepper, whose flavor is overshadowed by other pungent spices. 

Don't get me wrong— I still enjoy these cookies— it's just that they don't quite live up to the promise of their name. And since it was their name that captured my imagination in the first place, it was high time to re-imagine what a pepper cookie can be.

clockwise from top left: long pepper (Piper longum), pink peppercorns (Schinus terebinthifolius), black peppercorns (Piper nigrum), sichuan pepper (Zanthoxylum piperitum), grains of paradise (Aframomum melegueta), green peppercorns (immature Piper nigrum), center: chile tepin (Capsicum annuum var. glabriusculum)

pepper cookies
makes about 5 dozen 2" cookies 

Chocolate rye malt is used in the production of dark beers and can be purchased from beer brewing suppliers. It gives these cookies a pleasant bitter edge, deep roasted aroma, and darker color. If unavailable, substitute equal amount of wheat or rye flour that has been slowly roasted in a low oven to a dark chocolate color.

spice blend: 6 black peppercorns, 5 green peppercorns, 8 pink peppercorns, 1/4 tsp sichuan pepper, 1/4 tsp grains of paradise, 1/2 of a long pepper, 3 chile tepin, 4" piece of cinnamon stick, 4 whole cloves, 2 cardamom pods, 8 coriander seeds, 1/2 tsp coarse salt

Place all ingredients in a spice blender and grind to a fine powder. Sift ground spices through a fine sieve and re-grind any coarse pieces.

245g (2 cups) flour
14g (3 Tblsps) finely ground chocolate rye malt, or dark toasted flour
2.5g (1/2 tsp) baking powder
1.25g (1/4 tsp) baking soda 
85g (3 oz) unsalted butter, softened
150g (5.25 oz) muscavado or dk brown sugar
1 egg
7g microplaned fresh galangal root, or ginger root 

Place the ground spice mixture in a bowl with the flour, chocolate rye malt, baking powder, and baking soda. Whisk until well blended. In the bowl of an electric mixer, cream the butter and sugar on medium speed until lightened. Add the egg and galangal and mix until incorporated. Add the dry ingredients and mix on low speed until a dough forms. Wrap dough in plastic wrap or place in an airtight container and age in refrigerator for 2 days to allow flavors to bloom and mellow.
When ready to bake, preheat oven to 176C/350F. Roll out dough to .63 cm/ 1/4" thickness and cut into desired shapes. Bake for 10-12 minutes. When cool, dust with confectioners sugar.

(ground and whole) chocolate malted rye berries

fruit tart

Once, my friend Judy gave me a rudimentary lesson on throwing pottery. I can still remember how the clay felt between my fingers as it turned on the wheel. Supple. Lithe. Obsequious. A gentle pull would make the clay rise like a tower; a push would flatten it into a slab. Up... down... out... in... I delighted in the responsive dance of force and symmetry. 

I went into the pottery studio that day with a project in mind: a shallow bowl with thin walls that tapered gently outward. Tried as I did, my inexperienced hands couldn't make the clay dance that way. Later, it was decided that the best way to build the bowl was from a molded slab. The process involved rolling, cutting and molding. THESE were motions that my hands understood; it was the dance of pastry.

There are two types of molds used for clay slabs: slump and hump. In slump molding, the clay is laid inside the mold, much like pastry dough is fitted inside a pie or tart pan. In hump molding, the clay is draped over the outside of the mold. This was how I formed my bowl because: 1) it was the only type of mold available at the studio, and 2) it allowed the inside of the bowl to remain smooth and free of blemishes while modeling the slab to the mold. The process made me question why we build pastry crusts inside the confinement of pans and overlook the outside. 

Wet clay is made up of fine mineral particles that float in thin layers of water. When clay is rolled, the particles line up in the direction of the force. If a clay slab is rolled in only one direction, the particles line up to form a grain that will cause the object to shrink against the grain when dried and fired.

I've often wondered why recipes for pie crusts insist that the dough should be rolled from the center out, and why they sometimes shrink unevenly when baked. I've wondered, too, about the turns in laminated doughs. I never expected to find the answers in working with clay, but I'm glad I did.

freeform pate brisee bowl ✢ yuzu curd ✢ meringue 
rambutan ✢ lychee ✢ myoga ✢ ume
ground cherry ✢ black sesame 

cornu copiae

The symbolism of the cornucopia as a font of abundance is attributed to classic mythology, most notably to the goat Amalthea, who was Zeus' foster mother and nursemaid. The story goes that young Zeus, after breaking off one of Amalthea's horn, atoned for the accident by endowing it with his divine power to provide, in an endless supply, any fruit that she desired. As fantastical as the myth may be, at its core is a loving compensation of nourishment, and a promise of an eternal feast.

gingersnap pecan ✢ pumpkin pie mousse ✢ chocolate

pumpkin pie mousse

120g cream cheese, softened
120g pumpkin puree
20g sugar
1g cinnamon
.75g ground ginger
.50g ground nutmeg
200g cold heavy cream

Beat cream cheese until light and fluffy. Add pumpkin, sugar and spices and beat until well blended. Stir in heavy cream until mixture is smooth. Pour into a .5 Liter iSi whip canister and charge with 1 N2O cartridge. Invert canister and shake vigorously. Chill for 30 minutes before dispensing.  

In this season of gratitude and feasting, may your horn always overflow with plenty.

sweet potato pie

glazed baby sweet potatoes ✢ kieffer lime marshmallow
sweet potato crumble

 

glazed sweet potatoes

150g peeled baby sweet potatoes, or mature sweet potatoes cut into .5" x 3.5" batons
30g unsalted butter, melted
30g maple syrup
10g dark rum
10 gratings of tonka bean on microplane 
pinch of salt

Pack sweet potatoes in a single layer in a vacuum bag. Combine the remaining ingredients in a small bowl and pour over sweet potatoes. Pull a vacuum on the filled bag and seal. Cook in an 82C/180F water bath for 25 minutes. Empty contents of bag into a saute pan and set over med-high heat. Cook, tossing frequently, until liquid has reduced to a glaze and coats the sweet potatoes. Keep warm until ready to assemble.

sweet potato crumble

100g grated sweet potato
8g butter
35g orange juice
35g water

Melt the butter in a saute pan set over medium high heat. Add the shredded sweet potato and toss to coat evenly with butter. Add the orange juice and water and bring to a simmer. Cover and cook for about 5 minutes or until the potato shreds are just tender. Uncover and raise the heat to high. Cook until all liquid is evaporated and the shreds begin to sizzle. Immediately remove pan from heat and transfer contents to a parchment-lined baking sheet. Carefully separate and spread the shreds out in a single layer, ensuring that there are no clumps. Bake the shreds in a 76C/170F oven for about 90 minutes, or until they are dry and crisp, tossing, separating, and re-spreading the shreds several times. Cool completely.

30g pecans
60g flour 
15g muscavado sugar
15g malted milk powder
2g microplaned gingerroot
1g salt
a pinch each of ground cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and allspice
45g unsalted butter, cut in small dice

Place the cooled, crisp sweet potato shreds and the pecans in food processor and process in short bursts until reduced to sandy consistency. Add the remaining ingredients except for the butter, and process just until blended. Sprinkle the diced butter over top and process in short bursts, stopping when mixture forms small clumps. Transfer the crumbled dough onto a baking sheet and shake the sheet to evenly distribute the crumbs. Bake at 325F for 15-20 minutes to set the crumbs. Keep warm in a low oven until ready to assemble.

kieffer lime marshmallow

170g sugar
 5g kieffer lime leaves, chopped
1g kieffer lime or persian lime zest
28g water
185g liquid glucose (or substitute corn syrup) 

Place sugar, lime leaves, and zest in food processor and process until lime leaves and zest are reduced to fine pieces. Transfer contents to a small saucepan and add water. Cover and place over low heat until sugar is melted and liquid. Remove from heat and allow syrup to infuse for 15 minutes. Strain mixture through fine sieve and return syrup to saucepan. Add glucose and heat mixture to 120C/248F (firm ball stage).

67g water
7g powdered gelatin
2g vanilla extract

While syrup is heating, place the water in the bowl of a stand mixer and sprinkle the gelatin over the top. Position the bowl to the mixer and fit with the whisk attachment. When the syrup reaches 115C/240F,  turn the mixer on low. When syrup reaches the firm ball stage, immediately remove from heat and begin to pour the syrup slowly down the inside surface of the mixer bowl, with the mixer still on low. When approximately 1/4 of the syrup is in the bowl, turn the mixer up to high speed and continue slowly pouring the syrup down the side of the bowl, being careful to not pour it onto the whisk. Scrape the remaining syrup that is clinging to the saucepan (heat briefly if it has begun to harden) and add to the bowl. Continue beating the syrup on high speed until it is white and fluffy and has tripled in volume, about 10 minutes. Beat in the vanilla.

60g confectioner's sugar
40g cornstarch

While the syrup is being whipped, combine the confectioner's sugar and cornstarch and place half of it in a sieve. Line a baking sheet with parchment and dust thickly with the mixture. Place the remaining mixture in the sieve so that it is ready to dust over the top of marshmallow.
If the marshmallow is to be piped, have a bowl of hot water ready, large enough to insert the mixer bowl, to keep the marshmallow fluid. As soon as the marshmallow is ready, Place the mixer bowl in the bowl of hot water to keep the gelatin from setting, and immediately transfer about 1 cup of mixture to a piping bag fitted with a 3/8" tip. Pipe elongated shapes that mimic the baby sweet potatoes onto the dusted baking sheet. Forming the tapers takes a little practice: start by piping a small amount onto the surface of the marshmallow in the bowl and pulling the piping bag away quickly to form the leading taper. Then begin forming the marshmallows by piping about 2.5" onto the dusted baking sheet and anchoring it with the tip of a small knife while slowly pulling the remaining length into a fine taper from the piping bag until it breaks off. Dust the tops with the additional confectioners sugar/cornstarch mixture and allow the mixture to cool and firm before rolling in mixture to coat all sides.
Alternately, the marshmallows can be formed by scraping the entire mass (while still warm) onto the dusted baking sheet and quickly spreading with a heated spatula to .5" thickness. Dust the top with the additional confectioners sugar/cornstarch mixture and allow the mixture to cool and firm before cutting into .5" x 3.5" batons with a heated knife.

 

To assemble: Spread a thin layer of the warm sweet potato crumble on a serving dish. Top with an alternating row of warm glazed sweet potatoes and marshmallow. Brulee the top of the marsnhmallows with a torch. Serve immediately. 

dessert and stories of India

I've never been to India but I know people who have.

I've listened to their stories and impressions; some are Utopian glimpses of a country as seen through Merchant Ivory colored lenses. They tell of majestic vistas, magnificent carved stone temples, sultry gardens vibrating with exotic fruits and flowers, and women with dark mysterious eyes draped in silks the color of jewels.

Then there are those who tell of a different India and speak only of oppression, abject poverty, suffocating crowds, dust and lost children. The dichotomy of their tales makes me wonder if they all traveled the same country. But when I think of the places I've been, I realize that India isn't so different from anywhere else.

One recent traveler spoke at length about the food of India: the diversity of street food, rustic dishes in private homes, and a lavish multi-course meal served in a palace. I listened to the descriptions with equal interest, although one in particular captured my imagination. It was of gulab jamun— deep-fried semolina pastries soaked in rose syrup— served with yogurt, pistachios, coconut, and dried fruits. The pastries themselves were described as very dense and sweet, but it was the combination of aromas and flavors that spoke loudest to me of India.

I was thinking of that dessert when I puffed pasta tubes that were cooked in cardamom tea and stuffed with coconut yogurt. Even then I realized that I had made a type of cannoli, which holds no place in Indian cuisine, but I went ahead and added rose and saffron macerated apricot and crushed pistachios. The dish, like the stories, is an impression of a place.

Someday I'd like to see India for myself, but in the meantime I can experience it through food. The flavors and aromas of a cuisine tell the most authentic stories.

 

amazake strawberry kinome

It was on a blustery winter afternoon that I first sampled amazake. It came in the form of a traditional Japanese beverage, served warm with a sprinkle of grated ginger. Learning that it was essentially just fermented rice and water, I was amazed at the depth of flavor and sweetness that koji had coaxed out of the rice. And there was a richness about the way that it felt in my mouth that reminded me of dairy. It was, I was told, the vegan eggnog.

Recently, I had a visitor come to my home to see my newly remodeled kitchen. Because he writes about food, I wanted to cook for him and was eager to showcase some of the products that I had fermented. For dessert, I made an amazake ice cream based on the beverage, using coconut water for added flavor. It was really an experiment, as I was curious about the texture of churned and frozen amazake. The result was not as creamy as I had hoped and the inherent sweetness had muted to a mere whisper— which typically occurs with freezing. We both agreed that it showed promise, but needed work. 

We also agreed that the flavor of strawberries and kinome with the amazake was quite special, so that part of the dish would remain intact.

Days later, I made a new ice cream with pureed amazake, cream, and sugar. It was a vast improvement over the original, but I couldn't help but feel that I had missed an important opportunity.

As someone who cooks customized food for a living, the upsurge of food intolerances is a salient concern. Coeliac disease, lactose intolerance, and food allergies are serious conditions that I have learned to make allowances for. Then there's an ever-increasing number of people who choose to refrain from entire food groups such as dairy or meat, or follow 'lifestyle diets' that exclude white powders and saturated fats. Add to that, the political eaters who prohibit foie gras, veal, unsustainable fish, factory farmed proteins, and unorganic produce; or picky eaters who refuse to eat (for example) anything with garlic or onions, and you can begin to see why chefs are so frustrated— some to the point of choosing to make NO allowances.

I don't have that luxury.

When a guest at a dinner party unexpectedly announces that there is something on the carefully planned menu that they can't or won't eat, I have to accommodate them. No excuses. 

The upside is that when you feed someone with special dietary needs a delicious and satisfying meal that doesn't offend their bodies or minds, they are exceedingly grateful. Altruism aside, a happy client is always a boost to the ego.

Over time, I've learned to make adjustments to fit most diets, but vegan desserts continue to challenge me. In a pinch, I can turn to fresh fruit and sorbet or granita, but that often feels like a copout. So I reexamined amazake's potential to add texture, natural sweetness, and moisture to desserts that otherwise rely on dairy products and refined sugars, and I decided that an ice cream was a good place to start. To the pureed amazake, I added coconut milk for richness, rice syrup for added sweetness, and guar gum to improve the mouthfeel. The addition of sichuan pepper was specific to this dish to enhance the flavor of strawberries and kinome. 

While I'm pleased with how the amazake ice cream turned out, if I were given a choice between the sweet cream version and the vegan one, I would invariably choose the former.

I'm grateful that I have that luxury.

amazake ice cream ✢ puffed forbidden rice
strawberry ✢ sake ✢ kinome 

vegan amazake ice cream

400g coconut milk
260g amazake
20g rice syrup
5g vanilla
4g lightly toasted and ground sichuan peppercorns (optional)
3g guar gum

Place all ingredients in a high speed blender and blend 3 minutes, or until very smooth. Scrape mixture into an ice cream freezer and proceed according to manufacture's directions. 

 

curry cake

Perhaps the best thing about rebuilding a kitchen from scratch is that everything will finally get a home in a place that makes sense— at last, form will follow function. My spices, for instance, were once scattered around in cupboards wherever they would fit. Soon, they will live together in their very own cabinet; on shallow floor-to-ceiling shelves, in shiny new jars, each clearly labeled.
I think they're as excited as I am.
In fact, I know they are.

I'm pretty sure that they planted the idea of spice cake in my head while I was organizing them. I tried to shake it off because, frankly, I've been baking more judiciously lately. But it was of no use. I think I heard them cheer when I pulled out my go-to recipe for spice cake, which made cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and ginger very happy, but caused some others to feel slighted. Five bold spices came forward and asked  "Why can't we play too? You know we play well together...you always put us in your garam masala."
They had a point, but did I really want to make a curry cake?
I did.

Conceding to a new direction, I scrapped the spice cake recipe and decided that a yogurt cake would be a more appropriate platform for the savory spices. I measured them out individually, planning to blend the spices together into the finished batter, but they had other ideas. They didn't want to be muddled together.  They each wanted to star in their own individual layer and be united as a cake.
"Really?" I asked, "you want me to make nine different layers?" 
They did.

It wasn't as complicated as I thought it would be. I simply weighed out the batter in grams and divided by nine. Then I added just enough spice to each batch to allow each flavor to come through, but not overpower the others. This was all going well until I tasted the turmeric batter, which had the distinct flavor of musty cardboard. I didn't want to insult the old chap, but I had to be honest. He took it pretty well— considered it for awhile, then invited the other spices to join him.
"We'll be the curry layer... the reference for the cake."
What a trooper. 

After the layers were baked, cooled, and trimmed, I joined them together with coconut frosting. Because turmeric stepped up and took one for the team, I gave him a distinct layer where his vivid color could be best appreciated.

As I ate the curry cake,  I found myself tasting each layer with a hyper awareness, then searching for that unique flavor in the blended layer. I thought about the process of synthesizing— how we often blend things together to create something new and synergistic.  Taking them apart, not to deconstruct, but to isolate, reminded me of the importance of being mindful of individuality, while celebrating commonality.
For me, it was a lesson about so much more than food. 

curry cake
mango chutney ice cream 

 

 

 

tortured pear

Tortured.

We've all felt that way at one time or another. Right?

It's not that I'm feeling particularly tortured myself. Well, maybe just enough to write this post in response to a conversation with someone who accused me (specifically) and modern cooking (in general) of torturing food.

"Why all the manipulation? Why torture food? Why make cooking so complicated? You take a solid, turn it into a liquid, then make it solid again. Why denature something just to make it look natural?

They were valid questions— certainly ones I've heard before— and they were asked out of genuine curiosity. But they were designed to provoke a defense, so she looked a little letdown when I nodded in agreement and told her that she was absolutely right. 

But I wasn't letting her off that easy— I pointed to the sandwich that she was eating during our conversation and told her that it was a very tortured thing indeed. In explanation, I took her along the path that put it in her hand. I think I used words like thrashed, crushed, pulverized, whipped, beaten, fermented, and intense heat. And that was just addressing the bread. I started in on the pastrami, cheese, and mustard, but stopped short because she was looking a little tortured herself.

Regardless of what we put in our mouths, its inception was to rob something of its vital force. All food was once alive. Is it more honorable to pluck food directly from its habitat and eat it raw, letting our teeth grind and pulverize it into something that can be digested, or to use our wit and skill to render it delicious and magnificent? Isn't that a decision we must all make for ourselves?

Cooking is violent. We casually violate food with knives and fire and think nothing of it. Is chopping less of a crime than juicing? Poaching less brutal than sous-vide? In an alternate universe where the plant and animal kingdoms ruled, wouldn't we all be accused of torture?
To cook is to transform. When we claim to cook simply, we deny the complicated processes that we initiate and fail to acknowledge the everyday miracles that take place in our kitchens. A loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, a pound of butter are wonderfully complex things.
We coax,manipulate, torture, because it makes food better; more palatable and enjoyable.

If we could just cook and let cook, maybe we could all relax, explore, and enjoy.
And stop feeling so tortured.

rooibos- poached pear
tonka bean brioche
candied bitter orange
smoked bourbon buttermilk

consuming passion

heart fortune cookies

There is some room to play with the flavor of these cookies— the oil, juice, and extract can be varied according to your desired flavor profile and the sugar can be infused with strongly-scented products such as herbs, vanilla beans, citrus peel, or rose petals.

❤cookie batter:
2 egg whites
46g sweet almond oil 
13g beet juice
4g raspberry extract 
100g sugar
67g AP flour
6g cornstarch
red food coloring

Place the egg whites, oil, juice, and extract in a medium bowl and whisk lightly to incorporate. Sift the sugar, flour, and cornstarch together and add to wet ingredients.  Stir with a wooden spoon until batter is smooth. Add food coloring to desired shade and blend well.

❤stencil:
cookie template
thick sheet of acetate or plastic
X-acto knife or sharp blade
slips of paper printed with fortunes, folded in half

trace cookie template onto acetate or plastic. Cut out center with an X-acto knife or sharp blade.

❤to make cookies:
Preheat oven to 163C/325F.  Place stencil on silpat or parcment-lined baking sheet. Spoon about a Tablespoon of batter onto center of stencil cutout. With a small offset spatula, spread the batter thinly and evenly to completely fill cutout in stencil. Carefully lift stencil and rinse and pat dry for next use. If you have experience with shaping hot tuiles, you can bake up to 4 cookies at a time— beginners should start with one. Place baking sheet in the oven and check after 4 minutes. The surface should be glossy but not wet to the touch and the edges should be just starting to brown. Remove baking sheet from oven and carefully (they're hot!) but quickly (they must be worked hot) peel cookie off of silpat and flip it top side down. Place a folded fortune in the center of the cookie. Lift pointed edge that is nearest to you and fold up and over to meet and align with other pointed edge, enclosing the fortune. Lift the cookie with the points facing up, pinching them together and lightly drape the folded bottom edge over the rim of a cup or bowl to create the crease that will form the top of the heart. Hold the cookie in place over the rim until it hardens while working the sides together so that they meet and close. The cookie must be shaped while it is hot and flexible— if it hardens too quickly, it can be returned to the oven for 1-2 minutes to soften. Place cookies in a muffin tin to hold their shape until they cool.

sticky toffee foie pudding

I remember the moment I fell in love with textiles. I was studying fashion design at Parsons when the draping instructor suggested I attend an exhibit of 18th century textiles at the Met. I wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to see a bunch of dusty old fabrics. "Go", she said. "they will inspire you." 

Coming out of a lifetime of denim, polyester, and cotton jersey, I was hopelessly unprepared for the opulence of that exhibit. Printed chintzes, sumptuous velvet brocades, luxe silk damasks, allegorical Toile de Jouy, gossamer laces—each one a masterpiece of fiber and thread. Collectively, they told a story of a pre-industrial era of impeccable craftsmanship and a soignee world of extravagance and luxury. I had no desire to possess them, I wanted only to bask in their splendor.
I was, indeed, inspired.

If ever there was to be an exhibit of Pure Luxury, foie gras would make a salient display. The luxury of foie is not in its price, though considerable, but in the sensual experience of consuming it. I've always found it's velvety mouthfeel and resonant flavor to be more hedonistically aligned with a rich dessert.

Among other things, studying fashion instilled in me an awareness of trends and the cycles of design; most are just revivals of old elements made new for modern taste. Looking through a book of medieval cookery, I was struck by how many savory dishes were made sweet with honey and fruits. Now, it seems, the dessert cycle has leaned towards the savory— adding salt, savory herbs, vegetables and animal. The latter— lest we forget— includes eggs, butter and cream. How to take it to the next step? Are we ready for fish, flesh, or offal even, in our dessert?  Maybe we'll never be ready for candied kidneys, but in regards to foie gras, I can only wonder "what took so long?".

Brandy-soaked cubes of foie, embedded in moist cakes redolent of dates and muscavado, an arabesque of sticky sweet brandy-spiked sauce— it is the stuff of baroque fairy tales; a decadence fit for kings and queens— the gustatory equivalent of brocade pillows and damask sheets.

sticky toffee foie pudding
red currant jelly ice cream
sugared red currants 

sticky toffee foie pudding
serves 6 

40g foie gras, cleaned of veins 
130g Tuaca or brandy 
60g dates, roughly chopped
86g reserved Tuaca or brandy from soaking foie
56g unsalted butter at room temperature
55g muscovado sugar
97g eggs
84g flour
4g baking soda
6g baking powder

sauce:
78g muscovado sugar
1.5g salt
175g heavy cream
25g butter
30g reserved Tuaca or brandy from soaking foie

Cut foie with a heated knife into 6 cubes, each measuring 1.25cm x 1.25 cm x 2cm and place in small bowl. Pour Tuaca or brandy over foie to submerge (use more if needed). Set aside to marinate for 2 hours. Strain through a fine sieve, reserving brandy for cake and sauce.
Heat 86g of reserved brandy in a small saucepan to 43C/110F. Add dates and cook over very low heat for 5 minutes. Remove pan from heat, cover, and set aside for 10-15 minutes to soften dates. Stir the dates and brandy vigorously with a wooden spoon until they break up and the mixture looks like a chunky puree. Set aside to cool.
Preheat oven to 176C/350F. Grease 6 small dariole molds. Cream the butter and sugar with an electric mixer fitted with paddle attachment on medium speed until light and fluffy. Add the eggs and beat for 2 minutes, then add the date/brandy puree and beat for 1 minute. Sift together the dry ingredients and add to mixer. Beat for 1-2 minutes, or just until incorporated.
Spoon batter into each of greased molds until half full. Place a cube of marinated foie in each of the molds, then cover with remaining batter until molds are nearly full. Place filled molds in a baking dish, spacing them 5cm apart. Pour boiling water into baking dish until it comes halfway up the sides of the molds. Immediately cover tightly with foil and place in oven. Bake for 12 minutes or until the top of the cake springs back when pressed. Remove cakes from water bath, cover loosely with foil to keep warm while making sauce.
To make sauce: Place all ingredients except brandy in a medium saucepan. Set over medium heat and whisk while cooking until thick and smooth, about 4- 5 minutes. Remove from heat and whisk in 30g of reserved brandy until smooth and silky. 
To serve: Unmold the warm cakes and dip each one in the sauce, rolling around until well coated. Transfer each to serving plate and carefully spoon  a small amount of sauce over the top, letting it drip down the sides. Serve warm.