The recipe: p74, "Swan Meringues"
Well, it had to happen. Ever since my first post about the world's least accurately named cookbook, Everyday Novelli, the standout recipe for swan meringues (or meringue swans, as I'm calling them here because that's how we've come to know and love them) has been hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles. And with four whole days of Easter at my disposal, what better time to finally let the thread snap and embrace my inner culinary ornithologist?
So I did it. Or at least, I tried to do it. Let me make one thing perfectly clear: Everything about this "recipe" is designed to frustrate, from imprecise (or missing) instructions right through to the flawed nature of the entire bloody concept in the first place.
But I'm getting ahead of myself here. First, let us all share in the avian goodness, for Novelli has been kind enough to publish the recipe on his website for all to enjoy. You may wish keep this to hand as I proceed. You may also wish to note Novelli's opening words: "This is one of the most therapeutic dishes to make."
We'll see about that.
The prep: At this point it's worth saying that I've never actually made meringue before, which probably isn't a great starting point. Regardless, I diligently acquire a piping kit with various attachments:
...and I'm basically ready to go on the equipment front, having mercifully already invested in an electric whisk earlier in the Random Kitchen project. (Seriously, how did people ever come up with things like meringue in the days when hand-beating was required? Wouldn't you just give up and do something better with your time instead?)
Ingredient-wise, the standard meringue ingredients (eggs, sugars) are supplemented by dark chocolate for the creepy swan eyes, and a "selection of red fruits" for decoration. Keen-eyed readers will have noticed that the swan in Novelli's picture also has a pink beak, but no mention is ever made as to how this should be achieved. Similarly, those green-apple "wings"? There's nothing in the ingredients or the method to suggest that they even exist. And don't get me started on that dollop of squirty cream that looks like it's holding everything together, yet remains conspicuous by its absence from the recipe.
This could be a long day.
Except it's going to be more than a day, because Novelli's interpretation of "everyday" cooking involves making the swan body parts then leaving them to set for 24-36 hours. As if this whole thing wasn't ridiculous enough already. I suppose I understand why - if you baked them, even on a low temperature, they'd go that meringue-y yellow-brown colour and that's not especially swan-like or elegant - but come on, this claims to be a book "full of recipes that look and taste delicious but are easy to recreate". Like waking up in the middle of the night to feed porridge to mussels, a 36-hour lead time for some meringue limbs is not my definition of "easy to recreate".
The making: I whisk up a storm with five large egg whites, then add in the caster sugar and a pinch of salt. So far, so meringuey.
Icing sugar and a little cornflour are then sifted and carefully folded into the glossy mixture until any lumps have been incorporated. This is quite hard to achieve without inadvertently beating the air out of the mixture, thereby defeating the point of all that whisking, but I just about get there in the end.
Next, I'm asked to "line a baking tray with greaseproof paper". Considering this recipe makes 15 swans, which corresponds to 15 necks and 30 wings, I think I'm going to need more than "a" baking tray, J-C.
A first batch of the meringue mix is stuffed into a piping bag with a plain nozzle, and I begin the onerous task of piping some swan necks. Which, as it turns out, isn't so onerous - they're basically just an elongated "S" shape, after all. I'm told to pipe "one beak on each end, so that if one breaks off, you can use the other", but at no point am I told how to actually pipe a beak, so I just go with a blob-like dollop of meringue that's a bit thicker than the rest of the neck.
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| Piping hot |
I'm going to reproduce the next line of the recipe in full for your enjoyment:
"It doesn't matter if the quantity of meringue produces more necks than you need since it is difficult to remove them from the greaseproof paper without breaking and this will give you some room for error."I may not have done a literature degree, but even I can tell that's some serious fucking foreshadowing right there.
Nevertheless, I continue by refilling the piping bag (this time with a star-shaped nozzle) and piping the wings. How do you pipe meringue wings, you might ask? Why, you do one half "using a left to right motion" and the other half "using a right to left motion". That's more than enough in the way of instructions, right?
Fuck's sake.
Anyway, since Novelli is determined not to help me any more than the minimum (and barely even that), I try to loosely recreate what's shown in the accompanying photo. The "tails" of my wings aren't remotely long enough, but I've never done this before so frankly I'm delighted to have anything at all to show for my efforts. In due course, I end up with several baking trays full of not altogether terrible swan parts.
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| And some day you will bake like I bake |
I assume they're the right size because, of course, Novelli hasn't given me any guidance on that front either. In any case, they're duly left to set "in a cool dry place (not the fridge) for 24–36 hours".
It's the next day now, and some careful prodding and poking in non-obvious places suggests that the wings aren't really setting terribly well (I daren't even think about the necks). Which kind of makes sense - neither heat nor cold are being applied to the meringue limbs, so why should they react in any useful way? To give myself some options for later in the day, I stick one batch in the fridge to see if that helps at all (spoiler: it doesn't).
I watch a film, I go for a 15km run, I make a big pot of curry for dinner, but eventually there's no avoiding the task at hand - it's time to assemble the swans.
Predictably, this is where it all goes wrong.
I start by melting some dark chocolate and applying the "eyes" with a cocktail stick. They look beady and rustic, but broadly effective. Next, it's the turn of the beaks, which - in the absence of any mention of ingredients or method - I endeavour to recreate by brushing on a bit of pink food colouring. This makes my swans look like they've been punched in the face or are just really bad at applying lipstick.
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| Hello sailor |
Still, I'm sure they'll be fine once they've been removed from the greaseproof paper, which I'm supposed to achieve "using a palette knife, being careful not to break the meringue" (you don't fucking say).
Joy of joys, none of the parts are properly set yet. The wings are incredibly delicate and only too keen to crack and disintegrate at the merest touch...
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| Oh good |
...but eventually Sam does manage to successfully loosen a couple of them without breakage. Their undersides may still have a decidedly soggy consistency, but they're usable, and that's the main thing.
By now, I am sceptical as to the prospect of any of the necks making it off the paper in one piece - their narrow shape is brittle by its very nature, after all - and about four necks are duly sacrificed before we finally, miraculously, manage to loosen one intact. (Meanwhile, the ones I put in the fridge have basically turned to mush, which is an unexpected yet somehow entirely unsurprising turn of events.)
I quickly retrieve a pre-chilled plate from the freezer and set a scoop of ice cream in the middle of it. You'd think Jean-Christophe might impart some great secret for assembling the finished swan, but no - the sole instruction is "Carefully press the swan’s wings on to the ice-cream, then add the neck and head." Aha. And how exactly am I supposed to "add" the neck? I'm using soft scoop ice cream, but we've just established that the meringue parts are incredibly fragile and liable to break apart at the slightest pressure, so shoving the neck into the ice cream is out of the question. The photo accompanying the recipe provides little to no assistance, since it shows the neck apparently miraculously floating in a sea of cream.
So I cut a slit in the ice cream and wedge the neck in that way.
It may not be elegant, but it just about works - our solo swan is battered and bruised but basically upright.
Now it's time for the "decoration", starting with a couple of miserable wings, since I happen to have a green apple available:
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| Probably a bit thick, but they're not even supposed to exist so hey |
...and continuing with a scattering of berries, none of which especially want to sit on the swan (maybe that's where the never-mentioned cream comes in) so they'll just have to sit near the swan.
And we're done. Or as near done as we're ever going to be.
Ladies and gentlemen, a meringue swan.
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| Ta-fucking-dah |
It's not great, is it? But at this stage in proceedings it feels like an absolute bloody triumph.
We even feel emboldened enough to try and loosen another set of wings and one of the few remaining necks from the greaseproof paper, only for disaster to strike at the assembly stage:
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| It hurts so greatly |
A valiant attempt to use ice cream as neck glue fails to have the desired effect:
...and so one of us is going to have to make do with consuming some deformed swan parts rather than a coherent meringue bird. A deconstructed swan, if you will. So be it.
All the other body parts I've made are either already broken or a load of useless mush, and my nerves are basically frazzled by this stage anyway, so fuck it. Let's eat.
The eating: It tastes like ice cream, meringue and fruit. Like Eton Mess, in other words. Which is precisely what I'll be making with the rest of the body parts.
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| Swan graveyard |
So that's just terrific, you know?
Honestly, words cannot begin to express the sheer disparity between the effort involved in making these swan meringues and the pleasure of eating them. I do not understand how anyone could consider there to be any justification for ever undertaking a project like this.
To put it another way: I ended up making 7 swan necks and 8 sets of wings. We got one intact swan out of that. ONE SWAN.
There was a point in the process, after I'd piped the necks and wings, when I found myself quite enjoying the whole thing. Sure, my piping work wasn't great, but with a bit more practice I could do better in future, and assembling the swans didn't feel like it could be that hard.
And then, well, you know the rest.
At the end of the day, I maintain that I never stood any real chance of success here. The instructions provided are inadequate, the assistance given is minimal, and the whole concept is fatally flawed. Ultimately, this isn't really a recipe at all, it's just Jean-Christophe Novelli saying "making meringues into swan shapes sounds like a nice idea, why not try that? Good luck! [muffled laughter]"
But y'know, we got one meringue swan out of it. So there's that.
I hope you're all happy now.
"I will never forget," a teary-eyed Jean-Christophe recalls in the introduction to the recipe, "making this on my daughter Christina's first birthday." I can understand why. As if a one-year-old's birthday party isn't a terrifying enough prospect without voluntarily putting yourself through this while trying to placate a mob of screaming infants. No wonder he can't purge the experience from his memory.
J-C, you have my deepest sympathy. Now swan off.
One-word verdict:
