I've flown south twice in two weeks, and boy, are my arms tired.
Sorry. Let's try that again.
I've flown south twice in two weeks, and boy, are my pants tight.
Better?
This is due to barbecue and braised Brussels sprouts with bacon at a joint in North Carolina, a sausage breakfast at Mama Dip's, grits and grillades after dancing to a second line at a New Orleans wedding, a crawfish po-boy and an Abita with friends on Iberville Street, and an about-to-get-on-a-plane-final Bloody Mary at Antoine's. If you haven't done the latter, you must get yourself on a plane -- tickets to New Orleans are almost always cheap -- and run from your cab to the Hermes Bar. Grin when the lovely waiter heralds your arrival with a "Welcome to Antoine's, young lady!" Perch yourself on a bar stool, watch your neighbor sop up the remaining smidges of his oeufs sardou, and eat your pickled green bean very, very slowly. Then stroll back down the Rue St. Louis to the Omni, where the doorman will encourage you to leave New Orleans, because leaving is what makes coming back so good.
It makes things better, I have found.
Anyway, I am not complaining about my pants, because I can buy new ones. And really -- how could anyone wail about an epicurean run such as that? But this is one reason we're staying north, at least for the moment: if we drifted back towards the home of our hearts, we'd change pants sizes. Twice. Maybe three times. But who's counting.
But I told you I'd have new ideas for you, and here's one, although I'm a little wary of sharing its name with you. It's truly one of the best desserts I've ever had, and I first tasted it at the afore-mentioned barbecue joint in Chapel Hill. It's a rich sponge layer cake with lemon curd filling and a citrus-coconut frosting, the kind of gooey goodness that might make your teeth ache just a little. But its name -- oh, its name.
Its name is the Robert E. Lee cake.
My name is Robert E. Lee, and I like cake.
However, while the general certainly chose the wrong side of the war (after a well-documented struggle of conscience), he clearly had good taste when it came to desserts. By legend, this was his favorite cake, and I can see why. The lemon curd is given time to soak into the sponge layers, giving the core of the cake an extra kick of sweet-tartness, and the frosting's citrusy complexity finishes the whole thing off perfectly. After tasting a couple of weekends ago in North Carolina, I went on a hunt for the recipe and found many iterations of it; turns out that the Lee cake is an old, storied dessert, and how I made it nearly 30 years without encountering it, I don't know. Must have been my until-recent aversion to coconut.
So here's the recipe, and it comes with a couple of warnings: one, it is labor-intensive and takes a while to bring all the pieces together, and I would give yourself a good afternoon to assemble it properly. Two, your husband or fiance or partner may not be able to leave the kitchen while you're baking it, and especially while you're whipping up the frosting. They may even endanger their fingertips by sticking them in the bowl while the mixer is still going. This would be a good time to put that person to work by doing the dishes, because you'll be making a big mess. And afterwards, if they do a good job, you can reward that person with a slice of Robert E. Lee cake.
By the way, in my house, it's now called the Ouiser Boudreaux cake, which stakes a claim to its roots while indicating its balance of sweetness and tart bite. That is, if you know who Miss Ouiser was.
Robert E. Lee Cake or the Ouiser Boudreaux Cake
whichever suits your fancy. Adapted from Allrecipes.com.
for the cake:
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. cream of tartar
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
8 egg yolks
2 cups white sugar
8 egg whites
2 tsp. grated lemon zest
2 tbsp. lemon juice
1/8 tsp. salt
for the filling:
3 egg yolks
1 1/3 cups white sugar
2 1/2 tsp. grated lemon zest
1/3 cup lemon juice
1/4 cup butter, softened
for the frosting:
1/3 cup butter, softened
4 cups confectioners' sugar
3 tbsp. grated orange zest
2 1/2 tbsp. orange juice
1 1/2 tsp. grated lemon zest
1 1/2 tbsp. lemon juice
1 1/ cups flaked coconut, toasted if you wish
For the cake:
Preheat the oven to 325 degrees, and grease and flour two 9-inch cake pans. Sift or whisk together the flour, baking powder and cream of tartar.
In a different bowl, beat the 8 egg yolks and two cups of sugar until creamy and pale. Stir in the lemon zest and juice. In yet another bowl (glass or cold metal are preferable) beat the egg whites and salt with a mixer until soft peaks form. Fold the egg whites into the yolk mixture, alternating it with the dry ingredients. Take care to not over-beat this, since the egg whites will give the batter the sponginess you're aiming for. Spread evenly into the prepared pans and bake for 25 to 30 minutes, watching it very carefully. Cool the layers first in their pans (for about 10 minutes or so) and then on a wire rack, taking care to not break them. Using a serrated knife, cut them in half horizontally.
For the filling:
In the top of a double boiler (or in a mixing bowl over a pan of water), mix the sugar, egg yolks, lemon zest and juice over high heat, stirring constantly until the mixture thickens and everything is completely combined. Watch your heat carefully; you don't want chunks of egg yolk in this. Remove it from the heat and stir in the softened butter. Let it sit and come to room temperature.
For the frosting:
Cream the butter until fluffy, and add the sugar, zest and juice gradually until completely combined and smooth. Mix in half a cup of the coconut.
To assemble:
Spread about 1/3 of the lemon filling on a half layer, and put its top on. Then do the same with another half layer, and then yet another until all four are used up. Frost and sprinkle the remaining coconut on top. Let this cake sit for a day or so to let the curd soak into the layers; it'll make it that much better, I promise.
Serves 12 to 14, depending on your sweet tooth.
