Recycled: Baked Insanity

Now and then I go fishing for something that I’ve written and find it out there on the web. I haul it over here to Nerd’s Eye View from it’s old dusty corner on the Internet. This post is from January, 2003.

I really did think that I had topped out when I discovered the Wiener Fachertorte at the Kunsthistoriches Museum in Vienna. In case you’re curious or you, by some miracle, have not heard me go on and on and on about this incredible baked confection, let me take a moment to describe it to you.

The Fachertorte (translated it means “Fan Cake”) is a triple layer decadence wrapped in a bready sort of dough that’s a cross between brioche and shortbread. The lower layer is comprised of hazelnuts, butter, ground up pound cake, and whole milk. The next layer is poppy seeds, honey, again the ground up pound cake, butter, and whole milk. Above that there’s a layer of sliced apples tossed with cinnamon, raisins, and a little lemon juice. A single slice of Fachertorte probably contains enough calories to fuel a transatlantic flight but that has never deterred me from finishing the entire portion.

I wrote to the museum when I got back to the US to tell them that I had fallen hopelessly in love with their cake and could they please tell me how to make it myself at home? They forwarded my letter to the bakery, one of those venerable bakeries from the former Empire, and the bakery responded with both timeliness and a full recipe. I had to read it over a few times because I could not quite believe they intended me to simmer ground up pound cake in butter and whole milk.

A friend who is a spectacularly skilled baker and I decided to undertake the replication of the Fachertorte in my Seattle kitchen. She prepared the wrapper dough and I went shopping for the rest. I guess that in the Empire days, pound cake was always piling up about the palace and the Imperial baker had to figure out what the hell to do with the leftovers. I had no such stockpiles and bought an Entemann’s ready made at my local supermarket.

We had moderate success. The Fachertorte baked in my oven for nearly two hours but still came out a bit runny. I was impatient and when I cut in to it, the poppy seed filling ran out on the counter. That didn’t stop us from lumping great servings of our less than regal but still delicious copy on to pasta plates and eating it in the garden. It wasn’t bad and after it had set overnight, it was an even better facsimile of the cake at the Kunsthistoriches Museum. Still, it wasn’t quite the same; maybe if I add a marble rotunda to my little apartment the cake will seem more authentic.

At any rate, the Fachertorte has retained its mythic proportions in my head and has held up on second and third tries, to its credit. However, a new contender is edging the Fachertorte out for the Baked Good Obsession of 2003 award.

There is a chain of roadside restaurants in Austria by the name of Rosenberger. They’re buffet style places. You pick up a tray when you go in, walk past the salad bar and the soup counter, stop at the grill to see what they’re making, and you know what? The Rosenberger’s aren’t bad. The food is fresh and hot and pretty much homemade. I like the Rosenberger because it’s one of the few places that have a nonsmoking section and you can eat your meal without coming out smelling like you’ve just spent four hours in a seedy bar. Plus, it’s pretty cheap. You can get a decent Austrian style meal for two for under 20 dollars.

We stopped at the Rosenberger in Semmering on our way to Vienna two weeks ago. I dreamed of the Fachertorte that would await me in the cafe that occupies the marble rotunda of the Kunsthistoriches Museum, but I was hungry and needed a little coffee. And there, next to the coffee bar by the cash register, was the pastry that was to cause me to question the primacy of the Fachertorte in my affections: The Kurbiskern Ecke.

The name Kurbiskern Ecke means pumpkin seed corner. This triangular delight has an odd greenish color imparted to it by the natural oil of pumpkin seeds. The pastry layer was again that mysterious something that sits between brioche and shortbread, only this time there seemed to be pumpkin seeds ground in to the dough. The triangle of buttery, flaky, crispy and cake like at the same time pastry was topped with roasted pumpkin seeds. This doesn’t sound that great, I know, but the whole thing had a flavor as though it had been soaked in honey and orange water. It was nutty and sweet and just plain amazing, a kind of Austrian baklava, if you will.

We questioned the lass at the register, of course. “What IS it?! Where is it from?! I MUST KNOW OR I WILL GO MAD WITH DESIRE!!!!” I shouted at her, but she responded in that typically friendly but spare Austrian manner. “It’s a secret recipe,” she said, as I beat my fists on the floor and wept. It did not help and quietly, I plotted my return to the Rosenberger on Semmering.

Off we went to Vienna. The cafe at the Kunsthistoriches Museum was out of Fachertorte by the time I arrived at the cool glass of the pastry case, but I just shrugged. No matter, soon we would stop at the Rosenberger again and I would unlock the delights of the Kurbiskern Ecke.

I was not disappointed. We bought three pieces, one to eat and two to go. Again we questioned the barrista. “It’s a local lady down in Gloggnitz that makes them,” she said. “Typical Styrian pastry, with the pumpkin seeds and all. No, she doesn’t have a bakery; she just makes them in her kitchen. No, I don’t know who she is. It’s a secret recipe, you know.”

My mother in law, who is a fine baker in the traditional Austrian manner, seems to think she can deconstruct the Kurbiskern Ecke and reproduce it. But I am obsessed. I have taken to walking the streets of Gloggnitz at all hours, tearing at my clothing and confronting strangers. “The Kurbiskern Ecke baker! The Kurbiskern Ecke baker! I must know who she is! I must find her!” Sometimes they lock me away for a few days and I forget the Rosenberger, forget the pumpkin seed baklava, and I ask for a slice of Fachertorte. They let me go. When my wits return to me and the drugs wear off, I remember my quest. I find my way to Gloggnitz with a jam jar full of change. I enter the phone booth just across the street from the post office. I open the phone book to the page I was on when I was last there —  I have marked it very carefully – and I start calling. “Hello, are you the Kurbiskern Ecke lady?” I ask. I will not be deterred.