According to the great, Michelin-feted chef Pierre Koffmann, oeufs à la neige, as this dish is also known across the Channel, are “a French take on what the English would describe as ‘a nursery pudding’”. We’re reared on suet dumplings and steaming semolina, while the French get “pillowy, airy meringues floating on a velvety bed of vanilla custard”: no wonder the two nations sometimes find it hard to see eye to eye.
That said, if the French can admit the simple joys of le crumble, then we can surely make room in our hearts for silky, ice-cold creme anglaise as well as thick yellow custard, especially at this time of year, not least because, though it may be childish fare in its homeland, this elegant yet surprisingly easy dessert is guaranteed to turn a fair few heads in the land of gooseberry fool and Eton mess.
Those “pillowy, airy meringues” don’t just happen by accident: in fact, I have more than a few disasters with the recipes I test. Traditionally, they’re poached, rather than baked, though the same rules apply: add the sugar to the egg whites before whisking, as Michel Roux Jr’s book The French Kitchen suggests, and the resulting foam will be dense and firm; fold it in at the end, as Koffmann recommends in his book Classic Koffmann, and it’ll be softer, but hard to work with.
Best, I find, to beat the egg whites until they hold soft peaks, as Anthony Bourdain’s recipe in Les Halles Cookbook dictates, then gradually beat in the sugar a little at a time, to give a firm, yet light result. Caster sugar dissolves more easily than David Tanis’ granulated variety in the New York Times, though, making the finished meringues less inclined to weep moisture as they cool.
Tanis also stabilises his meringue mix with cream of tartar, which feels like wise insurance even if you’re not using coarse sugar, especially if you’re not sure of the age of your eggs (older eggs whip up better, because the protein networks are looser and more amenable to the addition of large amounts of air).
Those cooking for a crowd, or looking for an easy life, could do a lot worse than following Mary Berry’s rather unconventional recipe in her Complete Cookbook, which uses baked meringues, rather than the usual poached variety, but cooked so lightly and briefly that the insides remain gorgeously fluffy and gooey within their crisp shell.
They can’t compete with the poached sort for lightness, though – and, really, it’s not a hard technique to master. First, I’d strongly recommend not trying to cook too many at once: these fragile icebergs have a wide turning circle, and an annoying tendency to stick together in the pan if they come into contact with each other. A wide pan is preferable to a tall, narrow saucepan for the same reason. I try covering the pan to avoid the need to turn them in the first place, as in Tanis’s recipe, but though this technique yields excellent early results, they rapidly deflate as soon as I lift the lid; a cautious flip proves more successful.
Second, and even more important, these are not Ottolenghi-style, billowing beauties, but foamy little quenelles of featherlight pleasure – they will deflate as they cool, for the same reason a soufflé or yorkshire pudding will, but bear in mind this is a homely pudding designed to taste, rather than look impressive (though, frankly, to these British eyes, it still does).
Many recipes poach the meringues in milk, then thriftily reuse it in the custard. My problem with this is that, while I don’t think it makes a discernible difference to the finished meringues, it does mean you have to make them before the custard, even though that takes far longer to cool down, and with a dessert this sweet, you really do want it cold, rather than just cool. Simmering milk also has a tendency to form a skin as soon as you take your eye off the pan, which then clings to the meringues – water, by contrast, does not.
I feel on safer ground here: custard in its various preparations would be a strong contender for my specialist subject if Mastermind ever came calling. This is a very French version: elegantly thin (though, as Koffmann cautions, it must be viscous enough to support the meringue) and ridiculously rich, with enough sugar to put you off eating more than your fair share.
Berry’s version, the least sweet of the lot and the only one to rely on the thickening power of a little cornflour, is my favourite, though I concede you don’t strictly need the cornflour unless you’re feeling nervous; the same goes for Tanis’s bain marie. I do like his cardamom and lemon peel-infused milk, however, even if vanilla is de rigueur in the classic preparation – and if you’re feeling particularly decadent, you might want to cut the milk with a little single cream to make a British equivalent of his suggested “half and half”.
Though you shouldn’t need to strain your creme anglaise unless you’re worried the Michelin inspectors are in town, I do highly recommend plonking the finished custard in a sink of cold or iced water to ensure it’s refreshingly cool – David Lebovitz even chills his bowls before serving. (Berry butters hers, though I can’t for the life of me work out why.)
Roux makes a strawberry compote to go with his îles flottantes, and Tanis poaches cherries in a rose syrup, both of which are utterly delicious with yoghurt, but rather too sweet for our taste when paired with the meringue and custard. If you’d like some fruit in the bowl, I think some baked rhubarb would go very nicely – l’entente cordiale in dessert form.
Nuts are a common garnish, and Koffmann goes one step further with pink praline almonds, which “bring a nice crunch and the colour looks pretty”, but they’re hard to get hold of in this country – and, again, very sweet. His suggested alternative of pistachios or toasted almonds, also used by Berry and Bourdain, prove more popular, adding crunch without extra sugar – unlike the caramel that’s widely used in restaurants. If you’re a sugar fiend, though, it’s very easy to add – once you’ve portioned out the puddings, heat 150g sugar in a pan until a rich brown, then drizzle over the top. Repent at leisure.
Prep 5 min Cook 25-30 min Serves 4
4 eggs 500ml whole milk 1 vanilla pod, split, or a dash of vanilla extract 120g caster sugar 1 tsp cornflour (optional) ¼ tsp cream of tartar 1 pinch salt 2 tbsp flaked almonds
Separate the eggs, putting the yolks into a medium heatproof bowl and the whites into a large, scrupulously clean one. Set this aside while you make the custard.
Pour the milk into a medium saucepan and add the vanilla. Bring to a simmer, then turn off the heat and leave to infuse for 10 minutes. Bring back to a simmer. Meanwhile, whisk 40g sugar with the egg yolks and cornflour, if using, until dissolved. Put the bowl on a damp kitchen towel near the hob (this helps anchor it) and half-fill the sink with cold water.
Remove the vanilla pod, if using (give it a quick rinse, dry well and use to perfume a jar of sugar). Pour half the simmering milk over the yolks, whisking all the time, until well combined, then pour back into the milk pan. Cook over a low heat, stirring constantly, until thick enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon – when you draw your finger down the spoon, it should leave a clear line. Take off the heat. Pour the custard back into the bowl and put it in the sink to cool, stirring occasionally.
To make the meringues, add the cream of tartar and a pinch of salt to the egg whites, then beat to soft peaks. Gradually add the sugar, still beating, until it’s all incorporated, then carry on beating until the mix is shiny and stiff.
Bring a wide, shallow pan of water to a boil and line a baking tray with kitchen paper. Scoop a generous amount of meringue mixture on to a dessert spoon, then push off into the water with a second spoon to make a kind of egg shape. Do this until the pan is a third full, poach for two minutes, then very carefully flip over and poach for two minutes more.
Gently scoop out with a slotted spoon and slide on to the tray. Repeat with the remaining mixture, then leave to cool. Toast the almonds in a dry pan until golden.
To serve, divide the custard between bowls, top with two meringues apiece, scatter the almonds on top and eat while they’re still nice and cool.
• Îles flottantes or oeufs à la neige: do they bring back happy holiday memories, or do you prefer creme brulee or custard tart? Are they, indeed, good with rhubarb, or do you prefer them plain – and do you have any foolproof tips for perfect meringues every time?
For more read The Guardian
