If you've never heard of the Thermomix, you're not alone. It's never been advertised and it isn't sold in stores.
Yet it's inspired two very different cults: one of home cooks devoted to its versatility and convenience, and another of Michelin-starred chefs such as Ferran Adria, Heston Blumenthal, and Rene Redzepi, who rely on its precision.
Chef Blumenthal has even named the Thermomix one of his top six kitchenware essentials. He should know: One of his signature dishes, Ballotine of Anjou Pigeon, features a blood pudding stirred and heated for four hours in a Thermomix. When I tried it at his restaurant, The Fat Duck, two years ago, I didn't know how it was made, but I was sufficiently moved to write, “What makes this dish a masterpiece, however, is the black pudding, which resembles a perfect hollandaise in texture.”
Any gadget that can turn pig's blood into hollandaise at the press of a button inspires me, too. I have craved a Thermomix almost as much as I crave more of Heston Blumenthal's menu.
What is it, exactly? If you believe the hype, it’s a 23-in-1 multitasker – an unassuming German-engineered, French-manufactured food processor that touts serious benefits. Its high-performance motor and titanium blades chop, mill and liquefy with terrifying ferocity. Its body contains a scale accurate to within five grams and an element that heats in 10-degree increments to just above the boiling point.
The Thermomix is designed to perform a number of functions every cook needs (blending and slow cooking), a few specialized functions some cooks need (yogurt making and steaming) and yet more arcane functions only survivalists need (grain milling and butter churning).
Of course, functionality comes at a price. And for the current TM31 model, that price is $1,600.
Can any machine live up to that hype – and price tag? I spent two weeks testing the TM31 to see whether it makes kitchen life easier and tastier.
The Hollandaise test
Nothing challenges kitchen skill like egg-based custards and sauces. The Thermomix cookbook makes it sound simple: Add egg yolks, butter, lemon juice, salt and pepper, affix the butterfly attachment, and cook for eight minutes at 90 C at low speed. I balk at the temperature – 90 C sounds like a recipe for lightly scrambled eggs – and lower it to 80 C, walk away, and return to the best hollandaise of my life – dense and creamy with nary a coagulated protein in sight. What's more, I can hold it for a few minutes at a lower temperature while I scramble to toast a croissant and sauté spinach for eggs Florentine.
The mayonnaise test
I invite my friend Ryan, a kitchen amateur. Who better to test a convenience appliance than a bachelor, the ultimate convenience cook? Ryan only seriously cooks for his girlfriend, and he does that for the same reason most men cook for women: to woo them. This time, the cookbook recipe leads to disaster: Instead of mayo, we’ve concocted a soupy mess. We try to rescue it using another egg yolk before feeding the entire mixture to the compost bin. My plan to convince Ryan of the Thermomix's powers of seduction fails.
The risotto test
Tales of a mythical machine that would heat and stir my favourite dish are what first piqued my interest. In this case, myth is reality. I've now made stupendous risotto three times: creamy, perfectly cooked rice that tastes intensely of the stock in which it's cooked. Better yet, after peeling an onion, then chopping and sweating it in the Thermomix, I add rice and wine and play video games for 15 minutes while anticipating a remarkable supper.
The dessert test
The Thermomix can't chill, but it's powerful enough to turn a package of frozen fruit into a fine paste in seconds. Experiments with just a little sugar and either mango or mixed berries are a success. The sorbets taste more intensely fruity than anything produced from a conventional base in an ice cream maker. For an encore I make zabaione, the light, luscious, fortified-wine spiked custard. It's a huge pain in the ass to make conventionally – after many minutes of whipping over a double boiler, you and your sore wrist may enjoy a tremendous custard or curse your sweetened scrambled eggs. After the mayo debacle, I turn to the Internet and intuition for a recipe. After several minutes doing nothing more intense than fretting over whether I've nailed the timing and temperature, I pour a sublime zabaione that tumbles into a martini glass in sweet velvety ribbons.
