One of my earliest food memories involves rhubarb. Like most English gardens, ours had a large rhubarb patch. Early one summer, when I was six or seven years old, I was lying on my stomach, invisible to the world - or so I thought - beneath a canopy of large rhubarb leaves. On the ground in front of me I had a small dish of sugar, into which I was dipping small, new stalks of rhubarb, bright ruby-pink with their pale yellow leaves just beginning to unfold.
I loved the juicy crunch, the burst of raw sugar followed by the sour, acid taste of the rhubarb. I also distinctly remember feeling pretty smug because I knew not to cut the stalks but to pull them gently from the base of the plant to avoid damaging it, and not to eat the leaves - which are poisonous (thanks, Grandad). What I didn't know about was the incredible stomachache I was to suffer an hour later due to my greediness!
Every year, sometimes as early as mid-January, that day comes back to me when, neatly packed in elongated boxes, the first brightly coloured stalks of Ontario forced rhubarb arrive in our kitchen. It is so fresh that, when bent, the stalks snap and there are no stringy fibres.
The rhubarb I buy for Scaramouche comes from Lennox Farm in Shelburne, Ont. Bill French's family has been growing rhubarb for more than three generations. On a recent visit, Bill and his son explained to me how mature rhubarb crowns are dug from the fields in December and moved to dark sheds where the moisture and warmth that trigger the plant to grow can be increased. As the plants begin to shoot, they are so desperate to reach light that they grow at almost twice their normal rate. This produces a slender, delicate stalk that is infinitely nicer to eat than the field variety.
For the perfect crème brûlée, allow the dish to cool in the refrigerator for two hours before adding and scorching the sugar on top. (Peter Power/The Globe and Mail)
During my visit, I wanted
to learn whether the plants could truly be heard growing, as I'd been told. Bill assured me that when the ventilation fans were quiet, it was possible to hear the buds breaking open and the stalks squeaking as they rub against each other in their quest for non-existent light.
The following recipe is a variation on classic crème brûlée. The acidity of the rhubarb is a gorgeous foil to the rich, silky custard.
Burnt Rhubarb Custard
What you need
11 egg yolks
1 heaping cup sugar
1 litre 35% cream
1 vanilla bean, split lengthways
1 pound rhubarb stalks, trimmed of leaves
Extra sugar
What you do
To effectively brûlée the top of the custard, a propane cylinder with a blowtorch attachment is recommended. But please be cautious with the torch and read accompanying instructions carefully.
Mix half of the cream with the egg yolks in a large bowl.
Mix the remaining cream with the sugar and the vanilla bean, bring to a boil and pour over the cream and yolks, whisk well and strain. Leave to cool.
Cut the rhubarb stalks into one-inch lengths, place in a stainless steel pan and sprinkle with some sugar. Add a few drops of water and cook gently until the rhubarb is tender. Taste the rhubarb. It should be nice and tart.
Pour the rhubarb mixture into a colander placed over a bowl and allow to drain. Boil down the collected liquid until it is almost a glaze. Add the cooked rhubarb back into the glaze and allow to cool completely.
Heat the oven to 275 F.
Use a large shallow dish or individual small dishes. Place the cooked rhubarb into the bottom of each dish to make a layer about one centimetre thick. Gently pour in the cold custard so as not to disturb the rhubarb.
Place into a cold water bath and bake in the oven until just set, about 40 minutes. Remove and allow to cool completely. When cool, refrigerate for at least two hours.
Lightly sprinkle the top of the baked custard with white sugar. Using a propane torch, scorch the sugar to a deep caramel colour. Allow the sugar to cool and become brittle. Serve immediately.
Serves 8.
Keith Froggett is executive chef and co-owner of Scaramouche in Toronto.
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