
Chef Thomas
Bakewell Tart
A proper Bakewell tart with buttery shortcrust, a thick layer of raspberry jam, and almond frangipane baked golden under a scattering of flaked almonds. No icing. No nonsense.
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Created by Chef Thomas
Flat little discs of shortcrust holding a generous fistful of buttery currants, baked until pale gold and split warm to be buttered and eaten with a slice of Lancashire cheese.
It's the kind of afternoon when the light goes early and the kettle is on more often than off. The garden has nothing left to give but a few apples and the last of the herbs gone leggy. This is when Chorley cakes make sense. Not in July when there's fruit on every branch, but now, when the cooking turns inward and the cupboard does most of the work.
If you've only had Eccles cakes, the famous flaky ones with their burst of dark sugar and peel, a Chorley cake might seem like a quiet disappointment at first glance. It isn't. It's a different thing altogether. The pastry is shortcrust, soft and biscuity, not rich and shattering. The filling is plainer: currants, butter, a whisper of spice, no peel, no brandy, no fanfare. The cakes are pressed flat so the currants show through the pastry like dark coins under thin ice. They're less sweet, less showy, and altogether more useful.
The trick is what you do with them after they come out of the oven. Split them while they're still warm, butter the cut sides with cold salted butter, and lay a thick wedge of Lancashire cheese on top. The salt of the cheese, the cool butter, the warm currants, the crumble of the pastry. It shouldn't work and it does. I wrote it down in the notebook the first time I had one done properly: "Chorley. Cheese. November. Yes." That's still all I need to remember.
We're only making dinner, or in this case the thing you eat between dinners, the small ceremony of tea on a grey afternoon. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract. If your currants are very plump, use a few less. If you like the spice stronger, add more. Your kitchen, your rules.
Quantity
250g
plus extra for rolling
Quantity
125g
cubed
Quantity
50g
Quantity
pinch
Quantity
1
Quantity
3-4 tablespoons
Quantity
200g
Quantity
30g
melted, for the filling
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
generous pinch
Quantity
1
lightly beaten, for glazing
Quantity
a little
for scattering
Quantity
to serve
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| plain flourplus extra for rolling | 250g |
| cold unsalted buttercubed | 125g |
| caster sugar | 50g |
| fine sea salt | pinch |
| large egg yolk | 1 |
| cold milk | 3-4 tablespoons |
| currants | 200g |
| unsalted buttermelted, for the filling | 30g |
| soft light brown sugar | 1 tablespoon |
| mixed spice | generous pinch |
| egg whitelightly beaten, for glazing | 1 |
| caster sugarfor scattering | a little |
| salted butter and Lancashire cheese (optional) | to serve |
Tip the flour, sugar and salt into a wide bowl. Add the cold cubed butter and rub it in with your fingertips, lifting your hands up out of the bowl as you go to keep things cool. You're after the texture of coarse breadcrumbs with a few flatter flakes of butter still showing. Don't overwork it. Stir in the egg yolk, then add the milk a tablespoon at a time, bringing the dough together with a knife. It should just hold when you press it. Tip it onto the counter, knead it once or twice into a flat disc, wrap it, and rest it in the fridge for twenty minutes.
Put the currants in a bowl. Pour over the melted butter, scatter in the brown sugar and the mixed spice, and stir until every currant is glossy and the spice has stained the butter. That's the whole filling. No peel, no nuts, no nonsense. A Chorley cake is not an Eccles cake and doesn't want to be.
Heat the oven to 200C/180C fan. Line a baking sheet with parchment. Lightly flour your counter and roll the pastry out to about three millimetres thick, no thicker. Cut out eight rounds with a saucer or a large pastry cutter, around twelve centimetres across. Re-roll the offcuts gently if you need to. Pastry doesn't like being handled twice, but once is fine.
Spoon a generous tablespoon of currants into the centre of each round. Brush the edges with a little water, then gather the pastry up over the filling like a small purse, pressing the seams firmly to seal. Turn each one over so the seam is underneath, and flatten with the heel of your hand or a rolling pin until it's a thin disc about a centimetre thick. You should just see the dark shapes of the currants pressing through the pastry. That's the look you want.
Lift the cakes onto the baking sheet. Make two or three short slashes across the top of each with a sharp knife, just enough to break the surface. Brush them with the beaten egg white and scatter a little caster sugar over the top. Bake for eighteen to twenty minutes, until the pastry is pale gold and the sugar has crisped to a faint crackle. Trust your nose. When the kitchen smells of butter and warm currants, they're nearly there.
Lift them onto a rack and let them cool until just warm. Split each one through the middle with a serrated knife, spread the cut sides generously with cold salted butter, and lay a thick slice of Lancashire cheese on top. Eat them with strong tea, in the afternoon, with the rain coming down. There are few better feelings than putting a warm plate of these in front of someone who's just come in from outside.
1 serving (about 95g)
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