Haselnusskrokant

Gretel always said you could tell a good Konditor by the quality of their Krokant. It sounds like a small thing, this crunchy nut brittle that shows up everywhere in Austrian baking, but the difference between good Krokant and bad Krokant is the difference between a Torte that sings and one that just sits there. Good Krokant tastes of deep caramel and warm toasted hazelnuts. Bad Krokant tastes of burnt sugar and regret.

I learned to make Krokant before I learned to make the things you put it in. In my grandmother Eva's kitchen, Gretel would set a small pan of sugar on the stove and let me watch it transform. That was the word she used: transform. One minute you had a pile of white crystals. A few minutes later, without adding anything at all, you had liquid amber that smelled like toffee and bonfire smoke. She'd stir in a handful of hazelnuts she'd toasted herself, pour the whole thing onto an oiled board, and by the time I'd finished licking the spoon it was already hard enough to crack like glass.

Haselnusskrokant is one of the secrets of Viennese pastry. You'll find it folded into Buttercreme fillings, pressed onto the sides of Torten, scattered over Eisbecher at any Eissalon in Salzburg, or piled into paper bags at Christmas markets. It keeps for weeks in a tin, it takes twenty-five minutes from start to finish, and once you've made it from scratch you won't go back to the bought stuff. Two ingredients do almost all the work. The rest is just paying attention.