
Chef Elsa
Kaiserschmarrn (Emperor's Torn Pancake)
A thick, golden pancake torn into rough pieces in a buttered pan, caramelised until the edges go sticky and sweet, dusted with sugar at the table alongside a bowl of warm, spiced plum compote.
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Stale bread, good mountain cheese, a handful of chives, and a hot pan. Tyrolean dumplings pressed flat and fried golden, then floated in clear broth for the kind of supper that warms you from the bowl up.
There is a smell that stale bread makes when it meets warm milk. Soft, faintly sweet, the ghost of the bakery it came from. In the Tyrol, that smell is the beginning of Kaspressknödel: cheese dumplings pressed flat and fried golden in butter, the kind of food that mountain cooks have been making for generations because it turns yesterday's bread into tonight's supper. That's cooking I understand.
This is not my tradition. I won't pretend otherwise. But I've been making these at home for years now, and they've earned their page in the notebook. The idea is too good to ignore: stale bread soaked in milk, mixed with coarsely grated mountain cheese and a fistful of chives, pressed into thick patties and fried until they're crisp outside, soft and savoury within. Floated in a bowl of clear, hot broth, they become the kind of meal that makes a cold evening feel like a good decision.
Kaspressknödel are Tyrolean to the bone, a Gasthaus dish from the high valleys where nothing gets wasted and cheese is as essential as air. "Kas" is cheese, "Press" is what you do to shape them, and "Knödel" is dumpling. No performance. No complication. Good bread, good cheese, a hot pan. We're only making dinner.
Quantity
300g
cut into small cubes
Quantity
200ml
warmed
Quantity
1 medium
finely diced
Quantity
30g
Quantity
150g
coarsely grated
Quantity
2
lightly beaten
Quantity
3 tablespoons
finely chopped
Quantity
2 tablespoons
finely chopped
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
a grating
Quantity
2-3 tablespoons
Quantity
for frying
Quantity
about 1 litre
for serving
Quantity
for garnish
snipped
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| day-old bread rolls (Semmeln) or white breadcut into small cubes | 300g |
| whole milkwarmed | 200ml |
| onionfinely diced | 1 medium |
| unsalted butter | 30g |
| Bergkäse (Austrian mountain cheese)coarsely grated | 150g |
| eggslightly beaten | 2 |
| fresh chivesfinely chopped | 3 tablespoons |
| fresh flat-leaf parsleyfinely chopped | 2 tablespoons |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| black pepper | to taste |
| nutmeg | a grating |
| plain flour (optional) | 2-3 tablespoons |
| Butterschmalz (clarified butter) or neutral oil | for frying |
| good clear vegetable or beef broth (Rindsuppe)for serving | about 1 litre |
| fresh chivessnipped | for garnish |
Put the bread cubes in a large bowl and pour over the warm milk. Toss them gently so every piece gets some. Cover with a tea towel and leave for fifteen to twenty minutes. The bread should be soft and damp throughout, yielding when you press it, but not swimming. If you squeeze a handful, it should hold together without milk running out. If it's too wet, press the bread gently in a clean tea towel to wring out the excess. This matters. Too much moisture and the dumplings will fall apart in the pan.
While the bread soaks, melt the butter in a small pan over a gentle heat. Add the diced onion and a pinch of salt. Cook slowly, stirring now and then, until the onion is soft, translucent, and sweet. Five to seven minutes, no more. You don't want any colour. The onion should melt into the dumpling mixture, not announce itself. Take the pan off the heat and let it cool for a few minutes.
Add the grated Bergkäse, the softened onion (butter and all), the beaten eggs, the chives, and the parsley to the soaked bread. Season with salt, pepper, and a grating of nutmeg. Nutmeg is quiet here, just enough to make you wonder what that warmth is. Mix everything with your hands. You want it well combined but not overworked. The mixture should hold together when you squeeze a handful into a ball. If it feels too loose and sticky, work in a tablespoon of flour, then another if needed. If it feels too dry and crumbly, add a splash more milk. Trust your hands. They know.
Wet your hands lightly. Take a generous handful of the mixture, about the size of a tennis ball, and roll it between your palms. Then press it flat into a patty, roughly eight centimetres across and about two centimetres thick. Not too thin or they'll crisp through entirely and lose the soft centre. Not too thick or the middle won't cook. Set each one on a floured board or plate. You should get about eight. They won't be uniform. That's fine. These are Gasthaus dumplings, not restaurant food.
Heat a generous film of Butterschmalz or oil in a wide frying pan over a medium heat. When it shimmers but before it smokes, lay in the dumplings, leaving space between them. Don't crowd the pan. Fry for three to four minutes on the first side, resisting the urge to move them. When the edges go golden and the underside is properly crisp, flip them carefully. Another three to four minutes on the second side. They should be deep golden and firm to the touch, with that particular smell of toasted bread and melting cheese that makes the kitchen feel like somewhere you want to be. Drain on kitchen paper for a moment.
Bring your broth to a gentle simmer. It should be the best you can manage, clear and well seasoned, because it has nowhere to hide. Ladle it into warm, wide bowls, then set two dumplings into each. Scatter snipped chives over the top. Serve straight away while the broth is hot and the dumplings are still crisp at the edges. Eat with a spoon and the quiet satisfaction of knowing you turned stale bread into something worth sitting down for.
1 serving (about 465g)
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