Panna Cotta

Panna cotta means cooked cream. That is all it is: cream that has been gently warmed with sugar and vanilla, then set with gelatin. The ingredient list takes one sentence to recite. The technique takes ten minutes. And yet most people get it wrong.

The error is always the same: too much gelatin. Americans are nervous cooks. They want insurance. They add extra gelatin to make certain the thing will set, and they end up with something that bounces when dropped. Proper panna cotta does not bounce. It shivers. It trembles. When you touch the mold, the surface should ripple like the skin of a pond when a leaf falls upon it. This is the test, and there is no faking it.

The flavor must be pure. Cream and vanilla, nothing competing. Some add fruit purees or chocolate or coffee, and these can be pleasant, but they are not panna cotta. They are something else wearing its name. Learn the original first. Master the wobble. Then, if you wish, you may experiment. But I suspect you will find, as I have, that the simple version needs nothing more.