
Chef Thomas
Apple Charlotte
Buttered bread baked to a deep mahogany around a filling of spiced Bramley apples, turned out at the table in a small moment of drama, cold cream poured from a jug alongside.
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Created by Chef Thomas
Forced Yorkshire rhubarb, stewed until pink and sharp, drowned in proper vanilla custard. A pudding that only makes sense between January and March, and only deserves the best of both.
There's a short stretch of the year, roughly January to March, when forced rhubarb arrives from the Yorkshire Triangle and the dark months suddenly have a reason. The stalks are an improbable pink, almost fluorescent, grown in blacked-out sheds by candlelight so they grow fast and tender and reach for any bit of warmth they can find. I've seen them pulled from the shed in person once, and the sound they make, a small squeaking creak in the dark, is something I've never forgotten.
This is a January pudding. A February one too. You want it on an evening when the rain is sideways and the heating has been on since morning and you need something sharp and bright to remind you that spring is, in fact, happening somewhere. The rhubarb goes into a shallow dish with sugar and a strip of orange peel and almost no water, then into the oven just long enough to soften without collapsing. The custard is made slowly on the hob, vanilla pod, yolks, milk and cream, stirred with a wooden spoon until it coats the back of it. No powder. No shortcut. We're only making dinner, but some dinners deserve the proper thing.
I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: "Rhubarb. Pink. The first of the year. A good evening." I still think about that bowl. Serve it in shallow dishes so you can see the pink against the pale yellow. Don't be shy with the custard. There are few better feelings than putting a warm bowl of this in front of someone on a cold night and watching their shoulders drop half an inch.
Quantity
500g
trimmed and cut into 4cm lengths
Quantity
80g
Quantity
1 strip
pared with a vegetable peeler
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
300ml
Quantity
200ml
Quantity
1
split lengthways, seeds scraped
Quantity
4
Quantity
50g
Quantity
1 teaspoon
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| forced Yorkshire rhubarbtrimmed and cut into 4cm lengths | 500g |
| golden caster sugar | 80g |
| orange peelpared with a vegetable peeler | 1 strip |
| water | 1 tablespoon |
| whole milk | 300ml |
| double cream | 200ml |
| vanilla podsplit lengthways, seeds scraped | 1 |
| large egg yolks | 4 |
| caster sugar | 50g |
| cornflour (optional) | 1 teaspoon |
Set the oven to 180C/160C fan. Put the rhubarb in a single layer in a shallow baking dish, something that holds it snugly without crowding. Scatter the sugar over the top, tuck in the strip of orange peel, and add the tablespoon of water. That's it. Forced rhubarb is so tender and full of its own juice that it needs almost nothing from you.
Cover the dish loosely with foil and slide it into the oven. Bake for twelve to fifteen minutes, until the rhubarb yields when you press it with the back of a spoon but still holds its shape. You're not making compote. You want distinct pink batons sitting in a pool of their own shocking pink syrup. Check it early. Forced rhubarb goes from perfect to collapsed quickly, and once it's gone to mush there's no bringing it back.
While the rhubarb is in the oven, pour the milk and cream into a heavy-bottomed pan. Add the vanilla pod and its scraped seeds. Bring it slowly to just below a simmer, small bubbles at the edge, no more, then take it off the heat and let it sit for ten minutes. You want the vanilla to have its say.
In a bowl large enough to hold everything eventually, whisk the egg yolks with the caster sugar and cornflour until the mixture turns pale and thick, about a minute of proper work. The cornflour is a small insurance policy. It stabilises the custard against splitting if the heat gets away from you. Old hands can skip it. I don't.
Fish the vanilla pod out of the warm milk. Pour the milk into the yolks in a slow, steady stream, whisking all the while, then tip the lot back into the pan. Set it over a gentle heat and stir with a wooden spoon, not a whisk, moving it constantly across the base of the pan in slow figures of eight. After four or five minutes it will begin to thicken. The moment it coats the back of the spoon and a finger drawn through leaves a clean line, it's done. Trust your nose and your eyes. This is not the time to walk away.
Spoon the rhubarb and its pink syrup into shallow bowls. Pour the warm custard over the top, or beside it if you want to see both. A generous pour. This isn't a dish for restraint. The sharp, almost citrusy rhubarb against the soft vanilla custard is the whole point, and any less than plenty feels mean.
1 serving (about 280g)
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Chef Thomas
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