Topfenstrudel

In my grandmother Eva's kitchen in Kent, Gretel Beer made two kinds of strudel. The Apfelstrudel came out in autumn when the apples were good. The Topfenstrudel came out all year round, because Topfen doesn't care what month it is. I remember watching her stretch the dough across Eva's kitchen table, this small woman with strong hands pulling it thinner and thinner until I could see the tablecloth pattern underneath. She'd spread the filling across the dough and say, "Not too much. The Topfen needs room to breathe in there or it steams instead of sets."

Topfenstrudel is the quieter strudel. It doesn't have the drama of caramelized apples or the perfume of warm cinnamon. What it has is something better: that clean, tangy richness of good quark, softened with sour cream and eggs, barely sweet, with a few rum-soaked raisins hiding inside. When it bakes, the filling sets into something between a custard and a mousse while the dough turns golden and shatters when you press a fork through it. The contrast is everything. Crisp, paper-thin pastry against cool, creamy filling.

Austrians eat Topfenstrudel warm, not hot, with a dusting of powdered sugar and sometimes a pool of vanilla sauce alongside. In my restaurant in Salzburg, I serve it as a Mehlspeise, because in Austria a Mehlspeise isn't just dessert. It's the heart of the meal. Gretel always said that Austrians like to eat well, and what they like to eat best is dessert. Topfenstrudel is proof she was right.