First of all, I said I would leave Peter Reinhart’s recipes alone for a while, and I lied. Secondly, I said that croissants lived in the “scary pastries” category of my baking brain, and that is now also a lie. Two falsehoods, yes, but of the most delicious variety.
After tackling my irrational fear of bagels, I figured I might as well pull another monster into the light and try my hand at croissants–my fear of which seemed a little more conspicuous and rational. After all, croissants require a French accent for correct pronunciation and are known to inspire fits of euphoria when made well. There’s something about all those buttery layers that inspires a sense of unsurpassable culinary intimidation. Of course, with my trusty Artisan Breads Every Day, the only seemingly unsurpassable challenge was getting over my guilt of publicizing one too many Reinhart recipes–a guilt that I am assuaging by telling you that my sophomoric explanations of these recipes in no way equate to actually owning this book!
Not to be deterred by the 7 page recipe, I began making the dough, or the detrempe, last night. This consisted of mixing 21 oz. flour, 1 3/4 tsp. salt, 1/4 cup sugar, 1 TB yeast, 7 oz. milk, 8 oz. water, and 2 TB melted butter. After a very brief mixing, the sticky, rather awkward looking dough went straight into the fridge for the night. It was hard to imagine a sleek, French-ish pastry emerging from such a sight, but I put all my eggs in the croissant basket, as it were, and carried on unphased.
I left three sticks of butter out overnight in preparation for the aptly named butter block. Since I don’t have a mixer, I knew I would need the butter to be a bit softer than it probably should be, enabling me to manipulate it into block shape more easily with my hands. When I got home from work today, I set to work making this square of fatty doom. I stuck the three sticks of butter into a bowl with 2 TB flour and squished sickeningly away with my fingers until everything was nice and pasty and my hands were sufficiently moisturized. I then formed the paste into a 6″x6″x1/2″ square, which was great fun. I couldn’t find any measuring devices, so I used my squint-and-guess ruler.
Then began the “laminating” process, in which the butter and dough became very intimately acquainted through a series of fun little folds. This has to be the most thoroughly entertaining kitchen technique ever. I began by sealing my little butter love letter in the big doughy envelope.
I then attempted rather clumsily to roll this out into a 16″x9″ rectangle. I found it difficult to enforce even butter distribution, and to maintain 90 degree angles at the corners of my dough, but I ended up with something roughly rectangular and buttery.
Then the first really fun step took place, and the whole unit was folded up like a fancy business letter–turning 3 layers of butter and flour into 9 layers.
This fatty layered fellow then rested for a while before being rolled back out into another big rectangle. The rectangle was again folded letter-style, making the 9 layers of love transform into 27 even thinner layers. After one more rest for the dough, the final letter-fold took place, and 81 layers of pure fat and doughy fat were nestled together ready to go to croissant town after a little nap. The little buttery bits were visible through the translucent top layer of dough, and were most tantalizing.
I rolled the dough out into an even bigger rectangle than before, and began cutting out elongated triangles–all of which turned out quite unevenly without a proper measuring stick, and would probably make any self-respecting Frenchman gasp with horror. I didn’t care about that so much as I cared about being able to see all of the beautiful layers revealed in the cross-section of the dough, once cut. A health hazard in the making, but so very pretty.
I rolled up each lumpy triangle, and let them proof for a little over 2 hours. They looked like silly little slumbering creatures on my countertop.
While I got things heated up, I brushed each little fellow with an egg wash, and then popped a select few into the 375 degree, magic-rendering oven (while the others went straight to the freezer for safe keeping). Twenty or thirty minutes later, the golden crescents emerged from the oven in a pool of bubbling butter, and it was at that point that I was slightly disgusted, and also slightly pleased. On the one hand, there was enough butter in each croissant to singularly create an entire batch of cookies. On the other hand, they looked like croissants and that was rather nice.
I confidently ignored the pool of butter and eagerly cut the first sucker open, also ignoring the fact that they were still internally hotter than the sun, and should be left alone to cool and finish baking. My heart melted just like all the butter I was about to ingest when I glanced inside my first croissant.
I closed my eyes in order to bypass my more health-aware observation systems, and took a heavenly first bite that unleashed a plethora of happy sensations. The outside crunched between my teeth like a good crispy snowfall crunches underfoot, only with 3/4 lb. more butter. The buttery, light, flaky exterior yielded a soft, yeasty and slightly chewy inside, and then the first croissant was gone.
Next time–and there will most certainly be a next time–I hope to achieve a more uniform, thin, and less lumpy lamination so that more butter stays in, and less leaks out in the baking process to remind me of exactly what I am eating. I also am going to try to handle the dough even less so that the inside dough is just slightly less chewy, and more all-around light and flaky. I am not sure what a French person would say about these particular pastries, but I know what I say about them, and that is “yum.”