LEMON MERINNNNNNNNNNNNNNGUE PIE
If you've eaten out somewhere in the last decade or so, by which I mean eating out in the restaurant sense rather than eating out of a bin or scraps off of a birdtable (don't make that face - we've all been there), you'll have probably noticed the influence of what I like to call "USA-style excess supersizing bullshit".
This is where something perfectly normal - usually a dessert, or a hamburger/sandwich - is ruined by overdoing it to such a degree that the thing it actually was is no longer even the main thing in it. What do I mean? Well, they say a picture is worth a thousand words, and - as I'm a lazy sod - if that saves me 10 minutes of typing I'm all for it. So here's what I'm on about in picture form:
I mean, look at it. LOOK AT IT. There's all sorts of crap oozing down the side, it's got half a cow's weekly output of cream on it, there's chocolate sprinkles as well, and that's before you get to the fact that there's about a pint of hot chocolate in itself - which is about 3/4 of a pint more than the amount where most people go "Actually, I've had enough now thanks". Oh, and of course THERE'S A SHITTING MARS BAR SMASHED INTO THE TOP.
Ludicrous, usually vastly overpriced to boot, and often not even particularly nice. After all, with that much quantity no one is going to give even 1.5 hoots about quality let alone 2, assuming they even manage to get through it without being sick.
So, what am I going to do about this worrying trend? Well join in, obviously - I love me a worryingly trendy bandwagon. Plus the other week we were at a place that apparently had 'famous' lemon meringue pie. At first I assumed it was famous for tasting weirdly like lemon cough sweets (because regrettably, it did), but it seems the fame actually stemmed from the excessive height and generosity of the meringue part. And as I'm never one to turn down an entirely imagined challenge, I thought I'd see if I could do better*!
*worse.
If you'd like to see what approximately 1 kg of meringue looks like at a proximity most people would describe as 'really much too close thanks', you'll need to swipe the following from someone else's trolley while they're not looking:
* A sodding great load of tin foil
* 75g butter
* 175g strategically ruined hob nob biscuits
* A tin of full-fat sweetened condensed milk, or 'condemned milk' as my autocorrect would have it (could be interesting if you can find it?)
* 3 egg yolks
First off, get whatever flan tin you were going to use and embellish it thusly with what shall henceforth be known as the 'egg chimney'. I used about a triple thickness of foil as you want the heat to still get through but also need it to be strong enough to hold back the unctuous tide of unfertilised hen ovum within.
Once you've done that, it's on to smashing the biscuits. Do this in a bag or you'll be hoovering up crumbs for months.
Once they're more in bits than Morrissey's credibility, melt the butter in a saucepan and stir in the crumbs. Then carefully pour these down the chimney into the base of your flan dish. You'll then need to flatten these out - I found the end of a rolling pin worked quite well. And by 'quite well' I mean a hell of a lot better than the end of a wooden spoon I tried doing it with at first.
Next, grate the zest and the skin from at least 1 of your thumbs (look, it's going to happen so I may as well make it official) into a bowl, then add the juice, egg yolks and condensed milk. Give it a good stir until it looks like custard and less like it does below, because unfortunately at first it looks quite a lot like puke.
Once it's all come together, pour it gently down the pipe (the 'cooking' pipe, not the toilet) so it's not too splashy and it should settle out nicely.
And now, it's on to the tedious part. Separate your egg whites out and whip them into a frothing mass using an electric whisk. You could of course use a hand whisk, but if you do by the end of this marathon egg-up your arm will just be a withered, gnarled claw.
I divided it up so that it was about 3 or 4 egg whites per batch, adding sugar in small bursts once the egg whites are frothy. Once all the sugar is in (about 175g per 3 eggs), plop it down the egg shaft and do it all over again. And again. And, further, again. Just make sure your bowl is clean each time and there's no egg yolk in with the white, or it won't whip up because egg white is a fussy bastard.
Twelve tedious eggs later, and you'll have something like this (I trimmed the foil down a bit):
Then, once you've dismantled most of your oven to fit the sodding thing in, it's in for a slow cook for 25 mins or so at 170 C/gas mark 5. After that, turn the oven off and leave it in there for half an hour in a futile attempt to cook the vast amount of gunge without incinerating the exterior. And then? Then it's serving time! (Closely followed by going for a very long walk to burn off all the sugar time.)
Once out of the oven, take a few seconds to think 'my god - it actually didn't all ooze out of the sides', then carefully peel back the foil and...
Bloody hell, it worked! And now? Now you're against the clock because it turns out lightly cooked meringue isn't the most structurally robust of building materials, and without its foil scaffold things are going to go downhill fast. Well OK, not downhill, but awfully sideways. Observe:
Now obviously you could just call it a day at this point, bin the lot and have the leftover biscuits as a reward for all your efforts (assuming you haven't already eaten them). But no! We're not done yet, because somewhere under all that adhesive eggy mist is a perfectly decent lemon tart. The only real issue is that there's just too much distance between the meringue top and the flan, which you can address with a quick 'cut and shut' - lop the top inch or so off and pop it on another plate, scoop off the extra meringue with your hands (look, I didn't have anything else handy - no pun intended), then shove the top back on and bingo! A perfectly respectable, 'normal' lemon meringue pie. Albeit one that looks like it has been mugged. Incidentally, I imagine this is a lot like how they do face transplants - only in this case with a bit more egg and marginally fewer cadavers.
This is where something perfectly normal - usually a dessert, or a hamburger/sandwich - is ruined by overdoing it to such a degree that the thing it actually was is no longer even the main thing in it. What do I mean? Well, they say a picture is worth a thousand words, and - as I'm a lazy sod - if that saves me 10 minutes of typing I'm all for it. So here's what I'm on about in picture form:
 |
| In a Mason jar, of course. Because 'cool' people are apparently incapable of drinking from normal vessels like cups, mugs and gravy boats (don't judge me). |
I mean, look at it. LOOK AT IT. There's all sorts of crap oozing down the side, it's got half a cow's weekly output of cream on it, there's chocolate sprinkles as well, and that's before you get to the fact that there's about a pint of hot chocolate in itself - which is about 3/4 of a pint more than the amount where most people go "Actually, I've had enough now thanks". Oh, and of course THERE'S A SHITTING MARS BAR SMASHED INTO THE TOP.
Ludicrous, usually vastly overpriced to boot, and often not even particularly nice. After all, with that much quantity no one is going to give even 1.5 hoots about quality let alone 2, assuming they even manage to get through it without being sick.
So, what am I going to do about this worrying trend? Well join in, obviously - I love me a worryingly trendy bandwagon. Plus the other week we were at a place that apparently had 'famous' lemon meringue pie. At first I assumed it was famous for tasting weirdly like lemon cough sweets (because regrettably, it did), but it seems the fame actually stemmed from the excessive height and generosity of the meringue part. And as I'm never one to turn down an entirely imagined challenge, I thought I'd see if I could do better*!
*worse.
Ingredients:
If you'd like to see what approximately 1 kg of meringue looks like at a proximity most people would describe as 'really much too close thanks', you'll need to swipe the following from someone else's trolley while they're not looking:
* A sodding great load of tin foil
* 75g butter
* 175g strategically ruined hob nob biscuits
* A tin of full-fat sweetened condensed milk, or 'condemned milk' as my autocorrect would have it (could be interesting if you can find it?)
* 3 egg yolks
* 12 egg whites
* The rind and juice of 3 lemons
* 550g caster sugar
* The rind and juice of 3 lemons
* 550g caster sugar
* A diabetes testing kit (see above)
Method:
 |
| This part of this week's recipe also doubles up as a tribute to everyone's favourite politician, Lord Buckethead. |
First off, get whatever flan tin you were going to use and embellish it thusly with what shall henceforth be known as the 'egg chimney'. I used about a triple thickness of foil as you want the heat to still get through but also need it to be strong enough to hold back the unctuous tide of unfertilised hen ovum within.
Once you've done that, it's on to smashing the biscuits. Do this in a bag or you'll be hoovering up crumbs for months.
 |
| This would also make quite a nice packed lunch. Again, don't judge me. |
Once they're more in bits than Morrissey's credibility, melt the butter in a saucepan and stir in the crumbs. Then carefully pour these down the chimney into the base of your flan dish. You'll then need to flatten these out - I found the end of a rolling pin worked quite well. And by 'quite well' I mean a hell of a lot better than the end of a wooden spoon I tried doing it with at first.
 |
| As an added bonus, if you spin the base fast enough at this point you get a biscuit kaleidoscope! |
Next, grate the zest and the skin from at least 1 of your thumbs (look, it's going to happen so I may as well make it official) into a bowl, then add the juice, egg yolks and condensed milk. Give it a good stir until it looks like custard and less like it does below, because unfortunately at first it looks quite a lot like puke.
 |
| It does get better, honest. Well, a bit better anyway. OK, marginally better - like as in a 'rizla thin' margin. |
Once it's all come together, pour it gently down the pipe (the 'cooking' pipe, not the toilet) so it's not too splashy and it should settle out nicely.
 |
| I absolutely planned it so it filled it up perfectly to the top without overflowing. Honest. |
And now, it's on to the tedious part. Separate your egg whites out and whip them into a frothing mass using an electric whisk. You could of course use a hand whisk, but if you do by the end of this marathon egg-up your arm will just be a withered, gnarled claw.
I divided it up so that it was about 3 or 4 egg whites per batch, adding sugar in small bursts once the egg whites are frothy. Once all the sugar is in (about 175g per 3 eggs), plop it down the egg shaft and do it all over again. And again. And, further, again. Just make sure your bowl is clean each time and there's no egg yolk in with the white, or it won't whip up because egg white is a fussy bastard.
Twelve tedious eggs later, and you'll have something like this (I trimmed the foil down a bit):
 |
| It may look like a pipe full of lovely, light cloud, but know this: it weighs a bloody ton. |
Then, once you've dismantled most of your oven to fit the sodding thing in, it's in for a slow cook for 25 mins or so at 170 C/gas mark 5. After that, turn the oven off and leave it in there for half an hour in a futile attempt to cook the vast amount of gunge without incinerating the exterior. And then? Then it's serving time! (Closely followed by going for a very long walk to burn off all the sugar time.)
Results:
 |
| OK, admit it - this looks pretty impressive. Admittedly this appearance is going to be ruined in a few seconds, but just let me enjoy it while I can. |
Once out of the oven, take a few seconds to think 'my god - it actually didn't all ooze out of the sides', then carefully peel back the foil and...
 |
| Be honest - who wouldn't want approximately 8 eggy inches of phlegmy, gelatinous plop (and a hint of citrus) for tea, eh! What? What do you mean everyone? |
Bloody hell, it worked! And now? Now you're against the clock because it turns out lightly cooked meringue isn't the most structurally robust of building materials, and without its foil scaffold things are going to go downhill fast. Well OK, not downhill, but awfully sideways. Observe:
 |
| I had just enough time to cut a slice and get a photo before... |
 |
| ...it all started slumping like a narcoleptic sloth after 6 pints of brandy. |
Now obviously you could just call it a day at this point, bin the lot and have the leftover biscuits as a reward for all your efforts (assuming you haven't already eaten them). But no! We're not done yet, because somewhere under all that adhesive eggy mist is a perfectly decent lemon tart. The only real issue is that there's just too much distance between the meringue top and the flan, which you can address with a quick 'cut and shut' - lop the top inch or so off and pop it on another plate, scoop off the extra meringue with your hands (look, I didn't have anything else handy - no pun intended), then shove the top back on and bingo! A perfectly respectable, 'normal' lemon meringue pie. Albeit one that looks like it has been mugged. Incidentally, I imagine this is a lot like how they do face transplants - only in this case with a bit more egg and marginally fewer cadavers.
 |
| A flawless repair - literally no-one will EVER know. In my case, primarily because no-one comes round to eat anymore for some reason. |
Oh, and I suppose you want to know what it tasted like? Well actually it was delicious - remarkably, even the bit from right in the middle of the elephant's foot of egg that I tried for 'scientific reasons' was cooked, if a bit soft for my liking. And once reduced to a more practical and fridge-friendly height, it was fine if a bit messy. But to be fair everything else was messy by that point too. I'm not going to lie - removing fistfuls of wet meringue in a minor panic makes for a fairly sticky experience in as much as I'm still finding tacky patches on the worktop now, and I cleaned it for bloody ages.
In summary though: proof, if it were needed, that ridiculous excess just leads to substandard results and moist plinths of turgid goo. Now all I have to do is get rid of this unexpected bowlful of second-hand sugary egg. Meringue on toast, anyone?
In summary though: proof, if it were needed, that ridiculous excess just leads to substandard results and moist plinths of turgid goo. Now all I have to do is get rid of this unexpected bowlful of second-hand sugary egg. Meringue on toast, anyone?
Comments
Post a Comment