Chocolate Ganache Tart with Meringue

I didn’t ever really intend to study French literature.

It’s kind of a strange thing to realize, now that I’m halfway through a Masters in the topic. I don’t know if everyone feels like this during a post-graduate degree… it’s probably just me. I’ve always liked reading, but I never particularly liked literature classes. I was the kid — sorry friends who are now English teachers — who would get mad because we were over-analyzing simple things like the color of the drapes. The drapes are blue. It’s not a reflection of the tortured soul of the narrator. Get over it.

But I learned to do it; after all, I was taking not one but two literature classes throughout most of high school — French and English. I learned to find evidence of things I didn’t even know what I was looking for, to write papers supporting theses I didn’t believe. I got good grades, which made me even madder, because I knew that most of what I was writing was, pardon my French, le bull-shit. (Aside: no, that’s not a real French word. French people say C’était n’importe quoi, “It was whatever/anything,” which makes less sense but is very fun to say.)

All this to say, I’m more surprised than anyone, not only that I’m getting a Masters — something that I claimed I would never do — but that it’s in French Literature. And even more surprising? I’m actually enjoying it.

I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s because it’s in a different language; maybe I’ve just grown up and realized that sometimes, the blue drapes mean something. (Though I still feel that most of the time they don’t.) I think the largest part of my enjoyment of studying French literature is the fact that, the more I read and learn, the more I realize that what I’m studying is French culture and society.

I’ve mentioned before that I still feel, regardless of the five years I’ve lived in France, that I’m lacking in general knowledge, the things that you learn when you’re so young that now, years later, you have no idea when or where you came to acquire them… but they’re yours. Example: Who was the first president of the USA? If you’re reading this and you’re American, the answer probably comes easily.

Now, who was the first president of France?

Not so easy.

They’re small things; perhaps you don’t notice them. I know that I didn’t, at first. “Who cares what the relationship between Napoleon I and Napoleon III is? I have to figure out how to open a savings account in a foreign country.” But that time has passed, now. I feel as comfortable — and perhaps moreso — in France as I would in America. At least I know what I’m supposed to be doing here, even if it’s more obnoxious, in general, to pay bills and taxes, apply for visas and generally keep on top of all those adult things that you’re just supposed to magically learn how to do one day… I don’t think I would have a clue where to start in America.

All this to say… studying literature in a Masters degree is different. There’s no teacher pulling the answers they want out of you slowly, pressing with questions that build on top of one another until you finally arrive at the conclusion they wanted. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, as a method, but that’s neither here nor there: in a Masters degree, you choose your own study path, and mine has been about one part literature to one part sociology. I read French classics, not only for their value in literature, but also for their value as evidence of time past, of elements of French culture that I will never see, first hand, but that still run as an undercurrent to everything that happens in modern France. The slight differences — my generation’s problem with the institution of marriage, the staunch refusal to allow women the right to be surrogates, the refusal of religion and contradictory near-worship of the Sunday off from work… these things, and more, slowly explain themselves the more I read and learn about France’s history, about the people who came before the men and women I see in the métro and on the streets in 2012.

I’m learning. Perhaps it will never be enough, but I feel challenged, I feel like I’m moving towards something. So much so that, this weekend, when talking with some French people my age, the topic of who the first French president was came up. “Adolphe Thiers,” I said, confidently. I couldn’t for the life of me remember where I had learned the answer, but I knew, in the same way that you know that a rainbow goes ROYGBIV or that the capital of the United States is Washington, D.C., that I was right*.

*The first president of France is actually sometimes said to be Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte. However, he later proclaimed himself Emperor Napoleon III of France, thus beginning the Second French Empire and ending the Second French Republic. When the Third Republic was created, Thiers was the first president; France has remained a Republic since then, with the exception of the collaborationist government of Vichy France during WWII. Now you know.

Even if you don’t care that much about 19th century French politics, I’m sure I can get you to care about ganache. The whole reason behind this diatribe — an introduction to a very, very bumpy transition — is to say that the more time I spend here, the more even the smallest decisions and instincts change. Take, for example, this dessert. The Country Boy and I wanted something sweet after dinner, but I was out of almost everything. The random decision to make ganache and meringue never would have occurred to me before, but somehow, between 2007 and today, something changed.

This recipe is ridiculously easy. I made it in the time it took TCB to do the dishes (not including baking time). You could also make a shortbread crust to go along with it, but really, who needs crust when you have meringue?

Chocolate Ganache Tart with Meringue

90 g. good quality dark chocolate
1 Tbsp. crème fraiche or liquid heavy cream
1 tsp. salt, separated
2 eggs, separated
1 Tbsp. sugar

Break the chocolate into small squares. Place in a saucepan or double-boiler. (In all honesty, while I know I should melt chocolate in a double-boiler, I never do, and it always goes fine. If you prefer a double-boiler, go for it.) Add the cream and heat over low heat until the chocolate is nearly completely melted. Remove from the heat and stir until the chocolate has melted entirely. Add half of the salt. Place to the side.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Using an electric beater, beat the egg whites until stiff peaks form. Add the sugar and the rest of the salt and fold in gently. Carefully spoon into a pastry bag or plastic sandwich bag with one corner snipped off.

Beat the egg yolks with a fork in a medium bowl. By the tablespoonful, add the chocolate mixture, mixing continuously, until all of the chocolate has been added. (If you add too much chocolate at once or stop mixing, the egg yolks might scramble. Not delicious.)

Spread the chocolate mixture into the bottom of two ramekins. Use the pastry bag or plastic bag to cover the chocolate with meringue. Bake for about 10-15 minutes, until the meringue is golden brown on the top.