Check out this review from the DownTown Journal by Carla Waldemar: The Beast of Northeast
You thought Bon Appetit was a food magazine? Well, it strays into soft porn, too. Witness the cover of the September 2004 issue with its full-frontal, come-hither photos of Wilde Roast’s bete noir (“black beast”) chocolate cake. (Move it down to Dream Girls and they could dispense with live personnel.)
I didn’t dare remind you of this chocolate seduction on Valentine’s Day or the cafe, on East Hennepin might have been the scene of a traffic disaster second only to the collapse of the bridge.
It’s been on the menu since day one, which occurred in March 2004. That’s when co-owners Dean Schlaak and Tom DeGree launched the Nordeast coffeehouse-café-community center they’d rehabbed with sweat equity, laying the tiles on the floor, affixing the handmade woodwork and scouring antiques salvage stores for finds like the signature chandeliers and fireplace that complete the cozy Victorian look.
Wilde Roast’s original chef brought the recipe with him, gleaned in culinary school back when bete noir was the crème brulee of its day. Chef Jeff Sherman rides the range these days, putting his culinary stamp on items here and there, but “This recipe I didn’t change,” he attests. “It’s perfect! I don’t have to,” he proclaims with a smile that gives homage to the ultimate in chocolate indulgences that passed his taste exam.
Its perfection is based on two things: prime ingredients and TLC in the oven. For the first, Jeff buys elegant Caillebaut chocolate in 22-pound bags and somehow finds room to store in in the café’s kitchen, the size of a small apartment sofa. Melted, it’s blended with eggs, butter, sugar syrup, vanilla and a pinch of salt, then beaten till its dark texture turns to satin. Then it’s slid gently into a springform pan, which, in turn, is set into a water bath to insure gentle, even baking — no burnt crust, no runny center — in a low oven. Finally, Jeff pops it into the freezer to firm up for even slicing.
Not content to let well enough alone, he massages a rich mantle of chocolate ganache over the top, gives it a sprinkle of powdered sugar, then gilds this particular lily with a cloud of house-whipped cream (no aerosols need apply). A drizzle of raspberry syrup, and it’s ready to spark romance. Rumor has it that he’s being considered for canonization — we’ll need to call him St. Jeff — because he keeps reserves of this best-selling cake on hand rather than risk stoning by the masses (“or an angry boss”).
It also promotes pure gluttony. Target recently ordered 800 slices for a corporate event. Then there’s that morning regular who saunters in for his chocolate fix, announcing, “Well, I’m ready!” Clearly, this is what Marie Antoinette had in mind when she counseled, “Let them eat cake.”
P.S. Should your mother have cautioned you not to eat dessert first, Dean has instituted a user-friendly “date night” package: $25 buys you and your sweetie refillable glasses of wine and choice (one each) of pizza or salad, any time of any night of the week. So, pretty soon we’ll be lighting candles to St. Dean, too.
