You can go your whole life without having a single experience with something, and then suddenly, it’s everywhere in your world.
That’s how the souffle found me.
I wasn’t running in souffle circles. Growing up, my family ate cornbread slathered in buttermilk for dessert — or my grandmother’s flour tortillas warmed from her comal with butter, salt and honey. To be honest, I thought, why all the fuss about soufflés? It’s a debut dish, fluffy and beautiful, with excellent presentation, to be sure. But it looked all crinoline to me. Not much substance.
Recipe: Vanilla Citrus Souffle
But eventually, the souffle entered my life quite properly, as one can imagine. The first to make a meteorite-sized impact on me came via Jacqueline Margulis, the 87-year-old chef and owner of Cafe Jacqueline in San Francisco, which serves only soufflés for main and dessert.
Opened in 1979, Cafe Jacqueline has been a North Beach fixture. Margulis’ set-up is small and fascinatingly organized: every step is calculated, every turn leads to another turn, every utensil has a place to land when not in use. When you see that a chef has established the choreography in her kitchen, do a little private curtsy, because in my estimation, you are in the presence of royalty.
The cafe is small, unassuming but brimming with a certain kind of confidence. Once you’re greeted professionally and warmly, see the perfect variety on the menu and order, you’ll want to make a trip to the restroom, even if you don’t have a job there, because they’re conveniently located behind the kitchen, allowing anyone to walk right into the field the chef I placed my order as fast as I could so I could, in fact, take this ride, waving like a 5 year old as I passed it.
Margulies looked up from the pot over the fire, her hair peeking out from her white chef’s hat and chef’s coat draped over her shoulders. She was well into her dance, her béchamel-style base cooking away and her egg whites whipped in real time, to order. She didn’t seem bothered by my stay, so I stayed a little longer to watch her fold in her blushes and whites, adding an exciting amount of grated Gruyère.
I came away somewhat surprised with pleasure and inspiration. My mind raced. And because the universe seems to provide when something is meant for you, I found myself re-encountering the soufflé in France’s Loire Valley with chef Naomi Pomeroy, but this time much more intimately.
When I invited Pomeroy to join me in cooking workshops and host workshops in France, I did so based on her reputation as a demanding and extremely talented chef with a wonderful spirit, as evidenced by her excellent restaurant Beast. But I had no idea that she too would become my souffle sherpa.
In her session demystifying the soufflé, our guests were blown away by how she discussed the technique with such friendliness and plain language. I learned along with everyone else, I was charmed and charmed, then I took these tips and techniques home with my memory from Cafe Jacqueline and started writing recipes.
What really struck me about cooking with Pomeroy, though, especially when it came to soufflés, was their childhood story. Her single mother made soufflés, varying the flavors, as often and as easily as my mother whipped up my grandmother’s cornmeal and tortillas. He talked about soufflés as simple, rustic country food, all connotations well and good. Her knowledge of how typical these little dishes were in her life, the deep comfort they still provide, and the impact they had on her as a chef were really what made me fall in love with soufflés. These kinds of stories, after all, engage all cooks — professional or not. Her mother making a life out of something as simple as eggs and roux is richer to me than the reputation the soufflé has earned as precious or fantastical. The truth is that making soufflés embodies why anyone who truly loves to cook does. It’s true and real, and so are people who have built lives on how simple it all can be.