Kismet. Serendipity. Blind dumb luck.
After sampling one of Cornish Bakehouse’s meat pasties, I wasn’t expecting much from their custard Danish. For starters, it was custard filled. I like custard, but as I’ve said many times before, Danishes should be cream cheese filled. Fruit should be used as a last resort, and in conjunction with the cheese. Custard? Never.
It looked pretty good, but they always do. It’s usually in that first bite that one separates the men from the boys. The wheat from the chaff.
”The dominatrix from the submissive with the ball gag!” the Generalissimo said.
Quite.
I did what I usually do: I cut it into quarters; set two of them aside, and separated the custard from the bread on the other two. Normally I’d scrape some of the frosting from the top, but they’d gone with a glaze that baked until it was golden brown. That would make evaluating it on its own more difficult.
I gave the Generalissimo one of the separated quarters and a fork. Took one for myself and gave him the high sign.
”Dig in!” he said.
The bread was crispy on the outside, with a soft core and a hint of sweetness tempered by a delightful amount of moisture. Magnificent. A perfect score.
The glaze should have received a zero on principle, but after tasting it I simply couldn’t. No one could. Its execution left me wondering why other Danish makers aren’t preparing their baked goods this way. Another perfect score.
The custard was good. Great, smooth texture. Rich flavor. It needed just a hair more sweetness, maybe from a touch of honey, but it wasn’t enough to quibble over. Near perfect.
”Dear God,” the Generalissimo said. His surprise seemed to have knocked his mustache askew. “It is…it is…”
”Perfect,” I said.
Graded on its merits, it would score a 99 out of a 100. We each took our remaining quarters and tried them as a whole. Astonishing.
But it wasn’t a cheese Danish. So close. So very, very close.
A+ (D- when adjusted for being custard and therefore an abomination; a perfect abomination)