chocolate hazelnut crepe cake

When I was a kid, I was an immigrant.

I moved here when I was seven, and I didn’t even know how to say hello or thank you. Inevitably, this led to some awkward moments.

Like when my friend and I spent one bus ride to school discussing in depth the exploits of a particular orange tabby only to figure out that he was talking about Heathcliff, as in the television cartoon, and I Garfield, as in the newspaper funnies. While I was learning English, it was hard following tv — people talked too fast, and I missed what was happening. But with the paper, I had the time and imagination I wanted to fill in the talking bubbles myself.

It was kind of the same with pancakes.

Time went on, as it does, and my gringo language skills improved. I got the accent down, and forget cartoons, I was delving into MTV barely a year in the U.S. Still, there was much to learn.

See, I was born in Chile, where a lot of food traditions can trace their heritage to colonial ties. In many ways, eating customs in South America are more European than, say, American. Santiagoans make time for tea, for instance. In the U.S., people make time for second dinner.

Along the same vein, pancakes mean different things to Americans north and south of the equator.

My grandmother made me Chilean pancakes, because she was Chilean. Naturally, this dish actually consisted of crepes, which are French. While the thin, butter-fried pancakes where still warm, my grandmother Elia would spread her homemade apricot preserves on top and roll it up like a taquito (which is Mexican). It was heaven on earth.

So imagine my surprise when, one morning, my family and I, freshly arrived in Broward County, Florida, are at a diner ordering breakfast. I ask for pancakes, and what I get is a stack of wide, spongy patties that arrive with pats of butter and tree sap. I’m pretty sure I felt betrayed.

Confusion eventually gave way to clarity, and over the years I’ve come to realize that not only are gringo pancakes quite tasty, being an immigrant means sharing more cultural traditions, not less. And some of those traditions come in the form of crepe cakes.


meringue cake with strawberries

One of my favorite cakes is, by definition, no cake at all.

The meringue cake is only a cake by technicality. It looks like a cake and cuts like a cake (albeit messily), so it lands into the cake category of confections. Only there’s no cake.

There’s filling, yes. Whipped cream. And there’s icing, sure. More whipped cream.

But the sustenance is meringue. Dry, crisp, airy rounds of baked meringue. No flour, no butter, only sugar and egg whites.

At this point most people would consider this cake to be like a pavlova, that flattened mound of meringue topped with a cloud of whipped cream and fruit. Sound familiar?

The layers make all the difference, however. I think the best way to eat a meringue cake is to not eat it. At least not right away. Let it sit in the fridge. Let the meringue soak up some of the cream and soften a little, because that’s when the world starts to shift. What was once dry and baked is now dewy and spongy, and you end up with this messy mix of crispy and chewy and soft and crunchy that’s more than the sum of its parts and it just makes you want to dance.

Talk about layered.





maraschino cherry upside down cake with pineapples

Pastry school ruined my sweet tooth.

Once, my landscape of sugar options was vast and varied. Twinkies were amazing. Any midnight visit to a diner called for a sliced of pie. I kept a jar of maraschino cherries in the fridge like some people keep mustard.

All this was before I enrolled at The French Culinary Institute (now the International Culinary Center). There, I put on kitchen whites for the first time. I learned how to hold a piping bag and witnessed the many perils that can befall a wooden spoon left in the wrong place.

What also happened was that I was shown what really good food was. Every class started with the fresh baked baguettes made by the bread students at the end of the hall. We were taught how to make chocolate from scratch — as in straight from the cacao pod.

Without realizing it, my tastes began to change. My palette was shifting.

I found that I could taste pie dough not made with butter. Or a candy bar with inferior chocolate.

If this comes across as bragging, I’m not. Frankly, this left me kind of in mourning.

At first, I felt turned around. I had never considered myself a food snob. In 2009, I don’t think I’d heard the term foodie. I only identified as a sweet tooth. Thought that pretty well captured my very open enthusiasm for all things dessert.

As classes and internships exposed me to different ingredients and techniques, it dawned on me I was crossing some sort of gustatory threshold that I’d never return from. It was both a loss and a profit.

Today I’m different. I crave dark chocolate now. Even so, my everyman tendencies still come out to party now and again. Which brings me to the topic of cake.

See, at the end of the day, you gotta be true to yourself. That may mean maraschino cherry upside cake with pineapple.