DUTCH BABY, but please, no Heineken

Last summer I had a free day in Munich. Saw some sights, walked miles through cold, wet, rainy streets in a tee-shirt and flipflops, and around dinnertime I pulled into a bratwurst Kneipe (public house)—I think it was actually called "Das Bratwurstkneipe"—for …

… surprise! Not bratwurst! I was after Kaiserschmarrn, a kind of heavy, fruity, caramel-y pancake recommended to me by a friend. This kneipe was right off the Viktuellenmarkt (food-focused marketplace) and though it was only late afternoon, the place was packed with locals eating and drinking. I found a spot at a communal table across from a "more mature gentleman," and it's not that I'm concerned about the fellow's age so much as the fact that I needed to rely on my rather rusty German to communicate with him. Pretty much any German under 40 will speak at least a little English these days, but this guy was well outside that demographic.

I thought my early-dinner request for a sweet dish might seem a little weird, but the waitress didn't flinch. It was an interesting meal with labored, cross-cultural, cross-generational conversation, lots of beer, and one gigantic plate of raisin-y, crusty and maybe a bit overly-sweet pancake that comes with its own side of prunes—to help clear the path for the next meal, no doubt. These Bavarians like to eat.

So my companion finishes before me, and as he's about ready to leave he confides that he was highly disturbed by the fact that I drank beer with my supper—one should always drink red wine with Kaiserschmarrn. What!? Germans drink beer all day long and with every meal besides breakfast, but have a brewski with your Kaiserschmarrn and the locals get offended!

But here's the thing. I didn't like the Kaiserschmarrn nearly as much as similar things I'd had before—and the obvious candidate for a lighter, less-sweet alternative is the Dutch Baby. Quick and easy to make, it's also another great opportunity for me to use my big cast-iron skillet.

Okay, so I start by pre-heating the oven and the skillet to 425°F. Four eggs, ¾ cup of whole milk, ¾ cup of all-purpose flour, half a teaspoon of salt, a dash of vanilla (and maybe some nutmeg if you're into that kind of thing), get beaten to a frothy milkshake—what I'm trying to say is, "Don't worry about overmixing."

Oh yeah, these quantities work for me when I'm using a Number 12 skillet, which is kind of a king-sized model—if you're using a smaller (or bigger) unit you'll need to adjust quantities accordingly. Just remember that the volume needed is proportional to the square of the diameter of a round pan. Heh heh.

Anyways, half a stick of butter (cut into small pieces) hits the hot skillet and melts in a flash and start to brown as I swirl it to coat the bottom and part way up the sides of the pan. The batter goes into the skillet, which then goes back into the oven.

The topping for a Dutch Baby is just sugar and lemon. I take about three tablespoons of superfine sugar and mix in the zest that I have microplaned from a small lemon. Some of that lemon's juice will be squeezed on as well.

Inside the oven there's some kind of Gauss-Markov process that directs a completely unpredictable pattern of puffing and browning, and it's done when it looks like the pan is occupied by a hideously deformed, roasted, northern European baby.



Within seconds of its "birth" the baby deflates substantially, at which time I sprinkle on the lemon sugar and squeeze on about half a lemon's worth of juice. Is it breakfast? Is it dessert? These are questions I can't answer. One should be advised, however, that if there's a German anywhere nearby (maybe a Dutch, too), hide the beer.