London Diaries: Mary Berry eat your heart out
Making my pitch for the Bake Off tent at Bread Ahead
It doesn’t take long for any notions I once held about one day becoming a younger, sexier Mary Berry to be thoroughly disabused.
I’m barely 10 minutes into my Bread Ahead doughnut making class when the woman beside me looks down at my work and exclaims “that’s rubbish!” This is particularly disheartening given she’s commenting on my ability to weigh out 6 equal portions of dough; no baking has even taken place.
Our teacher has made it look easy, she’s grabbed her Bread Ahead scraper - complimentary, of course - split her dough, and is now kneading each one into a perfect little circle.
To my satisfaction, the woman beside me is less good at this. Hers are lumpy and out of shape, they certainly wouldn’t be sold in Bread Ahead’s shop at Borough Market. Mine aren’t much better but at least it’s not just me. She’s here with her brother, a birthday present. My girlfriend and I have come as an anniversary gift.
Across from us though, the professionals. If they’re not on Bake Off, they’re certainly on Instagram. A woman at end of the table owns a bakery, the cheat.
Two Canadians across from us are also too good for the class. Janine hosts cooking classes online and later helps our teacher make our custard filling. Jamie’s a teacher but today he’s the pet; “50!” he cries when the teacher asks what 300 by 6 is. I put away my calculator.
I know what you’re thinking. Ready made dough?
Hang on a second: you can’t make doughnuts in 2 hours. Well you can, but you’d miss the proving stage. And the proving stage, our teacher tells us, is very important. Our soon-to-be-doughnuts go in what looks like a chest freezer on wheels, and we start some new dough that we’ll be able to take home.
Bread Ahead has been in existence since 2013, and teaching hapless members of the public since 2014. Pizza, sourdough, croissants, mince pies, you name it, they can teach you how to make it. Your opportunities for culinary excellence or humiliation are numerous and diverse.
The baking school is in Borough Market and is the sort of place that if it was featured on TV would be described as “state of the art.” There’s fryers and proving ovens and mixing bowls everywhere. Even the sinks look fancy.
A long wooden table is headed up by an expert teacher, and flanked by bakers with abilities so varied it reminds me of PE lessons where they let the kids clearly destined for football trials play with those who’ve never even kicked a ball.
We make the dough, eventually. For a while we mix and knead and all the reward we get is buttery hands. “I don’t think it’s right,” my girlfriend whispers. “It’s right, just keep kneading,” our teacher comes back, the hearing of a vampire bat.
We finish, it goes in a pot to take home. We vow to not let it languish in the freezer.
Back to the ready-made dough. We’re trusted with fryers full of oil: this is a nice baking school everyone, don’t burn it down. Put the doughnuts in for two minutes on each side. Then poke a hole in them and fill them with jam and custard. Ignore the innuendos.
It’s hard to tell when they’re full. That’s my main thought. That, and how do I hold this bag full of custard without said custard making its escape. Janine made this and she’s looking at me.
Miraculously, they look okay. They look quite good, really. They won’t get sold in the shops, certainly, but I’ll eat them. Now, actually.
A fantastic writing workshop I attended
This summer I attended Peter Carty’s travel writing workshop. I completely recommend it. I attended the in person session in Arsenal, but Peter runs them online too. He’s an experienced travel journalist who has been teaching people how to get into the business for 24 years. The workshop is value for money in itself, but what’s also incredible is Peter offers up his support ongoing after the workshop, and keeps in touch with his participants. Check out his website for details.
Lol the gym class analogy hit DEEP.
Plot spoiler: the dough is still languishing in the freezer.