Taste Test! Chocolate Mousse

I'm still smarting a bit over my palate's inability to pick up the subtle "corked" notes from Shafer. The more time that goes by, the less convinced I am that it was corked.

Which is why I welcomed the opportunity to take part in a tasting last Sunday. My dear friend Tamar, a food writer par excellence, had a group of food industry types (read: those who work in food but not restaurants: food writers, teachers, editors) over to have brunch, and evaluate orange juices.

I prepared by heading straight for the Upper West Side brunch buffet: Barney Greengrass sable, smoked salmon, bagels, whitefish and cream cheese. Tamar insisted that I wait until after the tasting to eat, I insisted on palate cleansing.

From the time I was old enough to take fluids from a cup until I went to college, I was confronted with orange juice every morning. But why? When I lived in France, we didn't insist on insipid, off-tasting juices every morning. In Mexico, the juices are always freshly squeezed (watermelon being my favorite). Why here, in this country, must we have this tradition bordering on requirement? Do you know that orange juice is second only to cola as the top grocery store beverage purchase? Why?

I have never, and still do not understand the purpose of that daily cup, other than to satisfy some sort of made-in-Florida statriotism. And ever since W's first win, I'm less inclined to support anything coming from that proud Peninsula .

So I'm not a fan of the nectar.

Tamar presented each of us with nine Dixie cups of orangeness. I was to rate them 1 to 5, and determine which was concentrate and which was freshly squeezed. The first few tasted sour (and trust me, I was really helping them along with embarrassing amounts of Greengrass). After tasting #4, my body filled with some sort of an emotional deja vu: I was late for hebrew school, I was studying my multiplications tables, it was half-time at the soccer game. I was back in time, growing up suburban: it must be concentrate! I marked it on my comment sheet.

More sour, more bitter, more flavors that didn't resemble citrus. And then, the blessed cup #8. I looked at Tamar, put down my cup with Norma Desmond-style theatrics, and declared, "This is the only one worth drinking." We're both hyperbolic types, and I was shooting the moon. She smirked, confirming my conviction.

With a renewed sense of faith in my palate, I returned home to develop recipes for my students. One requested a chocolate mousse, and I had yet to make The Wooden Spoon's official recipe. And so I set to task...

But when pouring the cream, it refused to pour. Huh? I had just purchased it from the most deluxe Key Food of all times (5th Ave., Park Slope). I smelled, not bad. I tasted -- it had this bitter, almost metallic edge to the finish. Egads! It was one week past the use-by date. This is certainly not what I'm spending 50 calories per tablespoon on.

But then I rationalized: did I really need to be home alone with 6 1/2-cup portions of perfect chocolate mousse? I decided to go ahead and develop with the stuff. The structure of the mousse would be the same, and for the purposes of tasting, my palate could adjust for the funk and determine moussey goodness. I wouldn't be serving it, and in this case, I'd rather have a slightly tainted version.

Ah, the mysteries of a woman's selective palate. Happy to drink mediocre wine, only fresh orange juice, but never sub-par chocolate. And we think men are tough to understand.


Chocolate Mousse
Makes 6 (1/2-cup) servings

1 cup (6 ounces) bittersweet chocolate chips
4 large eggs, separated
Pinch salt
3 tablespoons sugar
1 1/4 cups heavy cream
1 teaspoon vanilla

1. In a microwave, or over a double boiler, melt chocolate. Stir in egg yolks, one at a time, after chocolate has cooled a bit.
2. In a standing mixer, or using beaters, beat the egg whites until foamy; add 1 tablespoon sugar and a pinch of salt and continue beating until it forms soft peaks. Reserve; in a separate bowl, beat heavy cream with vanilla and remaining sugar until medium peaks form.
3. Take about 1/4 of the cream and “lighten” the chocolate with it. Dollop it in, and squiggle your whisk around until incorporated. Fold in another quarter of the whipped cream, and another, reserving the final 1/4 for topping. Fold in beaten egg whites 1/3 at a time.
4. Chill mousse before serving, in one container or in separate ramekins. Dollop with remaining cream and serve.