Don't let the ostentatious name intimidate you - this dish is approachable, unassuming, and just as happy to be stepping out in heels as it is staying home in stretchy pants. While some interpret its leisurely air as aloofness, I hardly found that to be the case. Rather, it's a casual, dessert-meets-lunch consuetude that doesn't pretend to be anything else. And doesn't give a shit what you think anyway.
Point of order: The "aged" aspect is derived from my forgetting it in the fridge yesterday.
The slices of brown bread framing this treat had a welcome spring to them, like a mattress. I noted hints of bran, oat, and honey, with a slightly yeasty finish reminiscent of Alsatian ficelles. The artisan crust, baked golden and replete with flakes of grain, did not elbow for attention.
Inside, the legume beurre spread supinely like a bister Bathsheba. It had a nutty, creamy presence, with a velvety texture that embraced the bread and the top of my palate. The oils so commonly found in this ingredient were engaging but not cloying.Just as every comedic straight man needs a foil, the beurre calls for something decidedly less deadpan. On that note, in from stage left trundles the toothsome berry compote:
Periwinkle and sticky-sweet, it dances a plummy jig on my tongue. It slips and slides, then crunches with seeds. I don't know why they're in there, much like orange juice pulp or me in this cubicle, but they're not off-putting. Amidst all this frivolity, the legumes' near-chagrin tries reigning the berries in and the results are not unexpected.
It's a delicate dance, a yin-yang, Sith-Jedi tug of war that's never truly resolved. Before you know it, you've taken your last bite and you're no closer to achieving that elusive balance. But perhaps that's the point after all: Accept the whole instead of compartmentalizing the individual parts. "Sooner or later, they all will be gone."
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