Biscuits, Part 3
The Final Reckoning: Experiments and Meditations, Successes and Failures
NOTE: WAITTT, Mr. SPAGHETTTI!!!!! If you’ve somehow ended up here without reading my previous two stories — the ignoble and fastidious Biscuits, Part 1 as well as the trenchant and floccular Biscuits, Part 2 — might I insist you take a moment to read them now.
Ever since I first had Nathan’s Incredible Biscuits at Chez Panisse, I’ve longed to make them on my own with as much ease and excellence as he does. I made a lot of biscuits in the months following his tutorial, and with each batch, I chased that transportive, all-consuming, Hitchcock-Zoom-inducing moment that his had given me: where everything else fades away, and for a moment, it’s just you and that biscuit, wrapped in a warm, Southern embrace.
My results, however, were far from that. Some spread fat and wide, while others rose tall; some came out light and tender, others chewy and dense. I could never figure it out: why can’t I make these well, consistently? Why were some batches good, others forgettable, and none of them transcendent? Recently, as I set down to write my three part epic on biscuits — now three years after my initial biscuit obsession — I began to feel that the answer to this question may lay deeper than the recipe; I needed to understand the biscuit, its essence, and the reasoning behind the foundational biscuit principles that Nathan had shared with me initially: keep everything cold, and do not over-mix.
I searched my fractured, sogging brain for baking knowledge, reference points, and comparable dough-based goods I’d made. My first thought was this: perhaps a biscuit isn’t so different from a pie crust? Pie dough — that flaky, crispy wonder — is made by smushing cold butter into flour and then binding the resulting butter-flour bits into a dough with ice water. When it’s baked, the heat of the oven turns the water inside the many irregular, uneven shmears of cold butter into steam, which puffs and separates the dough into many tiny layers (mini laminations, if you will), creating a bit of a rise and contributing to the light, airy texture.
It seemed safe to assume that a similar magic was taking place inside Nathan’s Incredible Biscuits (NIBS, henceforth). In his recipe, I gathered, the ingredients were all kept cold for the same reason that ice water is used in pie dough: to keep the butter cold and intact, which in turn rewards with distinct, desirable layers. If the butter softens, there is a risk of creating a sandier, crumbly textured dough, which can lead to a denser, tougher biscuit (or crust). Not so good. You should be able to see and feel distinct nuggets of butter in the dough, throughout the entire biscuit process, all the way up until they go in the oven. You can even see them in the picture of Nathan’s biscuits! And so, it is for these reasons that I reaffirm the first commandment of biscuit-making: for a flaky biscuit, keep everything very cold and do not let the butter soften.
I recognized another similarity between pie and biscuit dough: both are mixed very briefly — the liquid is often incorporated into the butter-flecked flour, gently, often with a fork, and the final dough is brought together with only a few swift strokes. Why? I know that when flour and a liquid mix, there the potential for gluten development arises, and as the dough is worked (through mixing, kneading, rolling), more and more gluten is indeed developed. Lots of gluten in bread is good — it makes it elastic, trapping gas and making breads both airy and (nicely) chewy; lots of gluten in pie dough and biscuits is less desirable: it can lead to a final product that is (not so nicely) chewy and tough. This is not ideal. I have a tendency to under-hydrate my doughs (and my own personal body), which often leads me to over-work the dough in an effort to incorporate the insufficient amount of liquid into the flour (whereas under-hydrating my body leaves me cranky). Do not do this. Either one. Commandment two: for a light, tender biscuit, do not under-hydrate or over-mix your dough.
As I stretched this comparison to its limits, I began to think about what distinguished biscuit from pie dough: the use of a leavening agent. Pie dough uses no added leavener, while NIBS (final reminder this stands for Nathan’s Incredible Biscuits) are quick breads, meaning they use baking powder (as opposed to yeast or sourdough culture) to achieve some of their lift and lightness1. Baking powder is basically a self- contained chemical reaction waiting to happen — a mixture of something alkaline (baking soda), something acidic (often cream of tartar), and a filler to keep them separated — that creates carbon dioxide (this gas production creates the “rise”) when exposed to a liquid (and again, in the case of double acting baking soda, when exposed to heat). Understanding this, I realized: for a biscuit to rise well, use relatively fresh, double acting baking powder; Nathan also told me to: cut the biscuits out with a sharp biscuit cutter, without twisting, to avoid pinching the edges together and thereby inhibiting the rise.
All of these components taken together, I began to understand biscuits as the following: a quick bread that uses baking powder to rise, and many tiny layers of cold butter to, through their release of steam, create flaky, pull-apartable layers. That was helpful, I like understanding things from way zoomed out (or is it zoomed all the way in?) like that. And, by looking deeper into these guiding principles, I also discovered a few adjustments I wanted to test in my search for a consistently radical biscuit: 1. Because I wanted to keep the butter cold and avoid over-mixing, I decided to try shredding frozen butter, rather than cubing and shmearing refrigerator butter, and 2) out of curiosity about its chemically leavened nature2, I'd try to add baking soda to give it even more of a rise. And with these experiments in mind, it was time to make some biscuits.
One thing about me, however, is: I’m not a methodical person. I fear I may lack whatever piece of the brain allows some people the patience and clear vision to meticulously, scientifically test ideas. So, I threw myself into making these tester biscuits semi-haphazardly, at the same time I was also using up the rest of my buttermilk to make ranch and fried chicken. It didn’t go well. In between boning out the chicken leg and shredding my cabbage, I grated my butter, only to quickly forget about it and let it start to soften. As the chicken fried, I fearfully added too little buttermilk, and the emergent texture of the biscuit dough came together all wrong (too wet here, too dry there, not sticking together but sticking to my hands), which I compensated for by over-mixing the dough (classic style). I turned back towards the chicken frying on the stove and knocked over my carton of buttermilk and spilled about a cup of the thick, tangy liquid on my floor. I said some unholy words, pushed the buttermilk into a dustbin with my hands, and clenched my teeth. I took a deep breath, and popped my biscuit into the oven, and hoped for the best.
The biscuits sucked. They were tall and handsome, but very tough and chewy. Out of hand, and turned into a sandwich with the fried chicken and ranched cabbage, they were unpleasant to eat. I suffered through the sandwich, looking at all these components that should be awesome together, and seeing them only as heavy, laborious foods stacked into a seeping pile of slop (which, in this instance, I mean pejoratively). I sighed, my mustache and underneath my fingernails caked in ranch. I looked around my kitchen — destroyed, a total mess. I glanced at my tough biscuits, knocked on them with my knuckles. How could I share a recipe for these “tweaked” biscuits if the only batch I made sucked? I couldn’t. So, I got to work on another batch.
This time, I tried to be more thoughtful. I kept everything very cold, straight into the freezer after every small step. I grated the butter on several different sized holes (to recreate the irregular pieces you get with the cube-squishing method), and as I lightly tossed them into the dry ingredients, the shreds stayed nicely separated from one another. I worked them lightly into the flour (but kept many large, intact, frozen-solid shreds) and I added the entire amount of buttermilk, drizzling it in a steady stream as I incorporated it lightly with a fork. Once most of the flour had been absorbed, I tipped it onto my floured counter, and gave it a few distinct folds and smushes to finish incorporating the flour and encourage more layers to form (some people give the dough a letter fold to great success). At this point, I could still feel the many cold chunks of butter studded inside the soft, light dough — it reminded me of what Nathan’s biscuit dough felt like, and that got me excited. I cut them gently, but decisively, trying not to twist, pricked them with a fork, brushed the top with egg wash, put them in the oven, and hoped for the best. What emerged had risen kind of crookedly, but they were tall and felt light. I was optimistic.
As I sat down to eat them, I remembered that I hadn’t given a very specific sensory description of what Nathan’s Incredible Biscuits were like. I think these “cues” are important so that if one makes them at home, one knows what they are aiming for. So, I tucked into this second batch of biscuits and took notes as I ate:
Butterscotch top. Collapsingly tender inside. Fluffy. Soft. Light. Buttery. Salty. Not crumbly. A small amount of chew. Now, with thick slices of beurre demi sel and a bitter seville marmalade I made a couple years ago… the insides like sturdy cotton candy… some body but soon slowly dissolving. I hate to say this, but I don’t think I can describe them further. To put words to them almost is an injustice. Ok one more thought: at the very end of this biscuit I’m eating, now that the butter and jam have soaked into the crunchy exterior, you might think you’re taking the first bite of a syrup soaked waffle. I can’t go on. Lost for words. You’ll just have to make them for yourself. Now, I am tempted to crack open another one and try to describe them further. But I’ve already had three today, at least…
Time passed… Then,
Okay, I opened another one. I’m taking another bite. Nope. I can’t tell you any more than I already have - it’s just — it can’t be explained. OK I’ll try. The bottom is very crisp with a slight chew, so that your teeth glide through the soft, yielding tummy meat before lingering around its crusty edge. As the textures meld together, I’m left with a nutty, buttery, salty experience that is so pleasurable to the senses as to almost be unbelievable. Is this really happening to me? So I take another bite. And the next one confirms it. It’s real. I cut an eighth inch of salted butter and slide it between the two sides. Well that’s not fucking bad at all. In fact: holy shit. The salt meter is reaching the edge of the taste-o-sphere. The creaminess of the butter with the crunchy salt adds a whole other textural meditation, a southern version of lardo on crusty bread. It’s too much. I can’t take it any more. Or… can I? I slice another thick wedge of golden, hay-colored butter, smearing it greedily on the fluffy mounds of my companion. I remember the raspberry jam in the fridge. Carefully, I scoop out a hearty, crimson wad with the tip of my chef's knife. It sinks into the rich butter, both concealing it and becoming one with it. I take a bite. Bam. White fences, cool breeze on a warm day. Screen door. Wrap-around porch. The squishy lake floor between my toes. Thunderstorm. Fireflies. Sprinklers. Transported to another world on a biscuit carpet ride. Holy fuck.
Wow. I’d done it. Yes, by the way, that is me describing the food I made and how good it was. Sorry ‘bout it. I was happy. And very full. I’d made an Incredible Batch of Biscuits.
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Last week, someone invited me to their backyard barbecue. “Bring something?” they asked. I didn’t have much of a choice — I would make more biscuits. I decided I’d approach them more casually, with that Willy Nilly style I’m known for3. I mixed things up, making one savory (crispy cubed ham, Velveeta, and scallion), and one sweet (cinnamon sugar!). Again, I juggled too much — the butter wasn’t cold enough and my hydration wasn't right. I also made and cut the biscuits a few hours before they were baked — I didn’t want to make the whole thing at the party, and I'd also been curious to try to see how they'd rise if you made the dough in advance. At the party, out of the oven, to my devastation, the biscuits didn't rise. They were tough. Everyone loved them (or so they said….), but I was disappointed. Humbled. Probably for the best, after all that thunderstorm stuff up there.
I sent Nathan (of NIBS fame) a message expressing my biscuit frustration. He replied something like, “Well, I’ve got about 40 years of biscuit-making on you.” He’s right. In the grand scheme of things, I’ve just started on my biscuit journey. Learning how things work in a zoomed out way is helpful for me in learning things, but there’s no replacement for the hours spent doing the thing and noticing the difference between batches. And I’ve got a long way to go. It’s one of the exciting and devastating parts about cooking over the course of your life — ideally, you’ll only keep getting better at so many skills — your burgers get more medium rare, your beans more boiled-potato-soft, etc. And right now, I am still an amateur biscuit maker.
But there is one thing I do know: on those special occasions where you do happen to nail it, you do make an incredible biscuit, you must sit with it, pry it open with a fork, slice too-thick rectangles of butter, stuff them inside the hot biscuit along with a thick spoonful of sharp jam, close your eyes, take a bite, and let it overcome you.
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A few recent biscuits that I have enjoyed:
Cody’s Tester NIBS: Nathan’s biscuits with ½ tsp of baking soda added and the butter grated instead of cubed.
Ham and Cheese Biscuits: Cody’s Tester NIBS, but add chili flakes (perhaps something like Marash) along with the black pepper, and during step 3a (of NIBS), fold in: well-seared cubed ham, slices or cubes of meltable cheese (I used Velveeta — do not stack slices and try to cut them into cubes, DO NOT IT DOESN’T WORK AND IT WILL RUIN YOUR DAY, DO SOMETHING ELSE), and handfuls of sliced scallion. You could even put pickled jalapeños in there. Or mix some mustard into the egg wash… either way, definitely serve it with mustard! And try not to over mix. A good biscuit cutter is crucial to cut through all the mix-ins.
Consider using this as the bread for a biscuit sandwich.
Cinnamon Sugar Biscuits: Make Cody’s Copycat Biscuits, but omit black pepper, and toss the shredded butter with a metric assload of cinnamon sugar (at your desired ratio — maybe mix up a big batch so you can make cinnamon sugar toast one day…). Be generous with your sugar mixture (it’s a treat!), and heck you could even throw some lemon zest and/or vanilla into the buttermilk if you want. Sprinkle the tops with crunchy (turbinado) or normal sugar, and bake as normal. Open a warm biscuit, drop a huge dollop of whipped cream (with sugar, vanilla, a whisper of salt) and spoon over a ton of:
Fresh Strawberry Smush4: clean, top, and quarter two pints of nice strawberries. Combine in a sauce pan with a big heaping scoop of strawberry jam. Heat over medium high for about five minutes, or until the berries are softened (but not hammered) and the juice they’ve released has reduced a bit (it’ll thicken up in the fridge).
How? Why? What is baking powder? Baking powder is basically a self-contained chemical reaction waiting to happen — a mixture of something alkaline (baking soda), something acidic (often cream of tartar — which since we’re talking about all this crazy shit, I have to let you know is a byproduct of the winemaking process… excess tartaric acid that settles in the lees at the bottom of fermenting wine barrels ), and a filler to keep them dry and separated (often cornstarch — which absorbs moisture and thereby prevents the other two ingredients from mixing prematurely). When the baking soda and acid do mix, it initiates a chemical reaction not dissimilar from the old elementary school baking soda and vinegar volcano experiment. Like in the experiment, the mixing of the alkaline baking soda and the acidic cream of tartar produces carbon dioxide (among other things) — lovely little bubbles that cause the biscuits to rise. Double acting baking powders often have at least two acidic ingredients that cause two separate rises: one when a liquid is added, and another when exposed to the high heat of the oven. Aha! Cool, no?
Since NIBS use baking powder, a self-contained leavener, what was the buttermilk in NIBS doing? I knew some quick breads got their rise (for the same reasons discussed above) from a mixture of baking soda and buttermilk, but if there’s already baking powder in Nathan’s recipe, why use buttermilk? To add tang? Wouldn’t an additional, acidic liquid like buttermilk be overkill? Or even throw off the balance of the reaction? If so, could I skip the buttermilk and just use milk…yogurt…sour cream… water?? Yes, I believe I could — I’d have to adjust the amount based on the liquidity of whichever I used (adding more yogurt, for example, since it’s thicker than buttermilk).
One time at Chez I asked Nathan if I could cut a whole hotel pan of gratin "willy nilly style" for service. He said "I don't know what that means, but no." I begrudgingly cut it as intended, by measuring every portion precisely with the help of some receipt paper.
I ribbed this approach to a fresh fruit sauce from Jacques Pepin, who's done the same thing but with fresh raspberries and raspberry preserves.