It's A Gift

Sydney Morning Herald

Tuesday October 18, 2005

Judy Adamson

A child's birthday cake means more when it's a loving work of art.

Creating a children's birthday party cake is a serious business. I remember the efforts made for me when I was young so, as my own kids have grown, the ubiquitous Women's Weekly birthday cake book has been essential reading, seemingly the only way to get tips on making a butterfly, a bear or whatever cake was needed - not to mention learning the art of marshmallow flowers and other decorations.

Over time, however, my fingers began to get itchy. There are only so many different ways you can decorate a "number" cake; crumbs inevitably scraped off and rolled through the icing and I could never get a really smooth finish.

So when I heard about a children's cake course run by Planet Cake's Jean-Michel Raynaud - one of the country's most gifted cake decorators - I jumped at it. Here was the chance to soak up tips, become more proficient at decorating and perhaps gain the confidence to tackle something more daring for my daughter's third birthday party.

I arrive at the Danks Street Depot in Waterloo for our first Monday night class, full of enthusiasm. There are eight others: a new mum with her mobile phone close by, just in case; two people who've done classes before and work in the food industry; some who've been given the course as a gift; and some, like me, who have just come to have a go. We're expectant, keen ... and just a little nervous.

When the class begins, we're shown a picture of the cartoon character we are going to make - Marty the zebra from Madagascar. My heart sinks into my shoes. There is no way I am going to be able to do that, I mutter, as Raynaud instructs us in the first steps.

He begins with a 23-centimetre square of chocolate cake, which he expertly slices into three layers. Start at one corner to cut through it, he says, turning the cake as you go rather than pushing the knife through. All three layers are brushed with a syrup made from apricot jam and water and sandwiched together with chocolate ganache (a blend of chocolate and cream).

Once this is done Raynaud cuts quickly, expertly, into the cake to begin his zebra. The cake's corners are used to create a nose and neck, he explains, before showing how to create a three-dimensional effect by shaving cake away at an angle to accentuate areas such as the jaw. Afterwards, the shape will be tidied up and covered with ganache. He's done all this in a scant few minutes - which I'm still marvelling over as I head back to my work table to begin my own zebra. Then it occurs to me that I've already forgotten most of what I saw. Damn!

I need not have worried.

As Billy Cutler, one of Planet Cake's owners, busies himself to ensure we have all we need - a bowl of ganache, apricot syrup and basting brush, a serrated knife, broad spatula, cake board and the all-important cleaning implement, a damp tea towel - voices buzz around me as my classmates start asking each other all the questions on my mind. How did Jean-Michel do that again? Which bit do we do first? And how on earth is this square slab ever going to look like a zebra?

Raynaud moves between tables, lending a hand, encouraging and suggesting. I brush my first two layers with syrup, then have to take the second one off: I've forgotten the ganache. That dealt with, I continue until the triple-layer cake is done.

If I was making this at home, I'd be almost finished. A layer of icing over all, some simple decorations and that would be it. Here, my work is just beginning.

Knife poised, I stand over the cake trying to decide where to make the first cut. Once it's done there is no return - or so it seems. I check the cartoon zebra, have another look at Raynaud's example, take a deep breath and begin cutting the slope of the face towards the nose, followed by the wide scoop of the jaw. A corner of cake falls off and I eat it without thinking.

Raynaud buzzes up and down the tables, advising on these early cuts and reminding us all that if we take off too much we can always smooth on some ganache, stick the cake back on and fix the error. Thus encouraged, we gradually become bolder and it's not long before we're confidently chopping off slabs and slapping bits back on here and there with blobs of ganache.

Tables and floor are soon covered in cake crumbs and chocolate; it's hard not to keep eating the ganache. Every zebra looks different - a bigger nose here, a broader cheek there or perhaps a longer neck. I'm not entirely happy with my nose but can't decide how to fix it. That's for later. Right now I need to seal everything in a thick layer of ganache so Cutler can carry it off to the coolroom. After chilling, the surface of the cake needs to be smoothed with a little hot water before we call it a night.

I go home with the optimistic view that this may be OK if I can get the jaw and nose right. Most of the class take their cakes home in huge boxes, but I leave mine with Cutler and Raynaud - there's nowhere at my house that's safe, for a whole week, from prying little fingers and the bugs that have begun to realise the weather is warming up.

Cutler has already explained, sadly, that our finished cakes probably will be inedible. They're completed in a day or so in the shop, but it's going to take us two weeks, so the recommendation is that once they're done, we get everyone to admire them, then ditch them. Pity.

On night two, Raynaud wants us to fine-tune our faces: get the cheek and jaw right, cut out a nostril, make an eye and remember that, as this is a cartoon character, everything should be exaggerated. We're given a sharp paring knife, a little spatula and some hot water. I cut a nostril confidently, but almost immediately I can see it's in the wrong place.

Irritated, I leave it for the moment and shave a little off the mouth to try to create a cartoon smile. Some neck is sliced away to make the jaw more prominent, then I gouge an eyehole. Raynaud strolls past and looks at my work for a moment before observing that the nostril needs to be moved. I agree - it should be higher up.

In a flash Raynaud grabs the paring knife, cuts the new hole a couple of centimetres higher, then squashes the cake he's taken out into the old nostril. A little ganache over the top and no one will be any wiser. Gotta love that ganache.

The result is better. Much better. As I look down at my cake I can see that suddenly, ridiculously, my zebra is smiling at me, almost as if to say, "that's just right now, thanks for that".

After some more careful shaving and slicing it's another coating of ganache before smoothing it all over again with water. Astonishingly, I've been so absorbed in my work I haven't noticed our two hours are already up.

Before leaving I have a quick play with some "plastic" icing - the thick, white fondant you get on wedding cakes - to try to make an ear for next week. It can't be too narrow, too short or long, or Marty will stop smiling at me.

Sunday afternoon. Icing time. The plastic icing needs to be rolled out on a thin sprinkling of cornflour, then moulded over the cake before we paint on our edible zebra stripes. I've always been dreadful at painting so this element has me worried. Raynaud, on the other hand, reminds me of my anxiety before the first and second classes. He has a point.

The icing rolls out well but, once I have it draped over my rolling pin, I can't seem to get it off. Cutler and Raynaud come to the rescue and the icing unfolds, unharmed, onto my cake. Soon it is hugging the zebra's curves, the excess has been sliced off and I'm presented with an unexpected tool to smooth it all down: a rounded piece of X-ray film. Amazingly, it works like a dream. Bubbles under the icing are pricked with a pin and before long my zebra is ready for his stripes.

First, Raynaud wants us to spray edible paint around the nose, eye socket and base of our cake. I have a go and am clumsy in the extreme - spattering excess one moment and blowing nothing but air the next. Eventually it's done and I am given a brush and some black paint and left to do the stripes.

Horrors. It's worse than making my first cut in the cake two weeks ago. Anything that goes wrong now will be very hard to fix. With fresh inspiration from the cartoon picture, I make a tentative start, then labour away for the rest of the afternoon. Ugly or awkward stripes have to be corrected, then recorrected. I am easily the slowest in the class but I don't care - I'll get this right if it kills me.

Time is running out so Raynaud makes me a couple of ears (last week's didn't dry), cuts out a mane and attaches these to the cake. They have to be painted, so I continue as he and Cutler make me an eye and eyeball. Finally, it's done. A little gel to make my zebra's eye sparkle and highlight his smile and I'm finished. Each cake is unique - some of the zebra smiles include tongues and teeth - and when Cutler suggests a glass of champagne I cannot refuse: I bloody deserve it.

We sip, chat and admire each other's work, basking in the glow of a job well done. It's even better when I take it home and see my children's wide-eyed reactions - although there's disappointment when I tell them they can't eat it.

No one who sees my zebra can quite believe I made it. I'm surprised myself. But I'm not about to rest on my laurels. The birthday party is looming and I'm determined to use my new skills to make a Winnie the Pooh cake. Wish me luck.

Planet Cake, 17 Rowntree Street, Balmain, 9810 3843. For information on cake courses, go to www.planetcake.com.au.

© 2005 Sydney Morning Herald

Back to News Index | Back to Home