Well now, here is a wooden board attempting to play host to what can only be described as a rivalry between two contenders for my affections, and I daresay both shall win.
The cupcake at the top presents itself in a swirl of pale, pistachio-flecked frosting, upon which a caramel rosette has been piped with such confident, buttery spirals that I was quite reminded of the intricate coiffures my late husband’s aunt insisted upon wearing to every regatta. The white chocolate base peeks out shyly beneath, freckled with chopped pistachio like a debutante who has wandered too near the fireworks — charming, slightly singed, utterly forgiven. I detected in that caramel swirl a richness that suggested real butter had been employed, not the tragic margarine substitutes I have encountered at establishments too shameful to name.
Below it sits the tart, and oh, what a tart — a golden, scalloped pastry shell cradling its own caramel rosette, this one crowned with slivers of pistachio and what I believe to be dried rose petals, scattered with the careless elegance of confetti at a coronation nobody quite planned properly but which turned out marvellously anyway. The shortbread edge has browned to precisely the shade of a well-loved leather armchair, and I imagine it shatters beautifully underspoon, offering a textural counterpoint to that silken caramel that the cupcake, for all its charms, simply cannot rival.
Placed side by side as they are, with only a silver spoon separating them like a chaperone at a dance, I confess this pairing has achieved something like domestic harmony — a rare feat, given how rarely my own drawing room manages it. Both shall receive full marks, though the tart, by virtue of its cheeky rose petals, has rather stolen the evening.
A Word on Presentation: The rose-petal garnish upon the tart borders on the theatrical, as though the pastry chef fancied themselves staging a coronation rather than plating a dessert — and yet I find I cannot object, for a little drama never hurt anyone, least of all me.
