This is the Place (for Pie and Beer)

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Hello, friends.

It was a day. Probably a hot summer day. One hundred and how many years ago? Brigham Young and his followers arrived in the Salt Lake Valley, looked around, and declared, “This is the place.”

Ever since, Utahns have celebrated July 24th. Some observe Pioneer Day. Others—perhaps a more irreverent, beer-forward crowd—prefer its colloquial twin: Pie and Beer Day.

Guess which team the ghost is on.

Same, Chef. Same.

Now, there are no pie recipes in any of Anthony Bourdain’s cookbooks—unless you count the chicken pot pie, which I do, in moments of need. But not today.

Today, we’re leaning sweet. Today, we’re making a tart.

More specifically: Tarte Alsacienne (Les Halles, p. 272)

In this house, we call it something of faith. I’ll tell you why in a bit.

But first—the fruit. This time of year, you will not find a single Golden Delicious apple in the entire state of Utah, which is what the recipe calls for. It’s just not apple season. So we’re trusting the internet (and my fridge) and going with organic Galas. They’re crisp, mildly sweet, and—bonus—they’re already here.

The real challenge? Pastry flour. Apparently, it has vanished from store shelves since Les Halles was published and entered the realm of myth, if it ever existed in the first place. But I’m not ordering it online from the handful of places selling it. I’m just not in the mood.

But I did find whole wheat pastry flour in my pantry. Is it going to change the crust? Yes. It’ll be a few shades darker and will taste nuttier. In the world of apple tarts, is that really a negative? No. It might even be better. And hey—technically healthy. Though, it’s dessert, so healthy isn’t always a benefit. Nobody wants carob mousse.

The crust, however—the dough—was completely uncooperative. Difficult to roll out, completely inflexible, and cracking like a fault line. That means it’s going to be short. Very short. Like Peter Dinklage. And just as delicious, I hope.

But that’s a story for another day.

The apples got pre-baked on a sheet tray with butter and sugar—an excellent cheat. No need to cut the butter into tiny cubes, by the way. If it’s cold, just run it through a cheese grater. Works beautifully.

The tart shell also gets a blind bake, because—say it with me—nobody likes a soggy bottom.

And I’ll be honest: when I’m pressing that tart dough into the pan, I don’t hear the ghost. I hear Paul Hollywood.

The ghost just rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds like, “I’ll bake HIM off.”

Jealous much? wink

The baked shell comes out of the oven. It’s beautiful. But will it lift out of the pan without the walls collapsing? Hallelujah. Praise the short crust.

Once everything’s assembled—crust set on a sheet pan, apples arranged in circles, custard poured—it all goes back in the oven.

Time to dig a cold one out of the fridge… and slice the tart.

The crust - tender and crumbly. The apples, soft, but not too soft. The custard, creamy and perfectly set. The beer? Bubbly and cold.

Perfect.

This is the place.

Why we call it something of faith

This tart requires belief. Belief that the crust will hold, that the custard will set, that the apples won’t burn, and that your effort will turn into something beautiful—or at least be edible. It’s a recipe for when you’re not entirely sure what you’re doing, but you do it anyway.

That, to me, is faith.

And also a pretty good metaphor for cooking. And writing. And maybe life itself.

In reverence and rebellion,
Michelle Davis

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