How can a Yankee be so obsessed with the Biscuit? Is it the ineffable texture? Light & rich, flaky & moist, crunchy & tender. Biscuit is a dough of contradictions. Flour whiter and more tender than the fairest Southern Belle Debutante. Pure gratuitous fat from rendered pig, or better yet, the royal duck. Perky acidic dairy like our favorite farm girl, buttermilk. Strong and reliable leavener. Baking Powder. A pinch of salt and maybe when no-one's looking, a spoonful of illicit sugar.
Simple yes. Easy? Not on your life. Biscuit makin' fingers hold secrets passed down through generations of tight lipped, competitive smiling clans. What amount of moisture will the flour absorb before becoming gummy and ruined. Flour enrobed fat or fat rimmmed flour like a single needle tattoo, you decide. How do the hands know when just enough dairy has bound the delicate mixture, fragile and precarious? And then the push of dough merging with dough. We know we can't over handle, Biscuit dough is not playin. Overwork and what comes out of the oven will shame you for life.
Biscuit Portraiture. A study of some Royal subjects here are from the new Elite Cafe, re-done by the no-nonsense Joanna Karlinsky of Meeting House fame. Wipe you're brow and say thanks, she's brought the biscuits with her. Praise Jesus. Throw you're hands in the air.
And then get your Yankee, Southern, or just plain foreign ass down to Fillmore Street. Ain't no joke. These biscuits are worth their weight in poetic gold.
I can say Goddamn.