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One thing no one warns you about making a viral recipe is that you might hate it.
Mine started as a fun experiment. Stuck in London due to the pandemic, I wanted to see if I could reverse engineer a recipe that originated at Dough & Arrow, a cookie bakery in my hometown of Southern California. A few tests “just to see how it goes” just to get my foot in the door with a new bakery job. Cookies have very simple components, but the structure is difficult, and when I broke them for the first time, I was dizzy with joy.
The cookies were only available for a few weeks before the lines started forming. It seemed like everyone who walked through the door had only one question. “Do you have any cookies?”
I was unknowingly creating my own suffering. As you know, cookies require a four-day process and very fine motor skills. A few months after gaining viral fame, I developed tennis elbow and had an overwhelming urge to kick down anyone who told me I should make more money.
Even with a limit of two items per order, orders now rarely last past 2 p.m. It’s not that I didn’t want to give people what they wanted. What a joy it is to know that something you made is so loved that it sells out every day. But every time someone turned away from my pastry case, and in my mind’s eye, an equally (if not more) delicious creation came up because the cookies were sold out. , I started to resent it more and more.
Cookies are temporary experiences, so they have similar expiration dates. Selling out was always the goal, but it was difficult to convey that to customers who felt the travel time to Clapton in north-east London was enough to satisfy their desire. Disappointed pilgrims were quick to provide feedback such as: It should be the only thing you make! My elbow, bound with the sports tape that athletes usually use to prevent strains on the pitch, was throbbing.
But we’ve become the cookie version of Sprinkles and Lola’s (the trendy “it” cupcakes of the early ’80s), from creating lovingly handcrafted desserts to withdrawing baked goods from an ATM. I didn’t want to be.
One of the perks of The Cookie’s viral success has been the ability to expand our team. The antics of customers trying to collect cookies in disguise to counter the “Stalinist” (their word, not mine) order restrictions by adding extra touches to the production line; I was able to get far enough away.
Over time, the hype simmered down to a manageable hum. People come to us because they love the example of a creative kitchen at The Cookie. Where I used to be annoyed by that sight, I can now look at The Cookie with fondness and pride in my creation. Inside the buttery cookie shell is a layer of jiggly custard beneath a crunchy layer of caramelized sugar. Creme brulee cookies! You can also eat it like a classic French dessert. Break the caramel with the back of a spoon to reveal the soft custard underneath. Now that my tennis elbow has healed, even I can admit that these are really delicious cookies.
Chloe Rose Crabtree is the head baker in London’s Bake Street and co-editor of the food research project Sourced Journeys.
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