This morning, I received the folllowing e-mail from my parents:
"We are enjoying Portugal. Warm people, great weather and fresh food (if somewhat simply prepared). Today, we go to Belem to see the sights and try the pasteis de Belem!"
Until my week long stay in Lisbon with Portuguese and Brazilian friends, my understanding of Portuguese culture was basically defined by Bossa Nova made in the 60's (Tip: Brazilian women are tired of being referred to as the Girl from Ipanema. Seriously, no matter how tall, tan, young and lovely they may be. Stop it. Right now, stop). So the first time I heard the term "conventual pastries" I simply thought that my friends were mispronouncing the word conventional. Because pie crust plus eggy custard filling equals a pretty conventional sounding, fuddy-duddy, unadventurous, formula for mediocre pastry. Forgive me.
They meant conventual as in convent. Pasteis de Belem are perhaps the most famous, but almost all of the pastries lining Lisbon's pastelerias were mastered in convents by nuns with an excess of eggs and time, who I imagine found their sweet, guilty, pleasures of the flesh in the making of pastries...the sensual kneading of the dough, the careful lining of small tins, the furious thrashing of the yolks and sugar, the quick stiffening of that wobbly, golden custard, and finally, the teasing aroma of cinnamon, caramelising butter and sugar, that filled the grounds, distracting their sisters and neighbouring clergymen from their vegetable patches, endless copying of manuscripts, counting of gold, self-flagellation--or whatever they were getting up to.
You can still buy pastries from some of the convents directly if you want to: it may involve sliding money towards a pair of eyes behind a tiny, sliding door, and in return, getting your pastries and change through another tiny, sliding door further down. Creepy.
As a result of the Liberal Wars--involving, in part, the bishops of the Roman Catholic Church--many convents and monasteries across Portugal and as far out as Goa were shut down by the liberal legislation. By 1834, the once prosperous, well-fed ladies and gentlemen now found themselves expelled--but they knew how to make a living: they began to sell those creamy, eggy tarts they had become so good at baking in their giant, kilns of fury--home ovens can't come near to that kind of heat.
I'd love one right now. That misshapen, crusty, blob with a blackened, wrinkly cap, dusted with cinnamon sugar, promising nothing but delivering a heavy, smooth, custard and lovely, crumbly shell. Unfortunately, my parents are the ones walking the sunlit, winding cobbles of the old city into the Castle of St George, sitting on the wall with a bag of pastries. I am stuck under the threatening clouds of San Francisco, with an awful head cold and a craving for something deadly sweet.
To top it all off, I cannot even bake my own pasteis de Belem to comfort myself, as the original recipe is a secret: a hundred year old scribble on a hidden scrap of paper, guarded heavily by armed nuns or something. Plus, I'm out of sugar. But there are plenty of kinds of pasteis de nata, or cream custards, or custard tarts. This one isn't bad at all, but keep in mind, it's not exactly a pasteis de nata. It's blasphemy, starting with the ready puff pastry and ending with the original cinnamon custard sharing the flavour spotlight with chocolate and chipotle.
For the pastry:
1 sheet of bought puff pastry
Defrost the pastry and line mini-muffin tins or small pyrex bowls with the dough, making the sides slightly thinner than the bottom. Blind bake for five-ten minutes at 400 degrees, with weight, so that the bottom is partially cooked. Then fill with the custard about 3/4 of the way up, and turn the oven up to 500 degrees. Bake the custard tarts for about nine-ten minutes, until the dough is browned as far as it can be without being burned, and the tops of the custard have started to bubble--this is not a French pot de creme, valued for its even, smooth surface and colourless, smooth custard.
For the custard filling:
1 cup corn syrup or 3/4 cup sugar
1 cinnamon stick
1 dry chipotle
1/3 cup water
1/4 tsp salt
1 tbs flour
1 tbs cocoa powder
3/4 cup whole milk
3 egg yolks
Make a sugar syrup with the chipotle, cinnamon, water, and corn syrup and cook to thread, or 100 degrees C. Strain and keep warm. Put the milk on the heat, and when warm, use a few tablespoons of milk to make a smooth paste with the salt, flour and cocoa--return this mixture to the milk and whisk till hot. In a slow, steady stream, pour in the sugar syrup, whisking all the while. Once blended, take off the heat. Pour a small amount of the warm milk into the yolks, then whisk that mixture back into the pot of milk, and strain the whole into a jug. This is enough custard for 8 large tarts, or 12-16 minis.
Once the finished, baked custards have cooled off a bit--I think they taste best once they're reached room temp--sprinkle with cinnamon sugar or powdered sugar or, in my case, since I have no sugar, honey powder and cinnamon--and serve with some really strong coffee. I couldn't manage one of these after dinner, but it makes a perfect tea-time treat.
Leave a comment