Wintertime Trifle

One of the most quintessentially British of desserts, Trifles have allegedly existed since the end of the 16th century. In the Complete Traditional Recipe Book, Sarah Edington says,

Trifle is one of those dishes for which no one can agree on the correct recipe. Grown men remember with affection the trifle made by their mothers and grandmothers and come to blows over whether or not jelly and/or jam should be ingredients.

I won't make any claim to one version of a trifle that's any more correct than any other, but I will present you a short history of the Trifle as I can assemble it from some of the cookbooks in my collection.

Brian Bóru's Delight

The dessert I call "Brian Bóru's Delight" is a simple one, especially compared to the Victorian Tea Trifecta. It is a combination of two simple, old-fashioned desserts: a bread pudding, and a fool.

What is a fool, you ask? It doesn't sound familiar to most modern diners—in fact, my pastry instructor in culinary school didn't immediately know how to explain the Fool to my class. A fool, simply put, is a fruit-flavored whipped cream. It's sort of a precursor to the modern churned ice cream, as it is light, airy, and sweet, but not frozen (as churn-freezing ice cream is a relatively recent development.) Heavy cream is whipped to stiff peaks, and then a purée of fruit, often sweetened, is added in by folding gently. In this recipe, I replaced the purée with fruit preserves, because it's hard to find blackcurrant purée (or indeed, much of anything from blackcurrants) here in Michigan.

Bread pudding is a more familiar item, and in this case I've used a simple white bread, good quality butter, and raisins with a little twist suggested by my friend Brian over at The Boychik Balabusta (a blog you ought to read)—soaking the raisins in Irish Breakfast Tea and whiskey.

The Victorian Tea Trifecta

Now and then, I am lucky enough to be able to take a project from my schooling, or an item from my work life, and utilize it for service to my friends and acquaintances—or my happy customers, in this case.

You've seen, I hope, my Earl Grey Panna Cotta. This is a dessert that builds on it, and with wild success. Plated desserts are made up of three main components: A main piece, a sauce, and a garnish. Chef Roger Holden, CEPC, would tell you that there's a fourth component: Crunch. It's important to have a variety of colors, flavors, and temperatures on a plate, to create something with visual and gustatory interest.

Baklava and Turkish Coffee

Baklava in front and to the right, gingerbread to the left.

Our dessert for the State Dinner at the Dolmabahçe was Baklava—layers of phyllo dough surrounding a filling made of chopped nuts and rose water. It's popular in the area formerly controlled by the Ottoman Empire—of course, Turkey being the center of this region—and has a long, rich, and murky history.

Wikipedia says, "The history of baklava is not well-documented. It has been claimed by many ethnic groups, but there is strong evidence that it is of Central Asian Turkic origin, with its current form being developed in the imperial kitchens of the Topkapı Palace." (The Topkapı Palace was the palace used by sultans until the construction of the Dolmabahçe.) Beyond this certainty, there are many theories about the origins of Baklava, crediting it to a vast number of places ranging from ancient Mesopotamia to Greece to China—few of these can be properly substantiated, and indeed Baklava as we know it came about sometime between 150 and 450 years ago.

Oz and Blue (right) with Phyllo.

The cook for the dessert course was not, in fact, our good friend Oz. It was our other good friend Blue, who puts together desserts as though it were part of her nature to do so. She is also one of the most stalwart of kitchen helpers, usually eschewing dinner to help plate food and wash dishes. It's a pleasure to let her take over the kitchen, and a pleasure to work with her.

She made two versions of Baklava, and has provided me with both of the recipes, which I shall now pass on to you. I have preserved the two recipes separately—though they are very similar—as they were provided to me. The procedure is somewhat tedious, but the results are well worth the effort.

At the dinner, we served the baklava with a cup of Turkish Coffee. The term refers to the method of preparation, and not to a specific blend or style of bean; it is the foundation of a strong coffee-house culture in Turkey, and a delightfully different way of enjoying your coffee fix. A link to a good recipe is included at the bottom.

Earl Grey Panna Cotta

Tea, and especially Earl Grey, has become inextricably linked with steampunk. Professor Elemental serenaded it in "Cup of Brown Joy," and many Steampunks enjoy sitting back with a hot pot of tannic liquid. Panna Cotta is an older dessert that's come back of late as American tastes stray towards the gourmet. A combination of the two seems perfectly logical—creamy, delightful, and full of bergamot flavor.

Typically, panna cotta uses milk, cream, and sugar, which is then combined with gelatin. The flavoring is often simply that of the milk products, but additional flavorings are possible; I have made a blood orange panna cotta using blood orange purée, and I have eaten raspberry- and strawberry-flavored versions as well.

Here we are going to apply the tea to the dessert via a direct addition; another way could be to use a method described by my good friends at TeaHaus.