07.16.08
American Baklava: A Fusion Experiment
The only thing I have ever found wanting about baklava is the fact that typically, a serving of baklava is one tiny honeyed diamond, which is frankly just not enough baklava. I adore baklava. It is an utterly magical food, capable of reversing not only my normal aversion to things that are sticky but also my low frustration threshold with foods that too easily self-destruct into their component parts. It is flaky and crispy and dense and chewy and nutty and sweet and flowery all at the same time, which makes baklava kind of like the Leatherman multitool of desserts.
Baklava is traditionally served in tiny pieces alongside coffee or tea, which makes perfect sense since it is so intensely sweet and makes such a fine complement to the astringency and bitterness of coffee or the tannins of tea. One should not, it is implied, actually need more than a tiny bit of baklava in order to be satisfied. Sometimes this is even true.
But sometimes it is not. Particularly if you are a passionate baklava eater. Which I most definitely am. But how to come by sufficient baklava, and particularly sufficient really good and worthwhile baklava, to have the chance, at least once in a while, to eat as much of it as pleased me? The options seemed limited: find an apartment near a good Mediterranean bakery, marry a Persian pastry chef, or learn how to make it myself.
I chose option #3.
Learning to make baklava was a bit of a revelation. The thing about baklava is that it’s actually really easy to make, assuming you have access to prepared phyllo dough sheets. These are now pretty readily available in supermarket freezer cases, so much so that I have been able to find them even in places like Moses Lake, Washington, and Chester, Vermont. The rest is just mechanical: making a syrup, preparing the filling, perhaps melting some butter, and layering a hell of a lot of very thin sheets of dough, each painted with butter or oil. It is, from the standpoint of the actual technique required, easier than most other desserts.
There is, of course, some art to it, not just a tolerance for the repetitive motion of layering, painting, and filling. (Which tolerance, I grant you, has to be pretty substantial, because you spend about an hour on those tasks for a single 9×13 pan of baklava.) The art, by which I mean making and spicing the syrup and filling, learning to space the layers of filling evenly through the pastry, and, most difficult of all, learning how to score and slice baklava without inducing a hull breach, takes some time and some trial and error to master.
The art is also where regionalism and ethnic tradition express themselves. Persian baklavas tend to be filled with pistachio and spiced with Silk Road flair, cardamom and cinnamon and clove, orange flower water, scented honeys. Azerbaijani baklavas, on the other hand, often feature both almond and pistachio, sometimes in distinct layers, and a saffron-laced syrup. Turkish baklavas are often made with almonds only, and lots of lemon and cinnamon. Greek baklavas are commonly made with walnuts, lemon juice, cinnamon, and rosewater.
For my recent housewarming, whose menu was on a pan-Mediterranean theme, I made two baklavas. The first I made in a classic Persian mode, with a syrup of honey and sugar spiced with cardamom and clove and finished with orange flower water, and a pistachio filling with cinnamon and cardamom. It turned out beautifully.
For the second one, though, I decided to branch out. I asked my houseguests, who had come in early for the housewarming, what kind I should make. Greek? Azeri? Turkish? Opinions were divided. Then it dawned on me that I didn’t necessarily have to stick to the known. What about pecans? I had a sufficient quantity in the pantry. But pecans are a very American nut. It didn’t seem quite right to force them into the role of walnuts in a Greek-style baklava, although I imagine I could’ve done so and it would’ve tasted fine.
I rummaged through the pantry, the freezer, the fridge. And suddenly it came to me: why not an American baklava? I had a can of frozen concentrated apple juice in the freezer, and a quart of Grade B maple syrup in the cupboard. I had lemons and cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves and Jamaican allspice and mace. I had brown sugar to add to the chopped pecans. I had butter and phyllo.
Shortly thereafter, I had a pan of fresh, deliciously fragrant American Baklava. Just out of the oven, it smelled like the apotheosis of apple pie. Served up, it was delicious, if wetter than I had hoped — I tried to compensate for the high water content of my syrup (1 part apple juice concentrate to 2 parts maple syrup) by cooking the syrup down some, but it proved not to be enough — and most importantly, my houseguests raved about it. In the mouth, it both was and wasn’t what you would immediately recognize as baklava: the textures all said baklava, but the flavors said something else… not quite apple pie, not quite pecan pie, not quite maple sugar candy. But it was definitely delicious.
I plan to tinker with the recipe some, although probably not until September when it cools down some, as running the oven during high summer in Maryland is not my favorite thing to do. Once I get the syrup problem nailed (I think the answer may be to use dry maple sugar), I will be posting the recipe here, in the hopes that a few of you will be willing to serve as recipe testers.
I don’t expect American Baklava to enter the pantheon of Great Baklavas of the World, but it is tasty and impressive as any baklava, and intriguingly different as well, and perhaps it will even appeal to some of those for whom the flavors of flower waters and honey are offputting barriers to enjoying more traditional sorts. A girl can dream.