Baklava Meets Java, Part 2

The Java part of this blog pays homage to one of my favorite beverages, to which I have been cheerfully addicted since I was eight years old, the age at which I started stealing sips of my mother's coffee. Coffee has been the guiding force in my life's journey to becoming a sane, functioning member of society in the style of Jeffrey Lebowski the Smaller (who once remarked so memorably upon being shoved into a car, "Hey, careful, man, there's a beverage here!") What White Russians made him, coffee has made me. It has also been the secret behind my burgeoning intelligence, as one can deduce just from looking at the photo to the right. Were I to stop partaking of the morning cup, I would probably end up as Charlie did in "Flowers For Algernon."

Although my love of coffee was self driven, my knowledge of coffee I owe to the years I spent slurping and spitting for Starbucks in Seattle. I enjoyed them very much, partially because I was paid to start every work day tasting numerous coffees--some good, many bad, a few absolutely fantastic. I was also blessed to work with some talented, passionate and extraordinarily funny people. The tasting skills I learned there carried over into the rest of my life. I couldn't just eat a fish taco from a roach coach any more--I had to analyze the salsa and the masa (to the ongoing annoyance of my wife, who just wants me to enjoy the meal and be quiet about it).

There has been a lot of rhapsodizing about coffee, much of it of dubious value. It can be identified by its purple prose and in the way it flings weighty descriptors such as "redolent", "luminous" and "supple" around with abandon. I promise never to stoop so low in this blog. The poems have been particularly egregious. Agatha Christie penned a decent murder mystery drama about poisoned coffee. J.S. Bach wrote his cringe worthy Coffee Cantata in the 1730s, though who knows if it has been performed since. Worst of all, a century's worth of coffee advertising has heaped an enormous amount of effusive praise on crappy brown water whose origins hailed from a can.

There is something both foolproof and fragile about coffee. It is foolproof in that hot water and coffee grounds will devolve into a hot brown liquid that can wash down any parched dessert. The fragile part is in making coffee that is as delicate and delicious as the dessert it is paired with. (In this case, baklava). There are two schools of thought: brew a straightforward dark roast to contrast with the sweet baklava, or brew something with flavors similar to the baklava. The former is fail safe; the latter could either succeed beautifully or clash disappointingly.

I ascribe to the "black tie" philosophy of dessert coffee. Just as an elegant black tuxedo complements a colorful ballroom gown, a crisp roasty cup of coffee showcases a beautiful dessert better than a fussy, foppish brew. Baklava is the fragrant beauty in her ball gown. The coffee is her beau, there to guide her around the dance floor, temper her sweetness and highlight her deliciousness. In other words, baklava is the work of art; coffee is the picture frame. Okay. Enough rhapsodizing. Now for some practical brewing stuff.

To start with the simple, coarsely grind one measuring cup of coffee beans, preferably a dark roast like Italian or French roast. Put in the carafe of a clean "12-cup" coffee press. Bring fresh cold water to a boil. Let it sit for a ten-count to let the temperature drop from boiling to a little below. Pour 50 fluid ounces over the grounds to fill the carafe. Let it extract for about four minutes, then place the plunger on top and press it down. There you have it: easy, perfect coffee.

Espresso is more complicated. Without getting into the complexities of choosing an espresso blend, grinding, tamping, adjusting water temperature and pressure, which are covered in exquisite detail by other blogs and websites (such as http://www.coffeegeek.com/), brew a doppio shot of high quality espresso and serve immediately with the baklava. Once could add a little frothy steamed milk to make a macchiato without incurring the wrath of any beverage gods. Lastly, wrap your hands around your favorite mug. Inhale the supple aroma, redolent with campfire smoke, and allow the luminous flavors of caramel and treacle wash over your tongue.... Crap. Nevermind....

Baklava Meets Java, Part 1

This blog is titled "Baklava Java" for one great reason (and possibly a handful of lesser ones). It is named after my most perfect dessert experience. It wasn't just one single experience; there have been nearly countless times I have enjoyed that lovely Middle Eastern couple. The beautiful Baklava, with her exotic perfume of rose, lemon and pistachio. The strong, dark and bold Java, with his crisp cologne of charcoal, lemon and honeysuckle. When they joined us for dinner, all eyes watched them, coveted them. They were dessert royalty.

I first met them in the early 1980s, in Pasadena, California. On Lake Avenue, near the intersection of California Boulevard, hides a small restaurant called "Burger Continental". It's a crappy name for a memorable place with wonderful food. Sort of like the old nickname truckers would give a truck stop: the choke 'n puke. Behind the restaurant was a garden area open to the stars, with lights wound through the tree branches, and tables and chairs set up. On a shirtsleeve Pasadena evening there wasn't a better place to linger over a glass of wine. They had a dinner there called the Armenian Feast, which featured a first course of Armenian salads and breads. Taboulis, olive salads, dolmas, pickled cucumbers and more covered the table.

Many were the neophytes and foolhardy who thought this was the Armenian Feast. They looked uneasy when the table was cleared. they looked dismayed when the main course arrived: various grilled meats (lamb, chicken, beef) layered over the top of a mound of rice pilaf, all covered by warm pita bread soaking up the delectable meat juice. Dismay would turn to chagrin. Then chagrin to just grins. By the time all this was eaten, most diners would just look for a soft place -- perhaps a pile of uneaten pitas -- to lay their head and nap. But this was where things got interesting for me. Because I had a secret weapon: a dessert stomach.

Not everybody is blessed with one. Oh, most people have a rudimentary one that kicks in once a year, somewhere between the sage dressing and the pumpkin pie. It lies dormant, much like their subconscious. For me, no matter how full I am, there is always room for dessert. Especially if dessert is baklava. (Or pie, but that is another posting. Stay tuned....)

The Burger Continental's default dessert was a white sheet cake. You had to actually request the baklava. After nibbling on crisp baklava and sipping strong black coffee under the stars just once, you never went back to the sheet cake. Back then all this came to about $12 a person. Now it's just under $20. But it's been a quarter century; they're entitled.

Years passed, not all of them in Pasadena. Regretful of not having authentic baklava at hand, and resistant to paying $2 or more for a tiny diamond of often not very good pastry, I started making my own. Thanks to a childhood friend, Beth, and her foolproof recipe, I never had a bad batch. I don't know the recipe's provenance, but she named it "Baklava That Will Make You Cry". And it does.


Baklava That Will Make You Cry
The Sauce
3 Cups sugar
1 ½ Cups water
2 Tablespoons lemon juice
2 to 3 teaspoons rose water

Combine all ingredients in a large, heavy saucepan. Bring to a boil, stirring frequently. Reduce heat. Once mixture boils and sugar is dissolved, do not stir or syrup may cloud or crystallize. Cook, uncovered, over medium-low heat to 212-218 degrees F. (100-102 C.). At this temperature, syrup dropped from a cold metal spoon will fall in a sheet. Remove from heat. Add two or more teaspoons rose water (optional, but that's what makes the baklava good). Cool. While it is cooling, work on the Dry Ingredients.

The Dry Ingredients
3 Cups finely chopped walnuts
1 Cup finely chopped pistachios
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground allspice
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
¼ teaspoon ground clove
¼ teaspoon ground cardamom
¼ Cups sugar
40 filo sheets (about 2 lbs.), refrigerated
2 Cups unsalted butter, clarified

Lightly butter a 13 X 9 baking pan. Set aside. In a medium bowl, combine nuts, cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, clove, cardamom and sugar. Set aside. Stack filo sheets on a flat surface. Trim to fit pan. Cover with plastic wrap or a damp cloth to prevent drying out.

Clarify butter by heating until melted, either over a low heat or in a microwave. Skim milk fat off the surface and discard. Also discard butter sediment on bottom of container.

The baklava will have five layers of multiple filo dough sheets, between which will be four nut mixture layers. Layer 10 filo sheets in a baking pan, brushing each sheet with clarified butter. Spread one cup nut mixture over layered filo sheets. Top with 7 more filo sheets, brushing each with clarified butter. Spread one cup nut mixture. Layer 6 more filo sheets, brushing each with clarified butter. Spread one cup nut mixture. Layer 7 more filo sheets, brushing each with clarified butter. Top with 10 remaining filo sheets, brushing each with clarified butter. Brush top sheet with remaining clarified butter.

Cutting all the way through pastry, cut into diamond shapes approximately 1-inch wide, without removing from pan. Bake approximately 30 minutes at 350 degrees F. Reduce heat to 200 F. Bake approximately 30 minutes longer or until golden brown. Pour cooled syrup over warm pastry. Let stand several hours before serving, to let liquid mixture soak into pastry. Serve at room temperature.

Next, pastry meets coffee. Romance ensues.

Food and Music Don't Always Mix

Porcupine pie.
Vanilla soup.
The fruity blue cheese.

Neil Diamond was one of my very first rock and roll idols. I sense your snickering. But this was before he started down the soft, spongy cabaret path, before he stopped bringing Barbra Streisand flowers. Certainly before the movie "Saving Silverman", hysterically funny though it may be. Back in the early seventies he used to actually rock, when he could shake that Hot August Night hair and belt out "Shilo" like he meant it.

Which brings me to the first three lines of this blog. Food and music are meant for each other. The common denominator they share is poetry. Music is always an ingredient when I cook (and even when I'm washing dishes). So why do the lyrics from Neil's "Porcupine Pie" trigger my gag reflex? Maybe it's the Chicken Ripple Ice Cream in the final line. I don't intend to explore it deeply. Or at all. I do intend to make Baklava Java interesting and filled with food, drink and music. And I promise never to post recipes for any Neil Diamond dishes.

Why "Baklava Java"? That will be explained in the next posting. In the meantime, put in your earbuds and tuck in you napkin.