Generally, we all begin our nostalgic gastronomic recollections with memories of some delicious dish created by our mother or grandmother, or sometimes an aunt and her rice pudding. But there are delights whose glorious remembrance does not come out of our maternal or paternal family trees, but rather out of unexpected corners.
In my Cuban childhood, pudding was made with raisins and almonds encrusted in a batter of finely ground bread mixed with milk and eggs, seasoned with cinnamon and vino seco, dry sherry wine. Much like the English do with their tea-time cakes and biscuits, the final product was cut with a sharp knife and eaten with your hands. I always thought that dessert could not be made in any other way, until an aunt (yes, really, an aunt who made great sweet concoctions) gave me a taste of what in the Cuba of my childhood and adolescence was called pudín diplomático, or diplomatic pudding—incidentally, a great term for a desirable political situation in the present. This was a bread pudding with flan at the bottom, interlaced with fruit, usually cherries, peaches and pears out of a can of Libby´s cocktail. Hmmm, delicious, or so I thought then. Many years later, in front of the counter of a Cuban bakery in Miami, a friend gave me a taste of their pudín diplomático, a point of pride for the bakery and its owners. I was then convinced that this was a delight for the gods, a thing of pleasure and beauty. Let it be remembered and praised here, then.
But that was not the beginning of my epic chant to puddings. It was the year 2009 when I found in New Orleans, city of jambalayas and seafood, a distinguished restaurant menu that featured a bread pudding that called my attention. And it just so happened that I was not the sole traveler that searched far and wide for the PBP. Other cultural commentators and bloggers sing the praises of such a dessert with Homeric admiration. I copy here some thoughts on the bread pudding which can be taken as representative of the enthusiasm with which several food critics welcome this pudding of my nostalgia:
“My love affair with bread pudding began in New Orleans. Though my Yankee-born mom makes a company-worthy peach-studded bread pudding, and I once spent a summer at a Manhattan gourmet shop dishing out a mean Mexican chocolate version, it wasn´t until I had my first bite of the comforting dessert in the Crescent City that my devotion blossomed. It was 2006, and the legendary restaurant Commander´s Palace was just springing back after a painstaking post-Katrina renovation. Their bread pudding soufflé, whisky-tinged and ethereal, was a cause to rejoice. I have since made many a pilgrimage back to New Orleans, and each time I go I can´t wait to try a new bread pudding version.”
In the comments section, I add: “Another devotee in search of the PBP!” And I wonder, why is this dessert so beloved in the Southern coastal city? It isn´t that the recipe was invented there, because the honor probably corresponds to creative cooks in the Old World who had extra bread in their hands. But the pudding is the perfect incarnation of the cultural virtues of Créoles: day-old bread too good to waste, bathed in a mixture of milk, eggs and sugar, perhaps mixed with nuts and fruit, and baked to a sublime consistency.
Ask any New Orleaner about the best bread pudding in the city and they will probably tell you that the version at the Bon Ton Café, the oldest Cajun restaurant in the region beats them all. Studded with raisins, the Bon Ton’s pudding made it to the café’s official menu back in the fifties, a lot earlier than other establishments would deign to serve the humble Southern classic. In fact, the same family recipe has been delighting their customers´ palates since then. The French bread from the Alois J. Binder, another local institution, yields a dense but soft consistency, and cream sauce made with whisky crowns the pudding, adding incomparable flavor and flare.
The excellence of those New Orleans puddings notwithstanding, my recent trip San Francisco took me to the Bluestem Brasserie, a French bistro on Market Street, where bread pudding also reaches Olympic heights for the connoisseur palate. Made with brioche bread, served with a Grand Marnier and fresh blueberries sauce, and sprinkled with almonds, this bread pudding alone is worthy of a Michelin star. Add to that a touch of cinnamon flavor, combined with vanilla gelato, and you have no choice but to sigh. Regretfully, the Bluestem Dessert Menu now features a version named “Orange-Ya-Glad,” described as “warm bread pudding, blood orange, candied kumquats, vanilla ice cream, Grand Marnier Caramel.” I, of course, miss the Grand Marnier.
But I could not finish my exaltation of the PBP in these pages without remembering the memorable version offered in 2011 at Santiago’s Bodega, a small restaurant in Key West/Cayo Hueso. It was there, in Hemingway’s stomping grounds, that Santiago’s bread pudding touched my lips and my heart in an unexpected way: made with croissants, and sprinkled with chocolate and bourbon sauce, this bread pudding awakened ancestral delights in my palate, and I remembered my aunts and my days on coastal cities—Havana the most significant, to be succeeded years later by New Orleans and San Francisco.
I can only hope that the PBP, my perfect bread pudding, achieves immortality as a nostalgic sense memory of travels and younger days. Days that were punctuated by dishes with the smell and taste of childhood, and youth. Carefree times when love made life easier, a love now resurrected by savvy restaurateurs and skilled chefs. No doubt in search of patrons, but also keen to awaken memories of the palate and, why not, memories of the heart.
Featured Illustration: “Pudín,” by Otari Oliva (2017). All Rights Reserved.