Converso Cake

Over the past few weeks, I’ve traveled a great deal through towns and cities that are all a part of the Camino de Santiago (reflections on those places coming soon). For those readers that don’t know, the Camino de Santiago de Compostela (literally the “walk of St. James’ of Compostela”)  is a pilgrimage route, the most well-known of which runs through the French Pyrenes through the north of Spain to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela on the northwestern point of Galicia (see this map for an idea). This pilgrimage is not only famous among the religious, as the ruins of Santiago (aka St. James) were supposedly found in this Galician capital, but also for tons of tourists as well, who to northern Spain to traverse the famous path, hoping on their way to find inner-peace or just enjoy the novelty of the trip. In fact, this pilgrimage has become one of the most well-known of the many fabulous Spanish traditions – up there with the running of the bulls in Pamplona, Buñol’s Tomatina, and Sevilla’s Semana Santa.

Interestingly enough, the city of Santiago de Compostela also boasts a famous, similarly-named dessert called the Tarta de Santiago (“St. James’ cake). Popularized through its omnipresence in the bakeries along the Camino de Santiago, this delectable cake is also found all over Spain as a simple but oh-so-delicious merienda with afternoon coffee or breakfast. Made of a mix of ground almonds, a cloud of meringue, sugar, and citrus zest, this cake has become emblematic of the Camino – and yet it also lays claim to a secret Jewish past that very few who eat it know.

During the 12th and 13th centuries, a wave of Almohads conquered their way from Morocco across the Gibraltar through the caliphate of Al-Andalus. (Al-Andalus, ruled by the caliph Abd al-Rahman III, later became known as Andalusia). The Almohads were very different from their intellectual, liberal Umayyad predecessors: with their more austere interpretation of Islam, they also brought a much less friendly attitude towards Andalusi Jews, who had integrated profoundly in the sociopolitical and cultural milieu of the Umayyad society. Though, technically, the Sephardic Jews of the time were still consider dhimmi, or protected people in Islamic law (mostly they paid a poll tax and couldn’t build their synagogues higher than any mosque), the Almohads bred a much more violent relationship with the Jews, so different than the flourishing convivencia of the Umayyads. This resulted in waves of pogroms and mass conversions of Jews in the south of Spain, from which droves of Jews fled to the northern Christian territories of Spain, at that moment much more tolerant of the Sephardic community. The Sephardic refugees even including such Sephardi notables as Abraham ibn Ezra, an important poet at the time, who wrote the following about his flight from Andalusia:

The Exile dwelt there blamelessly in safety
Without interruption for a thousand seventy years.
But the day came when her people were banished and she became like a widow
Without Torah study or biblical recitation, the Mishnah sealed shut
…That is why I weep and beat my hands, lament forever on my lips.
(trans. Ross Brann, Mark R. Cohen)

Fleeing to the north of Spain, the Sephardim not only brought their intellectual and economic acumen to their new northern Christian courts, but also their recipes and traditional dishes.

And not just any food: according to Claudia Roden, one of my favorite food historians, the Sephardim fleeing Almohad persecution brought their sweets with them. One in particular, a Passover cake made of ground almonds, eggs, sugar, and citrus, made its way all the way to northern Galicia. Sounds familiar right? As Devra Ferst writes: “The widely available tarta de Santiago de Compostela, an almond cake that is made with orange-and-lemon zest and named for a cathedral to which pilgrims travel, was originally a Passover dish from Andalusia in the South” (Ferst, from here).

Even though they were forced to relocate across the country, the cake remained a favorite of Andalusian Sephardim. After waves of forced conversions, it transcended its role as a dessert for Passover – as it has no leavening, it fits the halakhic stipulations for the observance of the holiday – later becoming a staple of judeoconversos. It seems that though they changed religion, these Jewish converts to Christianity didn’t see anything wrong with continuing to make the delicious cake, and evidently their tastes didn’t also change with their religion. Who would have thought that a cake named for a Christian saint and his pilgrimage really was a Passover dessert?

An even more fascinating addendum to this history is that the tarta de Santiago was chosen to represent Spain in the 2006 Café Europa initiative of the European Union. Seems like an ironic, though in this historian’s eyes, an oh-so-fitting selection. But whether you’re fleeing Almohad persecution or making a Christian pilgrimage, everyone, regardless of religious affiliation, can agree this cake is definitely delicious.

Tarta de Santiago

This recipe is adapted from Claudia Roden’s brilliant cookbook The Book of Spanish Food. While this cake can come together in moments with the use of an electric mixer, I opted (read: was forced) to go the medieval route and hand-whip the egg whites into meringue. If you’re up for the arm workout, I recommend it. As Roden explains, and in my experience, this cake sometimes comes with a  pastry base or served, as in Navarre, with a thin layer of jam on top. Personally, I like to keep it simple with a generous amount of orange zest in the batter and quick final dusting of confectioner’s sugar (without the customary cross of St. James though). However, if you feel like experimenting, the cake takes phenomenally well to other types of citrus (did someone say lime?!) or other flavorings, like cinnamon or vanilla. Let your imagination run free!

½ pound (1 ¾ cups) blanched whole almonds
6 large eggs, separated
1 ¼ cups sugar
Grated zest of 1 orange
Grated zest of 1 lemon
A few drops of almond or vanilla extract
½ teaspoon cinnamon (optional)

Preheat the oven to 350°F/160°C. Finely grind the almonds into a flour-like texture in a food processor.

With an electric mixer (or by hand), beat the egg yolks with the sugar into a smooth pale yellow cream. Beat in the zest and extract and any other flavorings you want to add. Add the ground almonds and mix well. (The batter will be a little stiff but don’t worry).

With clean beaters (or a clean whisk), beat the egg whites in a large bowl until stiff peaks form. Fold the egg whites into the egg and almond mixture – this will take a while because the egg and almond mixture is so thick, but keep at it until the egg whites are thoroughly incorporated.

Grease an 11-inch springform pan with butter and dust it with flour. Pour the batter into the pan and bake for 40 minutes, or until it feels firm to the touch (Note: this depends on your oven – mine took almost an hour to become fully firm and even then it was just on the edge of underdone. If the top starts to brown too much, just slip a piece of aluminum foil on top, without sealing the pan, of it to protect it). Let the cake cool completely before turning out.

Once cool, dust with a cloud of confectioners’ sugar and, if you’d like, for a traditional effect, cut out a cross of St. James before (see here) and then dust with the sugar. Or, for a Navarre-inspired version, forego the sugar and spread a thin layer of apricot jam on top of the cake. Enjoy!

Reynados Fit for a Reina

As I mentioned in my previous post, a few weeks ago, I visited the town of Ávila with a group from the Reform Jewish community of Madrid. We were invited by the Spanish government to take a tour of the old judería, or Jewish quarter, of the city, and to Ávila’s original copy of The Alhambra Decree, which expelled the Jews from Spain in 1492. So, up we drove an hour and a half to the northeast of Madrid to discover what we could of Ávila’s Jewish community.

Seeing the Edict of Expulsion was – to say the least – extremely moving. Ávila is one of the few Spanish municipalities that still possesses its copy of the original document, withstanding the tests of time that have taken the other copies out of existence, such as fires, light fingers, and simple neglect. Indeed, the fact that Ávila still has its copy underscores the unique relationship the city has always had with its Jewish community, both past and present. It is this relationship that is embodied in the well-known figures of Saint Teresa and Saint John of the Cross (San Juan de la Cruz), both of whom came from converso (Jews converted to Christianity) families, not to mention the famously infamous Tomas de Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor of the Spanish Inquisition. It is a relationship that is also reflected, interestingly enough, in the very urban structure of the city.

Of Ávila’s many delightful features, the most obvious, and frankly impressive, one is the wall that encloses the entire antiguo casco, or old quarter, of the city. According to the site dedicated to the wall (http://muralladeavila.com/es/) it was founded in the 11th century to protect the territory from invading Moors. Ávila is the only Spanish city that boasts its entire original wall, which, along with the entire old quarter of the city and the Romanesque churches that were built just outside its walls, can be found on the list of UNESCO World Heritage sites. 

In medieval Spain, Christian rulers tended to delineate a Jewish quarter outside of the walls of the main city. As Fernando Aznar explains, though this intentional separation was a way of controlling the Jewish community, it was also  mostly a practical move for taxation purposes: every Jewish household was required to pay a head tax to the ruler and church in exchange for free practice of a minority faith. Traditionally, these juderías would become focal points of commerce outside of the city wall. Yet, unlike so many other cities, in Ávila, the judería was located inside the city wall: “they were installed in the center of the city for maximum efficacy for their business. Their neighborhood par excellence before the obligated separation (when the ghetto was established in 1412) was located between the Juradero, in San Vicente, the Central Market, and the Little Market. [se instalaron en el centro de la ciudad para mayor eficacia de sus negocios. Su barrio por excelencia, con anterioridad al obligado apartamiento, era entre el Juradero, en San Vicente, el Mercado Grande y el Mercado Chico.]” (from http://www.avilaturismo.com/es/que-hacer/avila-judia). This excerpt shows that it wasn’t until later that the Jewish community was forced to live in a reduced area outside the city walls – in fact, it wasn’t until the 15th century, with the growing resentment toward the Jewish community that that century brought, that the Jews had to live outside the city wall.

The Sephardic community has a long-standing presence in Ávila: although the first real documented mention of the Jewish community appears in 1144, many historians speculate that the Jewish presence in the city goes back even further. During this early medieval period, the city “was considered a no-man’s land, a border between the Muslim and Christian kingdoms [fue considerada tierra de nadie, frontera entre los reinos cristianos y musulmanes]”; in other words, Ávila was an interstitial space in the ever-shifting religious map of Spain, one in which Christian and Muslim influence vied for superiority, a territory in which the Jewish community was always treated reasonably well. And the location of the Jewish community within the city wall physically underscores their symbolic position in the society of Ávila.

It is just this symbolism that inspired this week’s dish: Pimintones Reynados. Though in origin they come from the Sephardic communities in diaspora, I thought they reflected the theme of this week’s post well, especially since the peppers themselves create a “wall” around the filling they encase. Coincidentally, in Ávila I lunched on a dish of stuffed peppers, which though they very similar in appearance to these pimintones, they were totally different in taste – an appropriate metaphor, in my opinion, for the differences between the medieval Christian and Jewish communities. Try them and let me know what you think!

Pimintones Reynados
Adapted partially from Olive Trees and Honey: A Treasury of Vegetarian Recipes from Jewish Communities Around the World by Gil Marks

This recipe is pretty easy - just make the filling, briefly boil the peppers, stuff them and into the oven they go! You can find recipes for stuffed peppers in almost every culture, including Spanish, Turkish, Mexican, and more, but these can be defined as specifically Sephardic as a result of the generous amount of parsley and healthy squeeze of lemon juice in the filling that gives these peppers their unique, slightly tart taste.

4 medium red bell peppers
5 tablespoons olive oil
1 large onion, halved and sliced crosswise
2 large cloves garlic
1 ½ cups basmati or long-grain rice
3 cups of water
2-3 medium tomatoes, or enough to be about 1 ½ cups chopped
¼ cup chopped fresh parsley
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon lemon zest
1 teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/3 cup raisins
1/3 slivered or chopped almonds, toasted
Juice of half a lemon
Fresh lemon wedges to season to taste
Chopped parsley for garnish

Preheat the oven to 350°F/180°C.

Heat 3 tablespoons of olive oil in a 4-qt saucepan. Add the onions and sauté for 2-3 minutes until softened. Add garlic and cook 5-6 minutes more, until onions are slightly caramelized and the garlic is fragrant. Add chopped tomatoes and cook for another 3-4 minutes until the tomatoes release their juice and it concentrates. Stir in parsley and cook 2 minutes more.

Next, add rice, sugar, lemon zest, salt and pepper. Stir and let the grains cook for a minute before adding the water. Bring mixture to a boil and then turn down to a simmer and cover. Let cook for about 15 minutes, or until all the water is absorbed into the rice.

Meanwhile, cut the tops off the peppers and de-rib them. Put a large salted pot of water to boil. Once the water boils, submerge the peppers for 3 minutes. Strain and set aside in a ovenproof baking dish.

Once all the water is absorbed, fluff the rice with a fork. Stir in raisins, almonds, and lemon juice. Generously stuff the peppers with the rice mixture and replace tops. Drizzle the peppers with remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil. Place in oven and bake for 20 minutes, until rice mixture is heated through. Then, switch to the broiler function of the oven and broil the peppers for 10 minutes, or until their skin starts to blister and char and the filling browns slightly.

Serve sprinkled with extra parsley and lemon wedges for garnish.