My riff on the British classic pudding via a Southern Italian penchant for combining black pepper and fruits as a dessert. This is the perfect final course for a meal that combines vanilla creaminess with the tang of citrus and the kick of black pepper.
No mere trifle
This recipe for black pepper and lemon trifle isn't an afterthought. When Pasta Club! recently convened, it was my turn to cook. I was already up to a sneaky conceit with the other courses, so I wanted to make a sweet course that paired well. The main course was lamb, the starter a chicken liver paté... But, we'll deal with that elsewhere.
Now, as I think is obvious from the recipes on here, I default to savoury. I'm the guy who readily opts for a half-decent cheese board versus a mediocre Pavlova. Basically, I don't have a very sweet tooth and hence don't spend much time creating puddings.
However, some of the Illuminati at the centre of the Pasta Club! Magic Circle quite like their sweets. And, they also rather like lemon. So I decided to work with that.
This trifle—with absolutely no apologies to Mrs Beeton—started with my love-hate relationship with the pudding. I utterly detest the way Dickensian genuine goodwill swilling around the Christmas trifle became eroded by jingoistic British imperialism unfolding in the decades in which the world map was as pink as a good roast is supposed to be.
The only problem in negotiating my rage is that when it's done well—it seldom is—it can be fantastic, something I'm loathe to admit. I appreciate how trifle became a "place" where a British woman during certain eras could fulfil the expectations upon her and still find tiny deviations signalling her almost tacit individuality.
My Granny Bertha's schtick was the bright green candied angelica she'd allow the older grandchildren to add to the top of the trifle as decoration. But, she wasn't exactly a subservient 1930s wife. And this only happened once cook had made the trifle to her recipe and her explicit instructions, of course...
The second strand swilling around my mind was my dad, the man who was so passionate about Italian cuisine who taught me to cook Italian dishes I first tasted as a wee tot when we sailed together. Among these was a tradition I later rediscovered for myself as a young adult, knocking about in Southern Italy. More specifically, it was the tradition of serving succulent fruits—peaches, apricots or citrus—dressed with freshly ground black pepper and a little custard or whipped cream as perfect light desserts during the hot summer months.
So, kids, those are the unlikely fellow travellers that led to this one. Apologies for the crap pictures. I was too busy making it rather than staging it.
This pudding serves 4 to 5 diners. Adjust as needed.
You can substitute various ingredients for those used here. There are, however, a few caveats. For example, do not use traditional sponge cake in lieu of harder biscuits: disaster will result. And, do not substitute sherry or heavier fortified wines for the Muscat de Beaumes-de-Venise. Okay, you might be able to pull it off with another muscat, but I've tested 'n tried this one properly, mofos!
Similarly, I opted to use a readymade crema pasticciera from a local Italian deli. If you are taking this route, try to avoid the kind that contains nutmeg—I think its taste "flattens" the zing of the lemon.
But, with both crema pasticciera and British readymade versions of custard—such as tinned Devon custard—remember that they will not have that solid certainty favoured by Mrs Beeton when making custard from powder as is more prevalent in North America, the Antipodes or Hong Kong. It's not an issue other than aesthetically.
Unless you opt for a good old Mrs Beeton's custard—or Bird's Eye—it won't set as solidly; wobbly when you shake the bowl. Only this type of severly solid custard affords the perfect "ice rink" onto which to pipe your cream. But,I care not: I'm going for the better custard—even if the cream sinks in a little—and my trifle has black pepper...
Shopping list
for the black pepper and lemon trifle
6 to 8 traditional shortbread "finger biscuits"; broken in to large pieces
Lemon jelly cubes (or equivalent)—approx. 500ml as liquid
The zest and juice of 2 fresh lemons
Approx. 3 tbspns demerara sugar
Approx. 400g crema pasticciera (or custard)
200ml Muscat de Beaumes-de-Venise
200ml double cream (or whipping cream)
2 handfuls of walnuts; chopped in a mini chopper or roughly broken
Generous sprinklings of freshly ground black pepper
Cooking Method
Wash the lemons and remove their zest using a zester (or fine grater) and place both the lemons and the zest to one side. Chop the walnuts and store
Roughly break the shortbread biscuits into a bowl with the capacity where you can envisage the 500ml of jelly liquid rising to at least half of the way to the top of the bowl. Traditionally this would be a glass bowl so that you can see the different layers before serving. But, it's an aesthetic choice: I was actually favouring this glazed terracotta bowl until I realised I'm now growing basil in it...
Gently pour the Muscat de Beaumes-de-Venise over the biscuits, distributing it evenly. Cover and store at room temperature, allowing the liquid to soak into the biscuits. Because these are fairly "dense" biscuits, you may need to gently turn them from time to time to ensure that they soak up all of the wine
When almost all of the wine has been soaked up by the biscuits, dilute your lemon jelly as appropriate. Sprinkle half of the lemon zest into the bowl and dress liberally with freshly ground black pepper. Gently pour in the liquid jelly; over the biscuits. Then allow the liquid jelly to cool. Once cool, store in the fridge—ideally overnight—ensuring it properly sets
When the jelly has set, spoon over your crema pasticciera (or custard) and ensure it has sufficient time to rest (or set) in the fridge
Somewhere between the previous stage and the final stages, heat a non-stick pan on a medium-to-high heat. Slice one of the zested lemons and place into the hot, dry pan. Sizzle in the dry pan for a minute or so, then squeeze the juice of the other lemon over it and allow the slices to cook in the juice for a few minutes
Sprinkle half of the demerara sugar over the top of the sizzling lemon slices. When the sugar begins to melt, gently flip the slices and sprinkle the remainder of the sugar onto their reverse surfaces. Do not prevent the excess sugar falling into the pan: as it combines with the lemon juice it will form a kid of syrup
When the lemon slices are caramelised to preference, decant to a plate and pour the "syrup" over them. While still warm, dress liberally with freshly ground black pepper and allow to cool
While the lemon slices are cooling, whip the cream until stiff using a whisk or electric beater. Spread—or pipe—the thick whipped cream on top of the custard
Once cool, place the caramelised lemon slices atop the cream. Sprinkle over the crushed walnuts and dress with a dusting of freshly ground black pepper. Then serve.
Alternatives
This is is by nature a lacto-vegetarian pudding—assuming you're using veggie jelly. I have no idea how one would make it vegan, nor have I tried yet. So, no, I'm not expressing any opinions here. I only do that with things I've tried.
Pairings
As a pudding course with booze in the pudding, there are a number of approaches you might take. For example, you could, theoretically, serve it with Muscat de Beaumes-de-Venise. But, on this occasion it would have been really inappropriate since it was the lynchpin in the opening gambit of the starter.
You could also go for "the elephant in the room"; a deeply chilled snort of limoncello.
Or you could serve it with the accompaniment I've already tested—but didn't have at Pasta Club!—a "digestif" of lemon cough syrup, thyme distilled in sparkling water and cheap champagne serve on crushed ice. I kid you not.
Comments