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I'm something of a Portuguese food evangelist; between the impact on food and eating habits Portugal has historically had around the world (tempura and castella cake in Japan, vindaloo in Goa, egg tarts in Macau, just to name a few specific examples), and the common ground it shares with the much trendier cuisine of its neighbor, Spain, it just seems rather criminally underrated. So what better place to start introducing people to Portugal's food than breakfast? Just a disclaimer: while I've been told for as long as I can remember that my family on my mother's side is of Portuguese descent, it's only in recent years that I've had any real exposure to the food, and much of that is simply from me reading up on it and trying things out. I am in no way an expert, just an enthusiast; as such, I'll be cribbing notes from several sources, in particular David Leite's The New Portuguese Table, which I highly recommend. Of course, after deciding to tackle this, I did some quick research, and the results were somewhat disappointing. In Portugal, a typical breakfast would be pretty basic, featuring some of the following elements: coffee, usually with milk; some bread or buttered toast; maybe some ham and cheese; and possibly some sort of pastry, usually something like a pastel de nata, the basis for the egg tart mentioned above. Breakfast isn't really much of a big deal in Portugal; it's just something to get you started and hold you over until the big midday meal. So we've got our work cut out for us if we want to make a worthwhile entry, but I've got a few ideas. Let's start with some bread. One of the few things I knew about Portuguese food when I was growing up was Portuguese sweet bread, aka pão doce or massa sovada, an eggy, lightly sweet bread that was the basis for one of my favorite snacks as a kid, Hawaiian rolls. When I first started to seriously take an interest in Portuguese food, this was one of the very first things I started making, and it's still one of my favorites; this stuff is crack to me.  So let's start with our mise: 1/2 cup whole milk 4 tbsp. unsalted butter, plus some extra for greasing 2/3 cup plus 1 tsp. sugar 3/4 tsp. kosher salt 1 package active dry yeast 2 tbsp. warm water (110° F) 3 large eggs 1 large egg yolk 16 oz. unbleached all purpose flour, plus more as needed 1/4 tsp. ground cinnamon Grated zest of 1/2 lemon  The first thing we're going to do is warm the milk, butter, the 2/3 cup of sugar, and the salt together just until the butter's melted and the milk is just starting to bubble around the sides of the pan, after which we'll set it aside to cool to lukewarm.  While that's cooling, we'll wake up our yeast with a warm bath and that last bit of sugar as a snack to get them going.  Give it about ten minutes to get nice and foamy while getting the dry goods assembled.  We'll also take the opportunity to drop two of our whole eggs and the extra yolk into the bowl of a stand mixer, and start beating it with the paddle until it's a bit frothy.   At this point, we'll drop the speed and slowly drizzle in our cooled dairy mixture.  Once that's all incorporated, we'll switch out the paddle for the dough hook, dump in our dry ingredients, along with our gassy fungus party.  We'll let the mixer do it's thing on a medium low speed for eight to ten minutes, scraping the bowl and hook down and adding more flour as necessary, until we've got a nice, supple dough.  At this point, we'll turn our dough out onto a lightly floured surface and go about shaping it into a ball, then dropping it into a well-greased bowl, covering in plastic wrap, and setting aside in a warm place to double in size.   At this point, I decided to do things a bit differently from the recipe; normally the bread is baked as a single loaf in a round pan, but I was curious how it would perform in a loaf pan (or two, in this case). So after greasing the pans with yet more butter, we'll take our risen dough, punch it down, divide and shape it, cover with a clean towel, and leave to rise until doubled again.  A quick slash across each loaf with a sharp knife, followed up with a brush-down with beaten egg, and our bread's ready to slide into a 350° F oven. After about twenty minutes, we'll pull them out to apply a second coat of beaten egg, then return to the oven for another twenty or so, until the center of the loaves register 190° F.   Let them cool in the pans on a rack for another twenty, then remove from the pan, and allow to cool fully, and we've got ourselves a couple of loaves that will last for two or three days wrapped well in plastic, and which freeze pretty well. Like I said, this stuff is an addiction for me; I can finish off a loaf of it myself in a day if I'm not careful. And while I didn't get loaves quite as large as I would have liked, the results were some of the best I've had; I'm definitely going to be doing it this way from now on. Now, one bread is good, but Portugal has a ton of excellent breads, so why not throw another, less sweet one into the mix? Broa de milho is a lean, crusty, somewhat dense cornbread, a nice contrast to our sweet bread, and it's something I've never made before, so let's give that a shot.  First, our mise: 2 packages active dry yeast 1 cup warm water (110° F) 14 oz. unbleached bread flour, plus more as necessary 2 cups fine yellow cornmeal 2 tbsp. kosher salt 1 1/4 cups boiling water Coarse cornmeal for dusting  Once again, we'll start off our yeast with a warm soak for about ten minutes; without the additional sugar, it won't get as foamy as it did for our sweet bread, but it'll do the job just fine.  Once the yeast has had a chance to get started, we'll combine it with 6 ounces of our flour, cover with plastic, and allow rise in a warm place until doubled.    While that's going, we're going to combine our cornmeal and salt in the mixer, and pour in the boiling water while mixing on medium speed for about three minutes, until a firm dough forms.     Once our yeast mixture is ready, we'll switch to the dough hook, and add the yeast mix and the remaining flour to our cornmeal dough, and knead on low, adding any additional flour as necessary, until we've got a firm, elastic dough that cleans the sides of the bowl.  At this point, we'll line a sheet pan with parchment, dust with coarse cornmeal, then set about cutting and shaping our dough into two round loaves, pinching the seams together on the underside.   Lay the loaves on the prepared pan, dust the tops generously with flour, cover with a clean towel, and set aside to rise for about 45 minutes, until they've doubled in size. While those are rising, we'll slide a heavy-bottomed skillet into the bottom of the oven, making sure the rack is positioned in the middle, and begin preheating to 475° F.  Once our oven is preheated and the loaves have risen, we'll uncover and slide them into the oven, and pour 1 1/2 cups of water into the pan before quickly closing the oven, repeating after five minutes; the steam produced will help crust formation.  Bake for 35 to 45 minutes, until the loaves are golden brown, crackly, and sound hollow when tapped on the bottom; a bit of charring is not a bad thing. Transfer the loaves to a rack to cool, and serve.  Like I said, the bread is dense, but not unpleasantly so, with one hell of a crust, and a nice, mellow corn flavor; it's mostly served as an accompaniment to hearty soups (it'd be great with the unofficial national dish, caldo verde), but it'll be great for our purposes as well. When it comes to pastry and sweets, the Portuguese, like the Spanish, absolutely love rich, egg yolk-heavy custards, and pastéis de nata are a perfect example: little custard-filled tartlets, dusted with confectioners' sugar and cinnamon. Lisbon in particular is well known for these things, and versions of them pop up all over the world in former Portuguese colonial holdings. Breakfast for me is usually just a little pastry, so I can't not do something, so let's give these a go.  First, our mise: One 17 1/4 oz. package frozen puff pastry, thawed (you could make your own, if you're even more of a masochist than I am, but I'm not sure it would really be worth the effort) 2 tbsp. all purpose flour, plus more for dusting 1 tsp. kosher salt Grated zest of 1/2 lemon 1 3/4 cups heavy cream 1 large egg 8 large egg yolks (I told you they love their egg yolks, likely a taste developed as a means to use up excess yolks while the whites were being used to clarify wines) 1 cup granulated sugar 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract Confectioners' sugar for sprinkling Ground cinnamon for sprinkling  We'll start by laying a sheet of pastry out on a work surface, with the thicker fold to our left, and opening it up. Brush down the right panel with a bit of water, then fold it back in, cover with the left panel, and press down to seal.  Next, we'll brush the top with more water, tightly roll the whole thing up, then roll it out a bit so it's about 3 1/2 inches long. Repeat with the second sheet of pastry, wrap them both in plastic, then refrigerate.   Now, onto the custard. Whisk together the flour, lemon zest, salt, and 1/2 cup of cream until all the lumps are dissolved, and set aside.  In another bowl, we'll beat together our egg and yolks until thoroughly mixed, and set that aside as well.   In a small saucepan, we'll combine the sugar and 2/3 cup of water, bring that to a boil, and, without stirring, bring it up to 230° F.   While that's going, in another saucepan, we'll heat the remaining cream until it starts to bubble around the edges, after which we'll whisk it into the flour mixture until smooth, then add the sugar syrup.  Finally, we'll take our hot cream mixture and slowly add it to our egg mixture, whisking constantly, making sure not to add too much too quickly. Once everything is combined, we'll transfer everything back into a sauce pan and set over low heat, stirring with a spatula until it reaches 170° F; if you have access to an immersion circulator, you likely could make this a lot easier on yourself, but as someone who makes ice cream pretty frequently, there's something almost meditative about tempering custard mixes this way. Pour through a strainer into a bowl (just in case some of the egg scrambled), add the vanilla, and allow to cool completely. Now, for this next part, you'll want two muffin tins; something with 1/3 cup capacity would be ideal, but standard seems to be 1/2 cup, which works just fine. I, however, only have the one small muffin tin, so this is going to involve a lot of making these in batches.  Anyway, we'll be taking our pastry logs out of the refrigerator one at a time, carefully trimming off the uneven ends, and slicing them into 1/4-inch slices, which we will again refrigerate. If you do this right, you should get 24 even rounds; if you are me, you will botch this and only end up with 18 somewhat uneven rounds.  Still, we'll soldier on, taking our pastry rounds one at a time, dusting them lightly with flour, and working with our fingers to flatten them into 3-inch circles, which we will then fit into the muffin tin. If you've got 1/3 cup tins, you should be able to make a raised lip about 1/8 inch above the pan; if not, just press the pastry as far up the sides as you can without tearing. Once you've got all the wells lined, prick the pastry very well with a fork and refrigerate for twenty minutes while you preheat the oven to 400° F with a sheet pan set on the middle rack. Fill the tart shells with rice, dried beans, or pie weights, and slip onto the hot sheet pan, and bake until the edges are puffed and brown, about 16 minutes; if they're getting a bit too dark too quickly, you can tent the tins with a bit of foil.  Once the pastries are baked, let them cool in the pan on a wire rack, but leave the oven on. Once the tart shells have cooled, empty out the rice/beans/weights, gently scraping any that stick out with a spoon, then return to the pan and fill each about 3/4 full with the custard mix (about 2 1/2 tbsp. each, provided you did everything right), and return to the oven for about 12 minutes, until the custard barely jiggles in the middle.  Transfer the tins to a rack to cool for a few minutes, then pop out the tarts to cool until warm.  Give them a generous dusting with confectioners' sugar and cinnamon, and serve. Despite my issues with cutting the pastry and equipment limitations, these turned out pretty nicely, though I'm not sure they're quite worth the effort that goes into them. And now, onto the coffee. I am not a coffee drinker, unfortunately, or even someone who likes hot drinks in general; about the only type of coffee I particularly enjoy, outside of coffee ice cream or other sweets, is Thai iced coffee, which is obviously not typical of what is drunk in Portugal. But you know, Portugal had enough of a colonial presence in South and Southeast Asia that I'm willing to fudge things a little to make something a bit more to my liking, and we'll see if we can infuse a bit of citrus into the coffee, just for fun. So, our mise:  Ground coffee Zest of one lemon, removed in a single strip Zest of one orange, removed in a single strip (Not pictured) Sweetened condensed milk, filtered water, and ice I unfortunately neglected to make note of specific measurements on this, as I was kind of flying by the seat of my pants, making poo poo up as I went.  And here's where my lack of familiarity with coffee really reared its ugly head; I had planned to try doing a cold brew, but before doing any actual reading on how to do that, I purchased some espresso-grind, which is, upon later reading, really not ideal, especially when the tool you're planning to use is a French press you've had sitting around as a just in case thing. Still, I did my best to make some adjustments, reducing the extraction time, and filtering through some cheesecloth to try and trap any extra sediment that got through the screen.  And while the results were not ideal, they were at least drinkable, especially once mixed with a good dose of sweetened condensed milk over ice. Sadly, the citrus really didn't come through at all; the use of room temperature water really didn't extract any of the aromatic oils from the citrus zest, it seems. Maybe if I'd used a longer extraction period, that would have worked better, or if I had used hot water; still, it was a good learning experience. So, we have our coffee, our pastries, and our bread for toast. But what is toast without a bit of jam or fruit preserves? Let's try and make up for the lack of citrus flavor in the coffee by whipping up a quick bit of marmalade.  Our mise: 1 orange (.35 lb.) 1/5 lemon 12 oz. sugar 9.6 oz. water (This is literally Alton Brown's recipe for orange marmalade, at one-fifth scale, with the canning step skipped, since this won't last nearly long enough for it to be necessary.  After thoroughly washing our citrus, we'll use a mandoline to slice our orange into 1/8-inch slices.  We'll also take our piece of lemon, juice it and grate its zest.  We'll drop our various citrus components into a saucepan with our finicky amount of water and bring that up to a boil over high heat, then drop it back to a simmer and cook it until the fruit is very soft. While it's cooking, we'll pop a small plate into the freezer for testing how well our marmalade is gelling.  Once the fruit has softened, we'll return to a full boil and add the sugar, which we'll cook until the mixture 222 to 223° F, and the mixture becomes a soft gel when drizzled onto the chilled plate and allowed to sit for 30 seconds. At this point, we can transfer to a jar to cool, after which we can finally get our breakfast assembled.  To start, we'll cut up some butter, spread it on a couple slices of each of our types of bread, and slide the whole thing under the broiler.  I was a little inattentive, and the sweet bread took on a bit more color than I would have liked, but it gave it a bit of a toasted marshmallow kind of note, which wasn't bad at all. Portuguese cheeses and presunto can be difficult to find outside of the country, but prosciutto makes a decent substitute for the ham, and Manchego is a good stand-in for São Jorge, an Azorean cow's milk cheese (almost all mainland cheeses are sheep's milk cheeses). And a bit of fresh squeezed orange juice just as a means to use some of the zested oranges left over from some other things seems like a nice addition to the spread. The broa is really great toasted, and I think the marmalade along with the salty ham and cheese would have made a nice combination with it (a theory that held true when I tried it later), and the iced coffee, while not quite what I had hoped, was still quite good. I think I prefer the sweet bread warm but not toasted and unadorned, though; it really just doesn't need much of anything else. Still, all in all, this was a good, if basic, breakfast. ... ...No, this doesn't feel quite right. It feels a bit too simple, a bit too uncomposed. I think we can do something a bit further, something less traditional, more like a brunch inspired by Portugal. And we can use some of what we've already made. So let's give this another shot. First, let's see what we can do with our leftover broa. Migas in Mexican and Tex-Mex food is a fairly typical breakfast: tortilla strips fried until almost crisp, to which eggs are added and scrambled, often with various odds and ends added to it. Spain and Portugal have their own version of migas, which is likely what the North American version is descended from: leftover bread, crumbled and fried in olive oil with garlic, again with any odds and ends available. Traditionally, it was a simple shepherd's breakfast, though nowadays you're more likely to find it as a first course at dinner. This version is a somewhat modernized variation, where the breadcrumbs play a more supporting role, as opposed to being the main ingredient.  Our mise: 2 1/2 cups broa, cut into 3/4-inch cubes 6 tbsp. olive oil Pinch of freshly grated nutmeg 5 garlic cloves, sliced lengthwise 2 lbs. collard greens, destemmed and thinly shredded   First things first, we'll drop our bread cubes into a food processor and pulse until we've got 1 3/4 cups of coarse, irregular crumbs. I could (and probably should) have taken these further, since I still had some pieces that were large, but it didn't end up hurting the final dish particularly.  At this point we'll heat a dry skillet over medium heat and add our crumbs, stirring and tossing continually until they begin to dry out.   Pour in 2 tablespoons of oil and keep toasting until our crumbs are deep golden and crisp, at which point we'll season with salt, pepper, and a bit of nutmeg before transferring to a bowl.  We'll then drop the heat to medium low, add the remaining oil, then add the garlic once it begins to shimmer.  Stir frequently, and cook until the garlic is golden brown, before adding the collards.  Because of the amount of greens, this required adding in batches, but as they wilted down and released some liquid, I was able to get them all in.  After about ten minutes of sauteing, our greens are tender but still brilliant green; any excess liquid lingering on the bottom of the pan should be poured off before seasoning with salt and pepper. We can then stir in half of our toasted breadcrumbs, with the other half being reserved for garnishing on the plate. There's very little more Portuguese in spirit than dark leafy greens wilted in olive oil with a bunch of garlic, and the breadcrumbs add a toasty crunch that make for a great contrast.Speaking of very Portuguese, the ingredient list for this next dish is like someone just dumped a typical Portuguese pantry into a pan; about the only thing missing is the salt cod.  The mise for our Portuguese potato hash: 1/2 lb. linguiça sausage, diced (Spanish chorizo or Portuguese chouriço would make good subsitutes if you can't find linguiça, but any smoked, garlicky pork sausage would work) 2 lb. russet potatoes, scrubbed and diced 3 tbsp. distilled white vinegar Olive oil 3/4 cup garbanzo beans, drained and rinsed 1 medium yellow onion, diced 2 cloves garlic, minced 2 tsp. sweet paprika 3/4 tsp. smoked paprika Kosher salt Black pepper 3/4 cup roasted red bell pepper, diced (you could use jarred or canned, but making them yourself is so piss easy and the result is so much better, I don't know why you would) 1/3 cup green olives, sliced (manzanilla olives are an ideal substitute for maçanilhas; I assume they're essentially the same, with different names across the border) 1/3 cup black olives, sliced (gaeta, niçoise, or kalamata make good substitutes for Portuguese black olives, which, like a lot of Portuguese food products, can be difficult to find outside the country) 1/4 cup parsley, chopped, plus more for garnish 4 large eggs   First things first, let's take care of that roasted pepper; split, stem, and seed a couple red bell peppers, rub them with a bit of oil, place them cut side down on a foil lined sheet pan, and slide them under the broiler until the skin blackens, then drop them into a bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and let them steam for a bit before peeling the skin off and dicing. This will make more than you'll need for the recipe, but if you can't find a use for extra roasted peppers, I don't know what to tell you.    Next, we'll take a bit of advice on hash making from our lord and savior, J. Kenji López-Alt, and cook our potatoes first in a pot of salted water with a bit of vinegar. Not only will this help season the potatoes through and allow them to fry up nice and crisp in the pan, the acid will help prevent the pectin from breaking down, helping keep our cubes intact. Start them in cold water, then bring it up to a boil before dropping to a simmer and cooking just until barely tender, at which point we'll drain them.  Now we can start cooking our sausage in a heavy pan (cast iron is ideal), letting it render out its flavorful fat and get crispy; I added a little bit of olive oil to try to speed things along.   Once your sausage is reduced to a bunch of crispy little tidbits, evacuate it from the pan, leaving as much fat as possible, then add your par-cooked potatoes, along with plenty of extra oil; the potatoes will suck up a fair amount of it, so don't be stingy. Let the potatoes sit undisturbed for a good, long while before turning; you want to give them a chance to crisp up and brown, and that's going to take time.   Once they've been turned into wonderful crispy brown cubes, remove them to wherever you've got the sausage waiting and add your onion to the pan, adding a bit more oil if necessary.  Cook until the onions have softened and taken some color before adding your garlic.  Saute for a minute, then add the garbanzos, and fry for an additional minute.  Return the sausage and potatoes to the pan, along with the paprikas, as well as salt and pepper to taste, and stir to combine.  Now you can add the roasted pepper, the olives, and the 1/4 cup of parsley, gently stirring to distribute everything evenly.  At this point, I realized that I was making way too much for myself, so I transferred about a quarter of the hash to a smaller cast iron pan, one more conducive to a single serving, I'd had warming in the oven; if you're serving a crowd, you can stick with the larger pan. Make wells in the hash with the back of a spoon, and carefully drop eggs into them before sliding into a 400° F oven until the white is just set and the yolk is runny, about ten minutes.  Garnish with extra parsley (or don't, if you forget like me) and serve. Crispy potatoes and runny egg is just begging for a hot sauce, though. And wouldn't you know it, Portugal happens to have it's own fiery condiment, piri-piri sauce. At it's most basic, it's made from a combination of African bird's eye chilies, garlic, vinegar, and olive oil, but I've been making a more chili paste-like version for a few years now. David Leite recommends using cayenne, tabasco, pequin, or santaka chilies, since fresh African bird's eyes are apparently practically impossible to find in the United States...but I got my hands on some dried African bird's eyes a while back, so let's put those to use.  Our mise: 1/4 cup dried African bird's eye chilies Zest and juice of one lemon 1 medium yellow onion, diced 1 head of garlic, separated into cloves and peeled 2 cups whiskey (I use the cheapest bourbon I can find, but you could use pretty much any whiskey, brandy, or any other brown distilled liquor) 1 cup olive oil 1 cup white wine vinegar 2 tbsp. honey 2 tbsp. sugar 2 tbsp. kosher salt 1 tbsp. smoked paprika    This really could not be simpler. Once you've got all your mise assembled, you just need to plop it all into a suitably-sized saucepan, bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer, and cook for an hour, until the chilies are softened, then blend until smooth. Once cooled and poured into jars, it'll keep in the refrigerator for a couple months; if you don't think you'll use it all before then, give the gift of delicious pain to your friends. Now then, what about that leftover sweet bread? What could we possibly do with that? Well, while it's traditionally served as dessert on Christmas Eve, fatias douradas (literally 'golden slices') is essentially French toast. And I loving LOVE French toast, so using a bread I already find addictive to make it is pretty much a given.  Mise: Several inch-thick slices of day-old sweet bread 5 large eggs 1 cup whole milk Pinch of kosher salt 2 tbsp. unsalted butter  We'll start by whisking together the eggs, milk, and salt, then adding our bread and letting it soak, turning after five to ten minutes.   Once that's had a chance to absorb the custard mixture, we'll melt our butter in a non-stick pan over medium heat, then fry until golden brown on both sides. Now, tradition dictates that these be either sprinkled with confectioners' sugar and cinnamon, or drizzled with honey, but I'm not really feeling either of those. How about we take some notes from another sweet breakfast treat from across the border...  ...and roll these bad boys in some cinnamon sugar a la churros? Finally (or rather, firstly, since this is the thing that takes the longest), our coffee. I'm a huge sucker for frozen treats, and while normally ice cream would be my first idea, I wanted to go a somewhat different route this time. So how about a granita? Our mise (which I neglected to take a picture of): 4 cups brewed coffee 1 1/2 cups sugar  I once again attempted to infuse the coffee with lemon and orange zest, this time using just-boiled water and going for a more traditional extraction, and had a bit more success getting some citrus aroma into the mix, though it was still quite subtle.  Once brewed, filtered, and combined with the sugar, the whole thing gets poured into a baking dish and slipped into the freezer.     Every hour or so, we'll pop it open and take a fork to it, scraping up the crystals as they form, slowly turning them into a sweet, caffeinated snow; I've seen some recipes where you just let the mix freeze solid and then just drop it into a food processor to reduce it to fine crystals, but that just seems like taking the fun out of everything. But what about the milk component? Since the granita is fairly sweet on it's own, a bit of unsweetened whipped cream seems in order, and why not add a bit of orange zest, just for funsies?  Ideally, you would only take it to soft peaks instead of the stiff peaks I brought it to here, but this will do.  Once again, we'll utilize those zested oranges for a bit of juice just to round things out, and now we've got something that feels a bit better suited for a contest like this. Not everything went as according to plan, but it all worked out, and everything was quite tasty. The fatias douradas was obviously my favorite part, but the hash really stood out as well, and the migas is something I definitely intend to try to make more often. Hopefully this will spark a bit of interest in a cuisine that deserves more attention outside its borders than it usually gets. And if not, maybe you at least got a kick out the ever changing color of my cutting board.
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Oct 12, 2019 03:33
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| # ? May 6, 2024 20:01 |
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This is a truly awesome entry. The fatias douradas especially look amazing.
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Oct 12, 2019 04:46
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Gee Billy, how come your mom lets you have two breakfasts? awesome job, bonus points for learning an entire cuisine by yourself!
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Oct 12, 2019 14:30
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I would like to subscribe to your custardy adventures, they look great
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Oct 13, 2019 04:38
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That is certainly a way to make granita, well done. Doing it in the food processor actually isn't that straightforward because you very quickly melt the whole thing again.
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Oct 13, 2019 14:29
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| # ? May 6, 2024 20:01 |
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Very, very good breakfasts. Version #2 is making me particularly envious.
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Oct 13, 2019 15:31
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