The Baklava Story
My Auntie Zambetta had just made me a cup of tea because I wasn’t feeling well and she had given me some of her best sugar biscuits (little butter biscuits with crunchy sugar on top – yum!). She was an extremely kind-hearted, gentle soul, a great cook and an exceptional seamstress. She was Dad’s only sister and was very fond of her brother. Life had been difficult for her in Egypt, prior to her emigrating to Australia, and sometimes her sadness would show on her face. She was my sister Irene’s Godmother and Irene loved her dearly.
When we first came to Australia, Christmas of 1954, we stayed with my Auntie Zambetta and her second husband Bill. She had a two-storey house, with three bedrooms, a lounge room, a dining room, an eat-in kitchen, one bathroom, and an outside loo. Downstairs there was a separate granny flat.
And into this modest suburban house squeezed the six of us: Mum, Dad, Irene, my brother Harry, and me, of course, as well as my Grandmother, who had always lived with us in Alexandria, Egypt, before we emigrated. Auntie converted her dining room into a bedroom to accommodate Mum, Dad, Harry and me, while my Grandmother shared the smallest bedroom with Irene. My cousin Chris lived in another room with his wife Eva and their baby daughter, Lillibet. My other cousin Tony lived downstairs with his wife Alice and their daughter Betty, who was my age. I can’t imagine how we all survived together. But we did. Fortunately the house was surrounded by a very large front and back yard and it was summertime.
But back to the tea. In my family, you only had tea when you were off-colour. We boiled the tea leaves, along with some whole cloves and cinnamon sticks, in water for a few minutes, just until it started to change colour, then served it with lots of sugar.
I can still recall the loud noises that were coming out of the kitchen that afternoon. I put down my tea and rushed out of bed to see what was happening.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! Eva was loudly clanging two saucepan lids together and baby Lillibet would open her mouth in shock after every CLANG! And when her mouth was open, in went a teaspoon of food. Apparently, that was the only way that Eva could feed her!
And that was my first memory of Eva. She was half-Greek, half-Rumanian and very eccentric.
Throughout my childhood, there were lots of family get-togethers: Namedays, Easter, Christmas, New Year or just family visits. Eva was part of those get-togethers and you could be sure if Eva was around there was always some drama. Often she had fallen out with her sister-in-law, and the two brothers would be in an awkward situation, so my poor Dad would have to be the arbitrator to smooth things over, until the next time.
For any of the big family celebrations, each family would bring one of their speciality dishes. Eva was known for her Fish Mayonnaise. I didn’t particularly like fish mayonnaise, so I didn’t really appreciate her culinary skills but I do remember it looking spectacular on a serving platter. The fish was usually Snapper, which had been boiled, and then only the whitest cooked fish meat was used. It was mixed with some of the mayonnaise and then placed into a fish mould, tipped onto a serving platter, then covered with the rest of the mayonnaise and decorated with olives, capers, various pickled vegetables, and lemon slices. Everyone else in the family must have loved this mayonnaise, as I remember there was never any left over.
Thirty three years later, Chris and Eva came to visit us in Melbourne. We had just returned from England, and Chris and Eva hadn’t met my husband Richard or any of our four children. They were, of course, excited and delighted to meet them all. There was lots of kissing and hugging and cheek pinching, as you would expect. However, in addition, every time Eva spoke to one of the children she would pretend to spit.
As I watched my English husband and my Australian kids try to hide their astonishment, I had to explain that it was a “normal” Greek thing to do if you want to stop the evil spirits, or the evil eye from harming people that were either good or attractive. It was a compliment. Eva couldn’t stop saying how lovely the kids were. I’m not sure they were convinced but, to their credit, they were polite and eventually stopped flinching every time she pretended to spit at them. It was a very memorable family introduction. Richard and the kids hadn’t been exposed to that side of Greek culture before!
Our second visit with this side of the family was just as surprising in its own way. We arrived at Chris and Eva’s home to a warm welcome and were plied with coffee, special treats for the children, followed by a drink and lots of mezethes.
Then suddenly Eva asked Richard to dance. As I mentioned, Richard is English. Dancing is for special occasions, celebrations, not something you do in the middle of the afternoon, and for no apparent reason, especially with someone you hardly know. Richard choked on his food and nearly drowned himself with his drink.
But before he could say anything, Eva had the music on and had him up on his feet and dancing. She was a good dancer, and Richard, in spite of his English reserve, is not a bad dancer in his own right. She told us, as she waltzed around the living room with my bewildered husband, that she used to dance with the Prince of Rumania and, watching her, you could believe it. The kids’ eyes were glued to the sight of their dad dancing with crazy, spitting Cousin Eva who used to dance with the Prince of Rumania, wherever that was. When the record finished Richard scurried back to join us on the sofa. I think he was terrified of what other surprises were in store for him.
We left shortly after, carrying a plate full of Eva’s sweets, among which was some small pieces of Baklava. After dinner that night, after entertaining my Mum with tales of Richard’s fancy footwork, we ate all the goodies that Eva had given us. Well … the Baklava was to die for. The best Baklava I had ever eaten. The moment you put that little piece in your mouth, it was a symphony of ingredients. The nuts were well flavoured, the syrup was just right -- not the usual sickly sweet syrup that comes running out of the pastry -- the pastry was still crisp and crunchy. It was absolutely superb! Good enough, I’m sure, for the Prince of Rumania.
I had to have the recipe. I didn’t think Richard would cope with another visit so I made a phone call. I spoke to Eva for hours discussing the recipe. She took so much pleasure in talking to me about food and, for her, it was the utmost compliment to be told that her food was exceptional.
The real secret, Eva told me, as well as the right combination of ingredients, was the quality of the butter used. Eva used pure Ghee, which is clarified butter, used a lot in Indian cooking. I prefer to clarify my own butter and it’s a very simple thing to do. By clarifying the butter you take away all the milk solids which cause the pastry to go soggy, and therefore when you use it to make Baklava it leaves the pastry crunchy, which complements the other ingredients.
To this day I make Cousin Eva’s Baklava, and it’s been voted by my family and friends, as one of the best they have tried. Thank you Eva. You can spit on my kids any time.
