This cake was, without a doubt, the hardest recipe to develop in The New Portuguese Table. Cindi Kruth, one of my recipe testers, and I made 13 versions of it until I knew it was as good as the recipe I got at Papas, the tiny restaurant up the hill from my apartment in Lisbon. The problem was—and I have no idea of this was intentional (you know how some cooks can be)—but they gave me a recipe for a classic chiffon cake. Yet their mighty bolo de laranja was dense and rich, and just one slice could satisfy even my appetite.

Friend and Portuguese food scholar Janet Boileau was smitten with the cake and also went to work trying to figure it out. In the end, it took a call to the wonderful Lisbon chef Fausto Airioldi to help me get a handle on the dessert. He agreed with me that this was no stinking chiffon cake. It was too full of the bold flavors of Portuguese. So, that’s when Cindi and I started from scratch, literally. Several weeks later, we came up with this. And if you had a chance to stop one of my book signings, you would have had a sample. It’s what I always serve, and people always ask for, when I’m fending off those huge lines of three and four fans.

If you want the recipe, leave a comment and let me know.

Portuguese Orange-Olive Oil Cake
by David Leite
from The New Portuguese Table: Exciting Flavors from Europe’s Western Coast
(Clarkson Potter, 2009)
Serves 10 to 12

Atenção: Make sure to use a light-colored Bundt pan. A dark one will turn out a cake that sticks and is unpleasantly brown. Since this cake only gets better with age, don’t even think about taking a bite until the day after you make it, or even the day after that.

convert Ingredients
Nonstick baking spray with flour
4 to 5 large naval oranges
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 3/4 teaspoons kosher salt
5 large eggs
3 cups granulated sugar
1 1/2 cups mild extra-virgin olive oil
Confectioners’ sugar, for sprinkling

Method
1. Position a rack in the middle of the oven, remove any racks above, and crank up the heat to 350°F (175°C). Coat a 12-cup Bundt or tube pan with baking spray and set aside.

2. Finely grate the zest of 3 of the oranges, then squeeze 4 of them. You should have 1 1/2 cups of juice; if not, squeeze the 5th orange. Set aside.

3. Whisk together the flour, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl and set aside.

4. In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, or with a handheld mixer in a large bowl, beat the eggs on medium-high speed until well-combined, about 1 minute. Slowly pour in the granulated sugar and continue beating until thick and pale yellow, about 3 minutes. On low speed, alternate adding the flour mixture and oil, starting and ending with the flour, and beat until just a few wisps of flour remain. Pour in the orange juice and zest and whirl for a few seconds to bring the batter together.

5. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake until a cake tester comes out with a few moist crumbs clinging to it, about 1 1/4 hours. If the top is browning too much as the cake bakes, cover lightly with foil. Transfer to a wire rack and cool for 15 minutes.

6. Turn the cake out onto the rack and cool completely, then place it in a covered cake stand and let it sit overnight. Just before serving, dust with powdered sugar.

Cookies aren’t exactly a specialty of the Portuguese. The traditional ones tend to be crumbly and plain, more like a dunking biscuit. One day at a dinner party, though, I had a sweet thin cookie with a distinctive snap. I immediately made notes in my ever-present little black book; the only thing is, I never asked the hostess for the recipe. I spent months trying to come up with a cookie that matched hers, and finally I’ve done her proud. But I wanted to ratchet up the recipe, adding two iconic Portuguese flavors to the mix: olive and lemon. Serve these lemon and black olive cookies alone, as a lovely accompaniment to tea, or, my favorite, as a crunchy bite alongside a scoop of vanilla ice cream or lemon sorbet.

Atenção: Sample an olive before you buy them. Strong-flavored ones can give a bitter aftertaste to the cookie.

convert Ingredients
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup mild oil-cured black olives, rinsed quickly if particularly salty, pitted, and coarsely chopped
1/4 cup sugar, plus more for coating
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
2 tablespoons grated lemon zest
1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon
Pinch of kosher salt
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 large egg, beaten

Method
1. Position a rack in the upper third of the oven and crank up the heat to 375° F (190°C).

2. Stir together the flour, olives, sugar, baking powder, lemon zest, cinnamon, and salt in a medium bowl. Whisk together the oil and egg, pour the mixture into the dry ingredients, and mix with your hands until the dough no longer looks dry and holds together when squeezed, 1 to 2 minutes.

3. Fill a small bowl with sugar and set nearby. Pinch off 1 rounded tablespoon (about 1 ounce) of dough, roll it into a ball, and coat it well with sugar. Place it in one corner of a sheet of parchment cut to fit your baking sheet, place another piece of parchment on top, and using a rolling pin, roll the ball into a 3 1/2- to 4-inch circle, a scant 1/16 inch thick. The edges will be ragged; that’s how they should be. Repeat with 5 more wafers on the same sheet. Lift off the top sheet and slip the parchment with the cookies onto the baking sheet.

4. Bake until the lemon-olive cookies are edged with brown and pebbled on top, 10 to 12 minutes. Slide the parchment onto a wire cooling rack. Repeat with the remaining dough. Once cooled, the cookies will keep in an airtight container for several days, but I doubt they’ll stick around that long.

Recipe © 2009 David Leite. All rights reserved.
© 2009 Leite’s Culinaria, Inc. All rights reserved. Terms of use.

Patê de Azeitonas Verdes

When I visited A Bolota, a lovely restaurant perched on the sweeping plains of the eastern Alentejo, this dip was brought to our table. As I nattered away with friends, I dipped, spread, and nibbled, until I realized I alone had eaten all of it. Later, when I became friendly with the cook, Ilda Vinagre, I watched her make it and was flummoxed when she whipped up its silky base: milk “mayonnaise”—whole milk whirred into a smooth consistency with the addition of vegetable oil. I serve this as a dip with a platter of crudités, alongside crackers or bread, or, sometimes, as a topping for grilled fish.

Atenção: Don’t make this in a food processor. The bowls of most processors are too large to allow the scant amount of ingredients to whip up to the right consistency. A small narrow blender, or a mini chop or handheld blender, works best.

convert Ingredients
1/3 cup whole milk, more if needed
6 oil-packed anchovy fillets
1 small garlic clove
Leaves and tender stems of 6 fresh cilantro sprigs
Pinch of freshly ground white pepper
3/4 cup vegetable oil
2/3 cup pitted green olives such as Manzanilla, rinsed quickly if particularly salty, roughly chopped

Method
1. Add the 1/3 cup milk, anchovies, garlic, two thirds of the cilantro, and the pepper to a blender and pulse to combine. With the motor running, pour the oil in what the Portuguese call a fio, or fine thread. Keep whirring until the oil is incorporated and the mixture thickens, 30 seconds to 1 1/2 minutes, depending on your equipment.

2. Scrape the dip into a serving bowl and stir in the olives. Mince the remaining cilantro, sprinkle on top, and serve. If the dip thickens, stir in a tablespoon or two of milk.

Recipe © 2009 David Leite. All rights reserved.
© 2009 Leite’s Culinaria, Inc. All rights reserved. Terms of use.

There’s an old adage that says the Portuguese have one thousand ways to cook bacalhau, or salted dried cod. And few countries have such a passion for the fish. Bacalhau is one of the most important foods of maritime Portugal and has fed the nation for the past five hundred years. It all began when, following in the footsteps of the Vikings and then the Basques, Portuguese sailors travelled to the cool northern waters of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland, where cod was plentiful. There they would salt and dry the fish and bring the provisions home. This delicious recipe brings a modern twist to this classic ingredient.

convert Ingredients
1 pound boneless and skinless salt cod (buy it)
1 cup vegetable oil, for frying
1 pound russet potatoes, peeled and diced
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 yellow onion, thinly sliced
1/2 red bell pepper, thinly sliced
2 bay leaves
3 garlic cloves, peeled and finely chopped
1/2 cup pitted niçoise olives, or other mild oil-packed black olives
Kosher salt
White pepper
Finely chopped flat-leaf parsley, for garnish
4 large eggs

Method
1. At least 24 hours prior to preparing the dish, rinse the cod well to remove any surface salt, then soak it in a large bowl with plenty of water, changing the water several times during the 24 hours. When ready to begin the recipe, drain and rinse the salt cod again.

2. Fill a bowl with cold water and set aside. Bring a large pot of water to a boil, slip the cod into the pot, and cook until it flakes easily, about 12 minutes, depending on the thickness of the fillet. Remove the fish from water with a slotted spoon and place in the bowl of cold water to stop the cooking.

3. When cool, remove the fish from the bowl, pat it dry with paper towels, and set aside.

4. In a medium saucepan with high sides, heat the vegetable oil over medium-high heat until it reaches 365°F (185°C). Add the potato cubes and fry until golden, 5 to 7 minutes. Transfer the potatoes to paper towel to drain and set aside.

5. Heat 1/4 cup of the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat until hot.  Sauté the onion, bell pepper, and bay leaves until the onions are glassy and soft, 5 to 7 minutes. Break the cod into large flakes and add it to the skillet. Add the chopped garlic and another 1/4 cup of olive oil and continue to cook until the onions are golden, making sure not to burn the garlic, about 3 minutes.

6. Stir the fried potatoes and olives into the cod mixture until warmed through. Season with salt and white pepper to taste. Remove the skillet from the heat and discard the bay leaves. Sprinkle the parsley over the cod mix and toss. Set aside.

7. Heat the remaining 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a non-stick skillet over medium high heat. Fry the eggs over easy, 2 to 4 minutes.

8. To serve, mound the salt cod hash in the center of four plates and top each with an egg. Bring to the table immediately.

Recipe and photo © 2009 Horatius. All rights reserved.
© 2009 Leite’s Culinaria, Inc. All rights reserved. Terms of use.

Frank Alexandre is so excited to make his point, he hip checks a table out of the way as he lurches toward the photograph on the wall. “Olhe! olhe!” he says, falling back into his native Portuguese. The picture, hanging in the Casa de Trás-os-Montes e Alto Douro, a social club in the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, is of a clutch of sun-pummeled stone buildings, the roofs crenulated with scrub, the pavered road layered thick with dust. It’d be easy to dismiss the scene as a deserted corner of nowhere—how some have described the Trás-os-Montes e Alto Douro region in northeast Portugal—if it weren’t for the imposing, windowless stone structure on the top of the hill and two women sitting below in what little shade a straggly bush could muster.

“This building here is the cookhouse,” says Mr. Alexandre, owner of a local auto repair shop and towing company. “There are four or five stone ovens inside.” He explains that in times gone by, the members of the town would forage for scraps of wood, build a fire in the ovens, and cook communally and successively: hotter fires roasted meats and baked breads while cooler embers burbled stews and braises and coddled eggy desserts. When the cooking vessels were finally pulled from the ovens, families divvied up the food and trekked home to dine.

“That,” he says, tapping the picture, “is how we survived.” Satisfied he made his point, Mr. Alexandre goes behind the club’s bar and pours Favaios, a Moscatel from the fertile southern part of the region which hugs the Douro River.

Nearly six decades after that photograph was taken and half a world away in Ironbound, where 25 percent of the population is of Portuguese descent, the tradition of communal cooking and eating remains — especially during Páscoa, or Easter.

“Last Easter I sold about 120 whole lambs, 60 kid goats and almost as many suckling pigs,” said Herminio Lopes, who owns the Lopes Sausage Company in Newark, one of the area’s most popular meat suppliers (he has also shipped sausages to the White House).

He explained that because home ovens can’t always accommodate a whole animal, the Portuguese-preferred way of roasting, many animals are brought to restaurant kitchens, where they are marinated or massaged with a customer’s own rub, then roasted and either enjoyed in the dining room or taken home. Other people dress the roasts themselves and cook them outdoors in hand-built brick ovens.

On a ride through the city and nearby Elizabeth, Mr. Alexandre pointed out small backyards co-opted by hulking ovens — the Portuguese equivalent of the American charcoal grill — in which, he said, it wasn’t unusual for one cook to roast not only his own family’s Easter dinner but those of several neighbors.

In the early 20th century, waves of immigrants from Portugal and the Azores settled in the Ironbound district, and by the 1920s the community had its first social club along with churches and retail stores lining Ferry Street, the neighborhood’s noisy thoroughfare.

Midcentury saw another boom, which was eclipsed in the ’70s and ’80s by immigration from former Portuguese colonies, including Brazil and Cape Verde. Although the Luso population has decreased because of relocation to the wealthier suburbs and restrictions on immigration, most Portuguese families in the area still cleave to the Catholic church, religious festivals and feasts.

Despite the economy, preparing whole animals remains a booming enterprise for rogue roasters, who turn a tidy profit. “We have several people in the area who cook for a fee,” said John Panneta, a tour guide who introduces groups to the Ironbound’s social, gastronomic and cultural pleasures. “Most of them cook from their backyards and deliver it to your house.”

A different business model of roaster-for-hire is Valença, a restaurant in Elizabeth run with precision by its owner, Martinho Pereira. His crew cranks out several hundred roast suckling pigs during the holiday season for in-house customers, catered events and families who prefer to dig into their pig in the privacy of their own dining room.

When asked what secret ingredients make his pork so popular, Mr. Pereira laughed and shrugged as if to say, “What secret?” Like most Portuguese roasts, his suckling pigs are coated with nothing more than lard, garlic, salt and black and white pepper.

Recently, at the Newark home of António and Magda Araujo, Mr. Alexandre and his wife, Maria, cooked up a lamb feast. But instead of cooking it whole, they had Mr. Lopes butcher it to show off two Easter favorites — borrego assado (roasted legs of spring lamb) and guisado de borrego (lamb stew). The scene, as Mrs. Araujo described it, was typically Portuguese: “loud and fast.”

“Everything is better with olive oil!” Mrs. Alexandre shouted as she rubbed some into the lamb legs. Mr. Alexandre countered with voluminous and rapid-fire requests for bowls, pans and cutting boards. Their frantic pas de deux continued, and they dipped and spun to avoid elbows and sharp knives as they whirred garlicky pastes in the food processor, peeled potatoes and dressed the meat. In under 45 minutes, four pans along with a flan were ready for the stove. Ervilhas com ovos, a staple of peas and bacon topped with poached eggs, would be made right before dinner.

Mr. Alexandre is no stranger to the kitchen, as he’s proud to announce, having won several contests at the social club for his folar, a traditional Easter bread that in Trás-os-Montes is stuffed with cured meat.

“I made the mistake of teaching one of the young men from the Azores how to make it,” he said, “and that year he won.” Mr. Alexandre is determined to win back his title this year.

A short time later, half a roast suckling pig from Valença and both lamb dishes were nestled in the center of the table. Potatoes, rice, bread and the egg-topped peas filled the gaps. Around the table sat 10 hungry guests.

Dinner was suddenly interrupted by the bleating of Mr. Alexandre’s cellphone. A Portuguese woman was stranded on the highway and called for a tow. He stood up, popped another chunk of lamb into his mouth, and shrugged on his jacket.

“Got to take care of our own,” he said, heading for the door. “It’s how we survive.”