Rhubarb sabayon with Amaretti biscuits (or in other words, fancy rhubarb and custard)
And my obsession with custard in all its voluptuous forms
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I clearly remember my mother standing at the kitchen bench of my childhood home in Sydney making custard. She would crack one whole egg into a mixing bowl (no wasting egg whites at our house), add cornflour and caster sugar and a good splash of vanilla extract, then beat everything together with a manual beater. You know, the ones with a handle you crank to make the beaters turn?
Once the mixture was thickish, she’d stir in a little of the milk she’d heated up, then tip the whole lot back into the pan with the rest of the hot milk and stir continuously. After it plurped away like a Rotorua mud pool for a bit, the mixture magically evolved from a wan liquid into a lovely creamy sauce that left a light trail when mum lifted her wooden spoon. Destination: apple crumble or chopped banana. (You’ll find details of this thrifty, simple recipe below).
That was how I assumed everyone made custard until, in my late 20s and settled in England – the very birthplace of the stuff, according to some – I discovered a thing called custard powder. Cross my heart, I didn’t know it existed until then.
However it’s made, this gentle, creamy, sweet sauce remains one of my favourite things to eat, in all its voluptuous forms. There’s crème Anglaise, a term often used interchangeably with ‘custard’, both of which are ambrosial poured over everything from tarts to steamed puddings. The former term is often deployed on restaurant menus because it sounds a bit fancier. Generally, though, the French term describes a sauce that’s a bit thinner and less rich than the thick, comforting - and to my mind, superior - ‘custard’.
Some people, including chefs, are a little sneery about custard made according to my mother’s method, that is, with cornflour. They believe that to thicken custard this way - rather than just using eggs and heat - is ‘cheating’. I have no truck with this view. Chefs happily use plain flour to make crème pâtissier – the very thick custard used to fill tarts and pastries – without the sky falling in. What’s more, cornflour makes it virtually impossible for custard to curdle and split, thereby reducing kitchen stress, which is always a good thing. (I once wasted 6 eggs, embarrassed myself hugely and left our family custardless on Christmas Day when I overheated and split Delia’s decadent ‘proper custard’. (It’s very rich version, which I love, although it has to be said there’s very little in the way of custard I don’t adore.)
Custard also plays a delicious starring role in desserts across many cuisines. I can put away an excessive number of Pastéis de Nata, the Portuguese tarts involving cinnamon-spiked custard snuggled in a crisp flaky pastry case. In fact, my husband and I once dedicated an entire weekend in Lisbon to taste-testing the best the city had to offer.
If there’s crème brûlée on the menu – baked custard topped with a pane of brittle caramel requiring the deft tap of a spoon to shatter – it’s mine, especially when there’s fruity treasure to counterpoint the creaminess at the bottom of the bowl. And when the opportunity presents itself to devour fried custard fritters – beloved in Italy (where they’re called cremini) and Spain (leche frita) – you would be a fool not to grab it with both hands.
My recipe today is none of these. It sounds a little fancy but it really isn’t complicated or highfalutin, just another manifestation of custard called sabayon (in France) and zabaglione (in Italy). It’s a light and silky version, traditionally made with whipped egg yolks, sugar and wine (Marsala in Italy and dry, sweet or even fizzy wine in France).
In my version, I’ve swapped the booze for the juices left in the tray after roasting rhubarb, which gives the custard a modest blush. It’s an utterly delicious and relatively light dessert, the tang of the rhubarb making sweet music with the eggy richness of the custard. If you’re after an easy, thrifty basic custard - that will not see you standing in your kitchen red-faced and ashamed in front of guests to due splittage - see ‘Tips’ for my mum’s version.
Rhubarb sabayon with Amaretti biscuits
Serves 4
For the rhubarb
350g rhubarb (trimmed weight), chopped into thumb-sized pieces
60g caster sugar
the juice of 1 medium orange (around 4 tablespoons)
For the sabayon
4 large or medium egg yolks
4 tablespoons caster sugar
120ml juices from the rhubarb tray, topped up with orange juice or white wine if necessary
6 amaretti biscuits
Method
Heat the oven to 200C. While this is happening, rinse the rhubarb under cold water and drain in a colander, shaking off excess water.
Tip the rhubarb into a roasting tray large enough to hold the pieces in a single layer. Sprinkle over the sugar, pour over the orange juice and toss so the rhubarb is coated in sugary juice.
Tightly cover the tray with foil, then roast for 15 - 20 minutes, or until the rhubarb is tender but still holding its shape. (I start checking after 12 minutes when I’m using forced rhubarb - see tip below).
Gently remove the cooked rhubarb from the tray with a slotted spoon, transfer to a plate, and pour the tray juices into a small jug. You need around 120ml of juice, so if you don’t have enough, top up with orange juice or white wine. Set aside.
Pour enough water into a medium pan to come a few centimetres up the sides and bring to the boil. While this is happening, place the egg yolks and sugar in a heatproof mixing bowl that’s large enough to fit over the pan of water.
With the bowl off the heat, beat the eggs and sugar together with electric beaters or a hand whisk until very pale and creamy. Gradually beat in the rhubarb juices - don’t worry that mixture is quite think, that’s how it should be.
Place the bowl over the pan of water - you want it to be barely simmering - and whisk continuously for 6 - 8 minutes until the mixture has thickened enough to form a trail that lightly holds its shape when you lift the whisk out.
You can serve the sabayon warm or at room temperature. Either way, just before you do, crumble one amaretti biscuit into each of four small bowls or glasses. Divide the sabayon between the bowls, and then top with the roasted rhubarb and half a crumbled amaretti biscuit. Enjoy immediately.
Tip
To make my mum’s custard (enough for 4 modest servings), whisk together 1 whole egg, 2 heaped dessertspoonfuls each of cornflour and caster sugar, and 1 tablespoon of vanilla extract. Heat 500ml of full-fat milk until almost but not quite boiling. Pour a good splash of the hot milk into the egg mixture and whisk until smooth and combined. Then, pour the eggy milk back into the pan and bring to a gentle boil, stirring continuously. Remove the pan from the heat when it’s thickened to your liking.
Forced rhubarb is the prettiest Barbie pink kind, but rhubarb grown outside in the late spring and summer works perfectly well too, it’s just not quite so photogenic. If you’re not using forced rhubarb, it will probably take longer to cook but much depends on the size and toughness of the stalks. Roast as for the forced rhubarb, but start checking on doneness after 15 minutes.
Substitutions
I tried making the sabayon using several tablespoons of Campari instead of rhubarb juice/wine because I thought it would make it a deeper pink. It did - a little - but I thought it overpowered the flavour of the rhubarb. My husband disagreed, so give it a go if you like.
If you don’t drink cow’s milk, my mum’s recipe works perfectly well using plant-based alternatives.
If you can’t avail yourself of amaretti biscuits - or don’t like them - use ginger biscuits instead.