The Pandesal Challenge

• By ebotpandayan
• Posted in Uncategorized
• On November 23, 2020
• 5 Comments.

It all began when my sister, who lives Downunder, sent me photos of her hot pandesal, fresh from the oven. Baked them herself, she said. To rumor my sister, I told her to share the recipe with me, which she did after making me swear that I wouldn’t give it to other people. She convinced herself that her pandesal would be a big seller back home in the Philippines. She said we could do business as if the nation had a shortage of bakeries that make pandesal. Pan de sal is how you write it—a Spanish term which means bread of salt. Calling it salted bread is more appropriate because who would eat the bread of salt, anyway? Many Filipinos would not know the real meaning of the phrase. Thus, some enterprising bakers would invent their version, even naming their creation sweet pandesal—sweet bread of salt, my foot!

Of course, I remembered all about this pandesal when she sent me a follow-up message. She told me that she revised her recipe to improve the quality of her salted bread. Her colleagues at work swooned about them – lovely bread. Still, if my sister could make them remain soft or fluffier even after a couple of days, that would be sensational, they told her. She experimented and got what she expected. Her work colleagues were happy. That was, indeed, sensational. Philippine pandesals do not stay soft when left in the open, even for a day.

I was not keen on baking this kind of bread roll because a good friend in Vienna, where I live, makes pandesal. One phone call telling her that you crave pandesal and she would immediately bake some. “With pleasure, “would always be her candid reply, sincerely happy that you like her pandesal. She makes them like those you get at home, even better. The pandesal made in Vienna gets tough, though; the crust is hard after a couple of days. They turn crumbly when you cut them, while our pandesal at home gets chewy and elastic even after some time. It must be the flour used here for specific bread or pastries. Not one suited for pandesal.

With the second Lockdown in Austria, people are advised only to go out if they have a valid reason. I find myself staying at home most days. I had time to iron clothes that would not get pressed on their own by looking at them. I spent days watching movies on Netflix, reading books I bought or borrowed from friends, and never returned, just collecting dust. I cleaned my kitchen pantry, finding many foodstuffs that were best consumed years ago.

Looking for other things to occupy my time, I considered my sister’s pandesal challenge. (I cannot always watch Netflix; I fall asleep after a while. And I cannot iron clothes every day because I don’t go out, and whatever I wear stays clean and smells good anyway, even after two days. I get fresh undies, though, and that is twice daily. I have this habit of showering when I get up in the morning and before I go to bed; I need new apparel each time.) I didn’t realize that it would be a real challenge for me. First, I had to search for the ingredients required, milk powder, for example, which I thought all grocery stores in Vienna carry, but they do not. I had to call friends for help. This friend who bakes pandesal after one phone call told me she got hers from a Turkish grocer. There was no Turkish grocer in my neighborhood, so she gave me a list of those branches that may be closer to where I live. The nearest, to my relief, was a one-subway-stop. I only had to find the exact location of the street. I asked people on the road. The first person I asked, walking in my direction, could not be bothered. He just said “Nein “and continued walking without glancing at me.

“On the left side of the next street,” said the man I asked next. He should know. A Turk, I could tell by his looks and by his German accent. He was stepping out of another Turkish grocery store. “Danke, Danke,” I thanked him profusely. “Sehr nett von Ihnen, “(Very nice of you.), praising him for his kindness. He may have meant well, but the shop I was looking for was off the next street as he said it would be. Maybe farther, I told myself. I reached the end of the long Straße and did not find it. The guy behind the counter of a Kebab stand on the street side told me I was on the right street, but I should take the other direction. That was another Turkish guy giving me information, but he was right. I found the place. I showed the cashier the picture of the milk powder and asked if they had it. No, they didn’t have.

“My pandesal-baker-friend said you have them,” I wanted to tell the cashier wearing a long black dress and headscarf. I called my friend instead and told her they didn’t carry the item.

“Oh, I get them from their branch across the street where we live,” she said. “This was the milk powder I used to feed my kids when they were still infants.” Only they are grown-ups now, respectively six and four years old. Look at their cold section; I heard her husband telling her. It wasn’t there either. The cashier in a black gown and scarf told me to try the regular supermarket next door; they may have it. I did and looked around, and yet I needed help finding what I needed.

“Milk powder? We only have coffee creamer,” said the shop assistant.

I came home with a bagful of fresh fish instead. The Turkish grocer had a new seafood delivery, chicken wings, and my all-time favorite herb—coriander. I even sprinkled them on my spaghetti. Again, different strokes for different folks.

I was working on the fish, cleaning them, scales and all, when an Austrian friend, Richard, called me on the phone, apologizing that he saw my message quite late. He was in an Asian shop and remembered my text, asking if he knew where I could get milk powder. The shop has them and wanted to know how many I needed, and he could deliver them to me right after.

“Just one small box or can. I only need three tablespoons, “I said and thanked Richard. “And join me for dinner. I’m making crispy sardines.”

With that essential milk powder and other ingredients the recipe required, I was all set to bake those Pinoy bread rolls when reality sunk in.

The dough only rose once I spoke with my sister, who told me to place it where the temperature could be warmer. The only heat convector in my flat I keep on in winter is in my living room, where I spend much of my time. The kitchen was way below room temp for days, especially that day when I kept the window open after deep-frying those little sardines in hot oil. The first batch took a while to get golden brown, so I let the second batch cook longer while Richard and I enjoyed the crispy dilis. My neighbor Marilyn came down but said she already had her dinner. Marilyn knew Richard, so she came down to say hello to him. She could not resist the crispy dilis and asked if she could have some. Get as much as you can; there was another batch cooking. That batch was burning beyond rescue when I checked it out. The sardines were crispy black as black can be. I had to give the kitchen a good wash, and the window was left open for two days; yet, the fishy smell hung in the air and stuck on the wall for what seemed like forever.

My living room smelled of yeast as I let the dough rise several times. I reread the recipe instructions. It said I should let it stand for 30 minutes to rise. It did not, so I sent a text message to my sister. It was 5 AM, Sydney time, when she called me. She was still in bed, and incoming messages woke her up. She told me to let it stand longer, for like an hour. In Sydney, which is almost summer, the temperature is much higher and soaring each passing day. It is the opposite of what we’re having here now—nearing negative zero Celsius; thus, it takes longer for my bread mass to grow.

I placed the dough bowl close to the heating convector by the window and watched The Crown. It was late at night when I checked out how my bread mass was doing. It doubled in size but started to deflate when I tried to lift it out of the bowl, so I had to punch the dough, form it into a ball, and leave it out to grow again. Waiting for the dough to rise enabled me to watch more episodes of The Crown, relishing every moment every time the “Vice Queen “stepped in. I love her wanton character. It was past midnight when the dough was ready. I had to transfer it to the kitchen working top, make long logs of the mass, roll them on bread crumbs, and cut them into small portions, albeit not entirely equal. I arranged them on a baking tray, which I placed on top of the sofa close to the heating convector for the rolls of bread dough to rise—so much work. Once more, Richard Harris came to mind with his version of McAthur’s Park: “… and it took so long to bake it, and I’ll never have this recipe again, Oh no!” I won’t, I promised myself.

“Bake them for ten minutes at 170 degrees Celsius, not longer,” my sister said. Huh? Bread takes longer to bake. Not the pandesal, she said, lest they get hard and harder the day after. I ignored the advice, letting them bake for 15 minutes until they were golden brown, assuring me they were thorough. I was so proud when I took the tray out of the oven—looking good. I had to photograph them before I went to bed. It was 1:45 AM? You’re kidding me! I was physically exhausted, but my brain wouldn’t shut off. I could not fall asleep. It must have been the thrill of seeing my first ever homemade pandesal. I gave some to Marilyn and Richard. He found the milk powder my sister specified essential to making good pandesal rolls.

It was my sister’s birthday that day. Hence, as goodwill, I posted the photos to make her day and let her know that I accepted her Pandesal challenge. She can be proud of her brother. I received encouraging comments from FB friends, some of whom asked for the recipe. Doing it was a punishment, and I didn’t want them to suffer. I didn’t want to make enemies, I said.

Encouraged by my first successful venture at making those rolls, I was ready to venture into baking the pandesal of my teen years: The Baliwag Pandesal. Baliwag is a neighboring town where I come from in the Philippines. As a young boy attending my first year of college in that town, I discovered this bakery selling bite-size and soft pandesal. They were yellowish because of the number of egg yolks and the amount of margarine making the dough. I could make them. I googled for the recipe and thought it was no big deal; I could do it. I was wrong. While my sister’s challenge was punishment, the one for Baliwag pandesal was eternal damnation. The effort I had to give was beyond my endurance, patience, and perseverance. Whoever shared the recipe did not want to give away the secret of his trade, dammit!

My sister’s pandesal needed 1 cup of sugar to 3 and a half cups of flour, she said, but it was too sweet for her taste, so her advice was to reduce the amount to half a cup. I was happy with the result. The Baliwag pandesal recipe asked for less sugar: three tablespoons to two and a half cups of flour. I didn’t realize how little it was until after my first bite. I like sugar-free pandesal, but this one tasted so bland I could not brag about it. They didn’t double in size, either. It was not even yellowish despite the four egg yolks that went into making the dough instead of my sister’s one whole egg. They had been sitting on my dining table for two days, getting harder. David could kill Goliath with one of them.

And yet, I was out today looking for bread flour, which my sister said was the proper flour I needed. I found them and bought a bag. It is now in my kitchen pantry, and I am contemplating when to work on them. Maybe never! Stay tuned.