Basan Pudding – Crème Brûlée Saffron

This one’s for a special young man in my life. He has a way with words, loves good food, and God bless him, was all of 15 years old yesterday. As you might have guessed, the young man is my grandson. And his inimitable feedback on this melt-in-your mouth cream and saffron delight helped frame the title of my dish. But those are not the only reasons I’m thinking of him. It’s also because it was like a hundred years ago when I saw him last. Seriously. Doesn’t this past year seem as slow as a snail’s yawn. I find it difficult to believe that I was in Vancouver but a year ago to celebrate his 14th birthday. I was eager to try out a recipe for a traditional family dessert that my cousin, Umbereen Rahman, who lives in Karachi, Pakistan, and is an excellent homecook herself, had generously shared with me. She’s adapted the ingredients somewhat, to include those that are more readily at hand, and more importantly perhaps, less challenging in coronary terms. In other words, the dish is not all heavy (double) cream, as you’ll see from the recipe below.

What happened was rather neat. He tasted the dish, his eyes lit up and he clearly loved it. It’s like Crème Brûlée, only it isn’t, said he. For a teenager, my grandson has a discerning palate for sure. But also, I would not have thought of the comparison. This dessert is not the exact same thing and in fact, purists may argue that there’s a world of difference between the two, but there it was: he’d given me a neat rendition that wouldn’t suffer much in translation: Basan Pudding aka Crème Brûlée Saffron. 

As you might have guessed, Crème Brûlée Saffron is not for the faint hearted. It is sumptuous, fulsome, and also deliciously fragrant. Not to mention, its got these divine, crunchy edges. So when you take your first bite, you get these flirtatious flavours that come from Zaafran, or Saffron, soaked in Rose Water and Kewra Water. If you haven’t heard of Kewra Water, I wouldn’t worry because it’s not that well known outside South Asia — but it is available in most South Asian stores, and I would add it for sure to get the right effect. Kewra comes from the Pandan plant, and is also called Screwpine Water, a point that I must credit my sister for researching and mentioning in her book Khana Peena. Kewra is not as sweet as Rose Water; its fragrance is kind of keen, almost dry. I add it to Rice and Vermicelli desserts all the time (recipes to come). Come to think of it, when we scraped our knees badly or had a nasty fall as children, my mom would give us a teaspoon of Kewra Water to pep us up. Or, as Lady Macbeth famously said, to screw our courage to the sticking place, if you’ll forgive me my weird puns. But I digress. 

The main element in Basan Pudding is the creamy part, soft on the inside, and crisp and beautifully burnt or brûléed at the edges outside. As you’ll see from the recipe below, you combine eggs, sugar, condensed milk and a touch of heavy cream, and bake till your pudding is golden brown and crunchy around the edges, but still quite moist inside. I must confess, I found this part a little challenging. How does one get the outside to go crunchy without drying out the inside. Maybe I ought to add an extra layer of granulated sugar on top and caramelize it with a torch, as you do with Crème Brûlée. But that would make the dish much too sweet. As I discovered, this is where quantity, how much you pour into the dish, comes into play. 

When my dad’s family concocted this dessert, they baked it in a dish called Basan. (Don’t worry, there are easy substitutes, as I explain below). Basan, in the lingua franca of old Dhaka, Bangladesh, probably derived from the Bangla word for plate, Bashun. Basan was used specifically for dishes that were quite light, probably made of tin, and coated with a type of finish called enamel, which made them great as ovenware. The Basan I remember being used for this dessert were shallow rimmed, white dishes, with beautifully colourful floral and geometric motifs on them. If you search online for Tamchini — the South Asian word for enamel plated — and Bartan, the Urdu/Hindi equivalent of Bashun, you’ll see what I mean.

Basan were perfect in shape and depth for a mixture that was never too deep, so you’d get the perfect kind of heat to create a brûléed outside and a nicely baked but soft Crème Brûlée inside. As I remember it, one of the great pleasures of this dessert when I was growing up was that it would come in smallish, round-shaped Basan, and if you were lucky you’d get one all to yourself, and you would use your spoon to scrape off the burnt edges, and then, quite literally, lick your plate clean. 

In case you’re wondering, no, you don’t have to bake this dish in enamelware. I improvised with two dishes, as you will see from the main photograph above and a second one below. I used a deep rectangular pyrex dish, but filled it to about a quarter of its depth. And then, because my recipe could feed an army (no, not really, but it was for a pre-lockdown gathering of eight, at least) I also used a shallow Corning ware serving dish. Both went into the oven at the same time, though the pyrex, I discovered, produced a crunchier-at the-edges pudding.

And speaking of Pudding, the Anglicized suffix stuck to the back of a very South Asian word is rather intriguing, is it not. The way I see it, the combination highlights an interesting colonial dynamic, and not just in terms of the name. Baking was not new to South Asia, but combining dairy, sugar and butter and sticking it into an oven was, by most accounts, an innovation that emerged after Europeans in their trading vessels decided to drop by en masse. The British, as we all know, set up shop in a big way in South Asia, indulging their appetites and fortunes in all manner of borrowings and appropriations, so I dare say the region’s inhabitants, including its chefs, soon began to return the favour. They adapted adeptly, and Puddin’, which you say with a long “u” and by swallowing the “g” at the end, emerged as a creative, and quite delicious outcome of the colonial encounter. It is often a suffix for Anglo-desi desserts, such as Rice Pudding or Custard Pudding, or in some instances, it stands alone as a generic term for all things sweet that you enjoy at the end of your meal. 

My grandson’s enjoyment of this dish last year made it memorable for me and, I think his parents liked it as well. I made it again, this time in Mississauga, and because it was a lovely sunny day, I also managed to take the photos for this post. Given that the quantities in my recipe are for at least eight people, it was fortunate that I made my second batch a while ago, before the lockdown in Ontario went into high gear. My brother and sister-in-law were most appreciative and so, too, I believe was their son, my nephew, who found leftovers when he visited them on his own. My condo security team was all smiles as well. All of this is to say that I am being very careful with my social distancing during this time; but also, that good food is unlikely to go to waste. So with thanks to my cousin who shared her recipe with me, here’s to some great baking and sharing. Enjoy!

Likely Questions: 

1. Can I bake this dessert in individual ramekins? I haven’t myself, but I would love to know how it turns out if you do so. Do let me know! 
2. Is it okay to use brown sugar? I prefer granulated white sugar for this dish but only because brown sugar feels a little more heavy. But that’s just me. 
3. What if I use only heavy cream and no condensed milk? I feel it would be a trifle too heavy for my taste; it would certainly cost more; it may not be easily available. If you ask me, stay with condensed milk. It isn’t exactly healthy by any means, but chances are you aren’t going to run for a bottle of Tums afterwards.

Photo Credit

All Photos unless otherwise noted by: Almas Zakiuddin SOME RIGHTS RESERVED