
Chef Juliana
Biscoito de Polvilho Assado
You think this is bakery magic. It isn't. Scald sour cassava starch, beat in eggs, pipe rings, and let a hot oven crack them into crisp, hollow biscuits.
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You don't need bakery hands for this. Fubá, a little wheat, eggs, milk, and erva-doce make the kind of broa that slices clean, freezes well, and smells like afternoon coffee.
You look at a cracked loaf of broa and think, isso não é pra mim. I know that look. I had it in my own kitchen, standing over bowls as if flour could smell fear. Then I learned the annoying, liberating truth: cozinhar não é dom, é um aprendizado. Even broa.
This is comida de verdade in the simplest form. Fubá for body, a little wheat so the bread holds together, eggs and milk to soften the crumb, and erva-doce because Minas afternoons know what they're doing. No mix from a box, no powder pretending to be a grandmother. Baking powder has a job here, but flavor comes from real ingredients and from measuring properly.
Broa lives beautifully beside coffee, but don't trap it there. A slice next to the pê-efe, rice, beans, a piece of meat or egg, something green, makes sense in a home kitchen. It fills the plate without fuss, travels in a lunch bag, freezes without drama, and turns yesterday's dinner into something that feels cared for.
The method is small and honest. Hydrate the fubá so it doesn't taste sandy. Mix only until the flour disappears so the crumb stays tender. Bake until the top cracks and a toothpick comes out clean. Anota aí: this isn't a bakery secret. It's a recipe that works.
Broa de fubá is strongly tied to Minas Gerais, where corn, cassava, dairy, and home baking shaped the coffee table as much as the lunch plate. The word broa came to Brazil through Portuguese baking, but in Minas it took on local ingredients and became a dense cornmeal bread, often scented with erva-doce. Some homes make it as a round loaf, others as small broinhas or a pan bread, and the argument over the right texture is exactly the kind of argument that keeps a food alive.
Quantity
1 1/2 cups
Quantity
1 cup
warm, not boiling
Quantity
1 cup
Quantity
2 teaspoons
Quantity
1/2 teaspoon
Quantity
2 teaspoons
Quantity
2 large
Quantity
1/2 cup
Quantity
1/3 cup
melted if using butter, plus more for the pan
Quantity
1 tablespoon
for the top
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| fine yellow cornmeal (fubá mimoso) | 1 1/2 cups |
| whole milkwarm, not boiling | 1 cup |
| all-purpose flour | 1 cup |
| baking powder | 2 teaspoons |
| fine salt | 1/2 teaspoon |
| fennel seeds (erva-doce) | 2 teaspoons |
| eggs | 2 large |
| sugar | 1/2 cup |
| unsalted butter or neutral oilmelted if using butter, plus more for the pan | 1/3 cup |
| coarse sugar (optional)for the top | 1 tablespoon |
Heat the oven to 180°C (350°F). Grease a 9 x 5-inch loaf pan and line it with a strip of parchment if you have it. The greased sides give the broa color, and the parchment lets you lift it out without performing surgery on breakfast.
Put the fubá in a large bowl and stir in the warm milk. Let it sit for 10 minutes, until the cornmeal looks thicker and no dry grains are sitting on top. This little rest matters. Fubá drinks liquid slowly, and if you rush it, the crumb can taste sandy instead of tender.
In a separate bowl, stir together the flour, baking powder, salt, and erva-doce. Break up any little lumps with your fingers. The baking powder needs to be spread through the flour, because one pocket of it gives you a bitter bite and one sad corner that doesn't rise.
Add the eggs, sugar, and melted butter or oil to the hydrated fubá. Whisk until the eggs disappear and the mixture looks glossy and loose. You're not whipping air like a cake. You're making one smooth batter so the broa bakes evenly from edge to middle.
Add the dry ingredients to the wet bowl and fold with a spatula just until you don't see dry flour. Stop there. If you keep beating, the wheat tightens and the broa turns tough, and then you'll blame Minas, me, and possibly your oven. Blame the overmixing.
Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top. Sprinkle with coarse sugar if you want a lightly crisp surface. The batter should be thick, spoonable, and a little grainy from the fubá. That's right. Broa is meant to have body.
Bake for 38 to 45 minutes, until the top is golden, cracked down the middle, and a toothpick pushed into the center comes out clean or with a few dry crumbs. If it comes out wet, give it 5 more minutes. The crack isn't a flaw. It's the bread telling you the inside expanded and set.
Let the broa cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then lift it out and cool at least 20 minutes before slicing. Hot broa smells like you should cut it immediately. Don't. The crumb is still settling, and cutting too soon makes it gummy instead of clean.
1 serving (about 80g)
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