
Chef Joost
Bavarois met Frambozensaus
A French-Bavarian name, a Dutch party mould, and the quiet trick of gelatine: custard cooled just enough, cream folded gently, and a dessert made ahead like a host with sense.
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The name says little bacon, but the sweet shop knows better: pink-and-white sugar set into soft cubes, a Dutch childhood joke you can cut with a kitchen knife.
In my grandmother's second notebook there is no recipe for spekjes, and that absence tells the truth. Some foods entered a Dutch childhood not through the stove but through the paper zakje, the little bag from the snoepwinkel, sweet shop, carried home with sugar dust on your fingers and the grave expression of a child who has made a purchase.
The name already tells you the joke, not an etymology in need of a Latin ladder. Spek is bacon or pork fat; spekjes are little pieces of it. These pink-and-white sweets borrowed the butcher's word because they look like striped fat, soft and square, for obvious reasons entirely innocent of bacon. No province owns them the way Zeeland owns the bolus or Limburg owns vlaai. Their place is the sweet shop, which is a province of its own when you are eight.
But let me tell you a secret: the American marshmallow has made people think every such sweet is waiting for a campfire. Dutch spekjes are not waiting for anything. They belong in a bag of snoep, sweets, on a birthday table, in a Sinterklaas shoe, or beside a cup of coffee when the adults pretend they bought them for the children.
The method is simple, but exact. Bloom the gelatin properly, boil the sugar to 115C, whip until thick but still pourable, then let starch and icing sugar defend the surface from Dutch weather. Hou het altijd simpel, always keep it simple: one white layer, one pink layer, a night of patience. The sweet shop secret is mostly waiting.
The word spekje is the diminutive of spek, bacon or pork fat, and Dutch confectioners applied it to these pink-and-white sweets because their streaked colour resembled little pieces of fat; the joke is visual rather than scholarly. The sweet itself descends from nineteenth-century French guimauve, originally made with marsh mallow root before gelatin made the texture reliable for factory and sweet-shop production. By the twentieth century, spekjes had become part of the Dutch snoepwinkel, sweet shop, vocabulary, sold beside drop, licorice, and zuurtjes, hard sour sweets, as everyday celebration rather than formal pastry.
Quantity
as needed
for the pan and spatula
Quantity
50g
Quantity
50g
Quantity
24g
Quantity
120ml
for blooming the gelatin
Quantity
400g
Quantity
160g
Quantity
120ml
for the syrup
Quantity
1/4 teaspoon
Quantity
2 teaspoons
Quantity
2 to 4 drops
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| neutral oilfor the pan and spatula | as needed |
| icing sugar | 50g |
| potato starch or cornstarch | 50g |
| powdered gelatin | 24g |
| cold waterfor blooming the gelatin | 120ml |
| granulated sugar | 400g |
| glucosestroop (glucose syrup) or light corn syrup | 160g |
| waterfor the syrup | 120ml |
| fine salt | 1/4 teaspoon |
| vanilla extract | 2 teaspoons |
| pink food colouring (optional) | 2 to 4 drops |
Line a 20cm square pan with baking parchment, oil it lightly, then stir the icing sugar and starch together. Dust the pan generously with this mixture and keep the rest for cutting. Spekjes are friendly sweets until humidity finds them; the starch-sugar coat is their little raincoat.
Put the 120ml cold water in the bowl of a stand mixer and sprinkle the gelatin evenly over it. Leave it for ten minutes, until it swells and looks like wet sand. This is not ceremony; dry gelatin makes rubbery lumps, and no amount of whipping later will make them polite.
Put the granulated sugar, glucosestroop, 120ml water, and salt into a small heavy pan. Warm gently until the sugar dissolves, then stop stirring and boil until the syrup reaches 115C on a sugar thermometer. It should be clear, thick, and moving in heavy bubbles.
Turn the mixer to low and pour the hot syrup slowly down the inside of the bowl onto the bloomed gelatin. Increase to medium-high and whip for 8 to 10 minutes, until the mixture is white, glossy, thick, and falling from the whisk in slow ribbons. Add the vanilla in the final minute. Stop while it is still spreadable; if you beat it stiff, you will wrestle it into the pan, and sweets should not require wrestling.
Scrape about half the white mixture into the prepared pan and smooth it with a lightly oiled spatula. Add the pink food colouring to the remaining mixture, beat just until the colour is even, then spread it over the white layer. Work calmly but promptly, because gelatin sets on its own schedule and takes no interest in your plans.
Dust the top with more of the icing sugar and starch mixture. Leave the pan uncovered at cool room temperature for at least four hours, or overnight, until the slab springs back when pressed gently. Do not refrigerate it; the cold box invites dampness, and dampness is how spekjes lose their powdery manners.
Turn the slab onto a board dusted with the starch-sugar mixture. Peel away the parchment, oil a long knife lightly, and cut into 36 cubes or small rectangles. Toss each piece in the remaining coating and shake off the excess. The finished spekjes should feel dry to the fingers, soft under the knife, and springy when pinched.
1 serving (about 24g)
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