This Irish fruit loaf was once reserved for high days and holidays, particularly Halloween, but, like many seasonal treats, it’s now increasingly available year round, and especially in the run-up to St Patrick’s Day – my own local bakery has been producing them since mid-February. As its Irish language name bairín breac (speckled bread) suggests, barmbrack has much in common with the Welsh bara brith: a plain, yet richly fruited bread that’s well suited to a generous topping of butter, and an excellent accompaniment to a pot of tea.
That’s not the end of its attractions, however: barmbrack can also tell your fortune, as James Joyce’s short story Clay describes. Traditionally, barmbrack was stuffed with charms before baking, with significance for those who found them in their slice: the ring meant you’d be married within the year, the pea the opposite; the stick foretold dispute, the silver coin good fortune and a piece of cloth suggested you’d be better off hiding under the duvet for the foreseeable future. Not bad going for a mere fruitcake.
Yeast
Before the invention of chemical raising agents, barmbracks would have been leavened with yeast (indeed, the word barm itself denotes the foam that collects at the top of fermenting liquids such as beer, which would have been scooped off for use in baking). Most modern recipes use baking powder instead, but Julie Duff and Cliodhna Prendergast stick with the old ways, with the latter writing that she prefers “a bread sweetened with dried fruits and a hint of spice” to the “dark, more fruitcake-like loaf” often sold under the name these days.
My testers, who have scant regard for tradition, however, disagree: nice as Duff and Prendergast’s loaves are toasted and buttered, they draw comparisons to “very plain panettone”; the damp, more richly fruited, cakier versions are deemed to work better with tea. There’s little point in using Duff’s bread flour, therefore: plain will do just as well for a more compact, softer crumb.
The fruit
Barmbrack is also known as tea brack, and not just because it goes so well with a cuppa. The three non-yeasted recipes I try all soak the fruit in black tea overnight (cold seems to be preferred, though I would have imagined the fruit would swell more quickly in hot liquid), with Rory O’Connell calling for a pinch of earl grey or lapsang souchong as well as breakfast tea. We can’t detect it in the finished loaf, however, so if you are attracted by the idea of a citrussy or smoky flavour, it might be advisable to leave out the breakfast tea altogether. Donal Skehan also adds a slug of whiskey – not traditional, perhaps, but it proves a crowd-pleasing innovation nevertheless. Feel free to leave it out if you’re not a fan.
As far as the specifics of the fruit goes, it’s really up to you: raisins and sultanas are the most popular, but I like the tangy little currants in Darina Allen’s Ballymaloe recipe, while the glacé cherries and mixed peel with which O’Connell gilds the lily add a pleasing squishiness and bitter citrus edge, respectively; they also look pretty. We also approve of the crunch his chopped almonds bring, but use 475g of your own favourite dried fruit and nuts, or even chocolate chips, if you must.
The sugar and fat
Happily for Lent, this is a fatless loaf, if you exclude the egg yolks – while Duff and Prendergast both use butter, none of the non-yeasted versions does. (What you choose to eat it with, however, is between you and your conscience.)
I’m with Prendergast on keeping the dough fairly plain, though; almost all the testers find the Ballymaloe loaf too sweet, more like a cake than a teabread. I’m not going to go as far as cutting out sugar altogether, although you could if you’re feeling particularly monastic, but I have reduced it considerably; I’ve also used Skehan’s light muscovado instead of caster, to give a more rounded, caramel-like sweetness. If you’re a fan of bittersweet flavours, you might prefer to substitute O’Connell’s treacly dark muscovado.
Prendergast uses buttermilk in her dough, because it gives “a nice flavour and a softer texture”; a nice idea if you’re going for a yeasted version, and it gives her loaf an almost brioche-like consistency.
The spices
The usual suspects – mixed spice, cinnamon and nutmeg – pop up here, though my local baker reckons the secret to greatness is a drop of vanilla extract, and I can confirm their bracks are indeed excellent – though as usual, I prefer the sweet heat of nutmeg.
The shape
Old-fashioned barmbracks were baked in free-form rounds, but Prendergast’s proves rather hard to toast; that modern innovation, the loaf tin, makes life considerably easier.
To finish
If this is a celebratory brack, painting it with sugar syrup, as Allen and Duff suggest, will give it a lovely sheen. Wrapped, it keeps well for a week or so.
The perfect barmbrack
200g currants
200g sultanas
300ml strong tea
50ml whiskey (or another 50ml tea)
25g mixed peel, roughly chopped
25g glace cherries, quartered
25g blanched almonds, roughly chopped
150g light muscovado sugar
210g plain flour
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp mixed spice
½ tsp ground nutmeg
¼ tsp fine salt
1 egg, beaten
2 tbsp sugar syrup (optional)
Put the currants and sultanas in a large heatproof bowl, pour over the tea and whiskey, if using, then leave to soak for at least six hours.
Heat the oven to 180C/350F/gas 4, and grease and line a 13cm x 20cm loaf tin. Stir the peel, cherries and almonds (if using) into the soaked fruit.
In a second bowl, whisk together the sugar, flour, baking powder, spices and salt, making sure you break up any lumps in the sugar, then stir into the fruit with the beaten egg.
Tip the loaf mix into the tin, smooth the top and bake for 90 minutes, until a skewer comes out clean. If the top looks to be going too dark or burning on top towards the end, cover with foil.
Take out of the oven, leave to cool in the tin for 15 minutes, then turn out on to a baking rack. Paint with sugar syrup, if using, and wrap well to store.
