Is pavlova the best Christmas dessert? Dan Ahwa and Greg Bruce argue pros and cons

The real debate around pavlova isn't who invented it ... it's whether the dessert is worth fighting over in the first place. Photo / 123RF

The greatest dessert in the world? Or a weird eggy mess? Dan Ahwa and Greg Bruce make the case for and against pavlova.

Love

Greg Bruce

I look up to Dan Ahwa as a sort of guru in most areas of life, because he’s extremely smart and has impeccable taste. So why is he so lacking in taste when it comes to taste?

I see my role here not as antagonist, but as a wise head and helping hand for those, like Dan, who have heretofore been blind to the pleasures of pav, because it does taste really nice.

I intimately understand the futility of this attempt because I’m a parent and have therefore spent many years trying unsuccessfully to convince people to eat delicious foods they claim to hate.

But I also believe in the importance of defending the defenceless. And what could be in greater need of defence than the world’s most fragile dessert, with its light-as-air inner, light-as-air shell, and topping of superfluous fruit?

The joy of pavlova begins long before it enters one’s mouth. Its imperfect presentation suggests it doesn’t care what you think of it, and that is the very definition of cool. Then there’s the excitement of the first cut, when the solid, structurally sound whole produces a slice of quivering excitement, which is also a perfect mirror of the transformation happening in one’s mind at that moment – the delicious contemplation of the pav’s merging with one’s body.

But it’s in the mouth, of course, where it really shines: crunch, squashiness, sweetness and light; the perfect marriage of textural contrasts. And you can eat an entire one by yourself and still not feel full.

Because it’s so synonymous with Christmas, I have briefly considered the possibility that my love for it might be derived from my love for the day: Christmas makes me happy, and being happy makes me predisposed to like things I otherwise wouldn’t. But, if that theory is correct, why does it not hold for boiled potatoes?

No, my love for pav is deeper than that. It connects me to something bigger than me, which is the very definition of spirituality.

At its best, an encounter with pav brings you into contact not just with the delicious and texturally perfect gastronomic object but with its rich genealogy, through its mysterious beginnings, rapid success, and pathetic and frankly embarrassing debate about its country of origin. More importantly, it connects you with your own past, transporting you back to your childhood and beyond – to your parents’ childhoods, and their parents’ childhoods, and all the way back to 1935, when Australians first started lying about inventing it.

Pav is hard to make and therefore rewarding to eat; it’s delicious and pretty and the perfect dessert for the season: light, airy and sweet; like a sun-kissed summer breeze in your mouth.

Al Brown’s Bach Pav was part of last year's Great NZME Pavlova Power List. Dan Ahwa was not a judge.

Sure, prior to its invention no rational person would have asked their host for a dessert of sweetened eggs. But this is what makes it so special, so magical. As with God or the New Zealand cricket team, a true love for pav can never be reduced to something as mundane as reason.

Greg Bruce is an award-winning senior multimedia journalist for the Herald, writing features, profiles, reviews and essays across a range of subjects.

Loathe

Dan Ahwa

“A sunkissed summer breeze in your mouth” is how Greg Bruce describes eating a pavlova. I find this disturbing.

Despite being extremely fond of Greg and his thoughtful observations on life, there is no way in hell he can convince me that a pavlova is the seductive little summer dessert we should all open our mouths to – and, like Greg, squeal in delight for.

Because if the years of spending every Christmas eating other people’s pavlovas have taught me anything, it’s that I really don’t like eating pavlova.

I’ve reached a point in my life where I don’t need to feign politeness to keep the peace, and I’m sorry New Zealand, the pavlova is not for me. Call me unpatriotic, call me a Christmas Grinch.

The syrupy summer berries I have no problem with. It’s the eggy meringue that gives me the ick in the way eggs sometimes unfortunately can.

My other brilliant colleague and Master of Gastronomy Kim Knight asked me if I felt the same about egg white cocktails, which stopped me in my tracks. These drinks have a similar palette of eggy sweetness. I do enjoy a frothy gin fizz or a pisco sour, but maybe it’s because as soon as that initial egg froth hits your lips, you’re drowning the rest of it in alcohol.

But I must confess, the true root of my disdain for the pavlova comes from one Christmas when I got so drunk the only thing coming out of my mouth were streams of gooey, eggy pav, giving new meaning to an Eaton mess.

The only other time I was that sick over a sweet treat was when I was 12 and I threw up an entire tin of Danish biscuits, just as light and delicious as a pav, but overwhelmingly disgusting when regurgitated. I haven’t eaten a Danish cookie since.

I get a pang of anxiety every time someone presents a sickly-sweet pav on Christmas Day, holding it up like Mufasa presenting Simba for all and sundry to swoon over, while I sit quietly waiting for the pav parade to be over.

I have tried to reconnect with the pav since, to circle my spoon gingerly around the bowl, to smile with Christmas gratitude. But I can’t do it anymore.

If there’s one thing I can agree with Greg on it’s that the pav is representative of Christmas. And I love Christmas.

“What sweet treat do you like then Dan?” some of you might ask in defence. It’s a good question, because I can’t deal with fruit cakes or puddings either; and a Panettone is used as a weapon to throw at other cars when I’m trying to make my way around Auckland traffic on December 24.

A brandy snap is a sensible Christmas choice for me and does all the things a pav does without the egg ick; the softness of the cream matched with its sweet, crunchy casing.

So while Greg might be quivering in excitement for his Christmas pav once more, I’ll be sitting out this year’s serving (sorry Nana Joan, love you).

Because as someone who doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, I’ve gone from feeling nonplussed about a pav to refusing to ever let a spoonful touch my lips ever again.

Maybe if the berries were soaked (twice) in gin. Maybe.

Dan Ahwa is Viva’s fashion and creative director and a senior premium lifestyle journalist for the New Zealand Herald, covering a range of topics and specialising in style, luxury, art and culture.