Here’s the thing – in my book, any dessert you have to describe using air quotes is not the dessert that it's claiming to be.
And this is because the reality of the word framed by those air quotes only serves to highlight what the raw dessert in question ISN’T.
Raw “cheesecake”. Raw “Mars Bar” bites. Vegan “eggnog”.
I was in my twenties when I experienced my first raw dessert. I was at a vegan joint on Melbourne’s Smith Street, Collingwood, in the time before and and ; when exposed bulb lighting wasn’t a style choice but a cost saving measure and the drab décor referenced the socially earnest approach the vegan movement (at that point) embodied.
I chose the “cheesecake” because the real thing is so ridiculously high calorie and the idea of a sweet treat that might be comparable AND healthy seemed almost too exciting to consider.
Looking back, the exact experience of my first mouthful is difficult to describe. This isn’t because it occurred so long ago, but because if the lure of the raw dessert is that they are meant to be so close to the sinful version of the cake or slice they imitate, then the disappointment is equal in measure to the level of taste expectation left unmet.
What I mean is this: while I expected a rich and decadent swallow of sugar and fat, that long ago day, what I experienced was a textural appropriation of cheesecake with none of dessert’s operatic sweet notes.
Put that way, perhaps the issue is not about taste at all but is really about food labelling. Not the labelling on the pack. But the labelling that connects experience to expectation.
“You know,” said a friend of mine the other day as we shared a raw chia and goji berry ball that one of our work colleagues had left sitting on her desk, “if I’m not at all hungry, like now, and I’m not craving anything and I’m just eating this because it’s here, then I enjoy it.
“But if I really want a chocolate bar and then I eat something like this,” she continues, popping the last seedy, sticky bite in to her mouth, “then it just doesn’t cut it.”
I think it’s great if this raw dessert approach works for others: if they can experience that well-run combination of dates and coconut oil and ground raw cashew and maple syrup and cocoa butter and (when it’s chocolate we’re imitating) cacao as a satisfying dessert combination.
But my palate knows what butter and caster sugar and white flour and chocolate tastes like when mixed and baked, and it isn’t that familiar date-y, honeyed, coconut-ish combination that flavours so much of the raw dessert canon.
An honest raw dessert is a pleasurable raw dessert.
In Singapore a few years back while visiting a good friend, I was taken to an organic, health-focussed cafe representative of the raw food movement that was taking off there at the time. We ate a lovely fresh main of brightly coloured vegetables, dehydrated crackers and well-seasoned sides.
“You have to try one of the raw desserts, here,” my friend raved, as she led me over to choose from the display by the front counter. “They’re amazing.”
And they were.
There was a lime pie. A lurid blueberry and cashew cake. A fudgy date slice.
We shared a trio and I enjoyed them all. I enjoyed these desserts because they were light and they felt good to eat. I enjoyed them because of the textural contrast. I enjoyed that they were almost as savoury as they were sweet.
But mainly I enjoyed this trio of raw desserts because the clear descriptions of each did not necessitate use of air quotes. And because there was no need for air quotes, that gap between experience and expectation was closed.
An honest raw dessert is a pleasurable raw dessert. [Editor's note: Case in point - the berry torte pictured at the top of the article is a recipe by Lee Holmes; her is dairy-free, egg-free, gluten-free and vegan, so it's great for those with special dietary needs]
Even so, I’m old-school when it comes to treating myself. So long live sugar, butter and flour.
Long live baking.
