In Salvador, Brazil, Chefs Redefine the Divine Cuisine

Many dishes at Dona Mariquita will be familiar to anyone who knows Salvador's cuisine, the capital of Bahia, where the restaurant was established in 2006. However, some may catch diners off guard. The beloved local shrimp stew, known as bobó de camarão, is presented as ipeté. Poqueca, a variant of the famous moqueca, is wrapped and served in a banana leaf instead of a traditional pot. Latipá, a shrimp stew featuring onion, dendê oil, and mustard greens, was seldom seen but has been removed from the menu by chef Leila Carreiro, as few diners recognized it.

'My goal is to serve [dishes] just as they were centuries ago,' Carreiro states, crafting the menu at Dona Mariquita by exploring local history and the foundational writings of Manuel Querino, an early researcher of Bahia's culinary heritage. Carreiro showcases recipes created by enslaved individuals brought to Brazil by Portuguese colonizers from about 1538 to 1850, when Salvador served as a gateway for millions forcibly transported from West Central Africa and the Bight of Benin. She reconstructs recipes as they may have been prepared by African arrivals, using techniques carried across the Atlantic and blending them with Indigenous ingredients and practices found in Brazil — such as using banana leaves in poqueca.

'We adhere to the original African recipe using yams,' Carreiro explains regarding her approach to ipeté. 'However, due to the abundance of cassava in Brazil when the enslaved arrived, it became a more common ingredient, leading to a subtle evolution in both the dish and its name.'

In telling the story of Bahia’s culinary heritage, the offerings at Dona Mariquita reflect the significant impact of Candomblé, a belief system that arose from a fusion of West African religions, primarily shaped by the Yoruba, Fon, and Bantu peoples.

Throughout the centuries, Candomblé has intricately blended with secular Afro-Brazilian culture in Salvador, influencing the city's street food landscape and its overall culinary identity. Chefs like Carreiro are now exploring this rich fusion of faith, food, history, conflict, and culture in more formal dining establishments, while renowned restaurants such as Manga and Origem examine Candomblé's culinary contributions under the lens of high-end cuisine.

Food plays a crucial role in Candomblé rituals, serving as a medium to honor orixás (deities), each with their distinct preferred dishes. For example, acaçá de leite, a blend of ground white corn and coconut milk, was created in the 19th century to honor Oxalá, the patron saint of Candomblé in Bahia. Initially, these dishes were exclusive to terreiros, the temples where Candomblé rituals occur, but they gradually transcended religious boundaries. Open ceremonies at terreiros allowed attendees to learn how to prepare the orixás' favorite dishes, and practitioners began selling them to the public.

'[Enslaved] women would sell acaçá de leite on the streets, using the earnings to purchase their freedom,' Carreiro shares. 'This food symbolizes liberation.'

This is also how acarajé, the fritter made from black-eyed peas, onion, dendê oil, dried shrimp, and various toppings, gained its fame. Originating in terreiros as an offering to the orisha Iansã, it has since become a staple street food in Salvador and one of the first female-dominated professions in Brazil.

'Acarajé has allowed terreiro cuisine to emerge onto the streets, transforming it into a [piece of] cultural heritage for the city and arguably the most iconic food of Salvador,' explains babalorixá Antonio Carlos Encarnação, who now resides in South Miami, selling homemade acarajés to Brazilian restaurants and markets. In 2005, the National Institute for Historic and Artistic Heritage (IPHAN) officially recognized the contributions of baianas do acarajé (the women selling acarajés on the street) as part of Brazil’s national heritage.

Following the abolition of slavery in Brazil in 1888, Bahia became a refuge for many descendants of enslaved individuals. Today, Salvador is often referred to as the Blackest city in the world outside the African continent; the 2022 Brazilian census estimated that about 80 percent of the local population is Black or mixed-race.

Today, only a small fraction of Brazilians actively practice Afro-Brazilian religions like Candomblé; estimates on the number of adherents vary significantly, partly because many Brazilians blend elements from multiple faiths. Nonetheless, Candomblé has profoundly influenced the traditions and representation of Afro-Brazilians, particularly in Bahia.

Encarnação states that acarajés have become 'a signature dish that reflects our African heritage. Regardless of the beliefs of those who enjoy or sell it, acarajé will forever symbolize the cuisine of our forebears.' Carreiro concurs, noting that while she doesn't identify as a filha de santo (Candomblé adherent), she sees her role at Dona Mariquita as a mission to 'reawaken the culinary legacy of my ancestors.' She adds, 'My heritage is Black; I aim to preserve the culture of those who came before me.'

Since the 1980s, dishes tied to Candomblé, such as caruru (okra with onion and ginger), vatapá (coconut seafood stew), and mungunzá (sweet hominy porridge), have found their place in casual, inclusive Mytouries. However, until recently, few chefs explored these dishes in depth.

'Restaurants dedicated to Brazilian cuisine are a recent development in our country; those that choose to honor the traditions of regions like Bahia are an even more recent phenomenon,' says chef Fabrício Lemos of Origem, who is pardo (of mixed descent) and a filho de santo of Candomblé. 'By concentrating on our local environment, we naturally emphasized our products and the foundations of our local cuisine, which is richly blended and profoundly shaped by Black heritage.'

When he launched the award-winning Origem in 2016 with his wife, pastry chef Lisiane Arouca, they were among the pioneers to introduce a tasting menu in Salvador. They also broke new ground by exploring the diverse biomes of their home state of Bahia and showcasing dishes that were seldom found outside family kitchens, such as efó, a stew made with the local herb língua de vaca (cow’s tongue) combined with dried shrimp and peanuts. According to Lemos, this dish, traditionally an offering to the orisha Nanã, was brought to Salvador by the Yoruba people from western Nigeria.

In addition to faithfully recreating traditional dishes, chef Lemos also draws inspiration from Candomblé foodways for his creative explorations. His menus have featured ravioli stuffed with vatapá and a monochromatic dish inspired by Nanã Buruku (a deity in several West African religions and Candomblé), associated with the color purple, incorporating purple yam puree, beef hump from Brazilian zebu cattle, and red wine béarnaise sauce.

Not all of Lemos' interpretations of tradition have been well-received. One of his initial menu creations blended two terreiro dishes: acarajé and abará (a boiled bean dough steamed in banana leaves). 'Today, it’s a favorite and features in all our restaurants, but at first, I faced criticism for altering these traditional recipes from the terreiros,' he explains. 'From my perspective, we shouldn't be entirely anchored in the past, but modern cuisine must also respect history and acknowledge its roots.'

It’s understandable that practitioners would defend the culinary traditions of Candomblé, a religion that has faced opposition since its inception. The Catholic Church denounced it, and Portuguese colonizers sought to convert its followers. Following the repeal of a law restricting public ceremonies in the 1970s and the end of Brazil's military dictatorship in the 1980s, there was a religious revival. Candomblé has since gained some acceptance in Brazil, with a 2013 analysis of census data indicating a rise in followers of Afro Brazilian faiths. However, practitioners continue to face challenges, reflecting a broader history of discrimination, marginalization, and violence against Afro Brazilians, an issue critics argue the government has inadequately addressed.

In a notable incident in the 2010s, evangelicals tried to rename acarajés to bolinhos de Jesus (“Jesus fritters”). Candomblé practitioners secured an injunction preventing the use of that name for acarajés, but this incident was not isolated.

'Many people enjoy traditional Bahian dishes like moqueca without recognizing their African roots,' notes Elmo Alves, a babalorixá who operates a terreiro on the outskirts of Salvador. 'However, a new appreciation for Brazilian cuisine has led to a vital resurgence of Candomblé-related foods on the national gastronomic stage.'

'Religions of African descent have long carried stigma in a predominantly Christian country,' states Lemos, viewing the dishes at Origem as part of the struggle against prejudice. 'Efforts were made to distort their values and impose a negative narrative on their beliefs. When a chef highlights a terreiro dish for its cultural significance, he elevates these recipes to a significant level of recognition.'

Despite having vocal supporters, discussions around certain Candomblé practices, such as animal sacrifice, can be challenging. Practitioners sanctify 29 different animal species before offering them as 'food' to various orixás. While integral to their rituals, this practice often sparks controversy.

“Other religions have their own customs and rituals, including sacrifice, which is common in many cultures and vital to various faiths, but the food prepared for our deities has often been labeled as demonic,” Alves explains. “For many years, our cuisine was derogatorily termed 'macumba,' reflecting a stigma that associates Candomblé with voodoo or witchcraft,” he adds.

“Animal sacrifice to the orixás is common in the city. It has intrigued me since childhood,” shares Dante Bassi, who, along with his wife Katrin, launched the vibrant Manga in the Rio Vermelho area in 2018. As a self-identified white agnostic, Bassi emphasizes that his fascination with Candomblé is strictly cultural.

In a recent tasting menu, the chef showcased a three-part duck dish reminiscent of a sacrificial Candomblé ceremony. This included a lacquered duck breast paired with local ingredients like toasted palm hearts and ora-pro-nóbis, along with two faux duck heads made from crispy duck skin, cajarana fruit, and duck tartare, served on a bed of feathers and lavender. Bassi chose duck intentionally, as it lacks specific symbolic significance in Candomblé, thereby sidestepping accusations of cultural appropriation.

The chef highlights his admiration for the belief among Candomblé practitioners that a deity’s favorite dishes can invite them to share a meal. “You offer food, a life of an animal. It’s an act of love for friends and family,” Bassi explains. “It makes the gods feel more relatable. Christianity often feels distant and disconnected in comparison.”

While some diners rave about the dish, it has also faced criticism. Bassi acknowledges the influence of African heritage, particularly Candomblé, on Salvador’s culinary scene. “It was a natural progression for Candomblé recipes, even if only as inspiration in our case, to find their way onto modern restaurant menus,” he notes. “[The food] transcends Candomblé’s religious elements and has evolved into a cultural staple in Salvador.”

Despite ongoing discrimination, tourism centered around Salvador’s Afro-Brazilian culture, especially its cuisine, is becoming a significant economic force for the city. As chefs clarify the context behind Candomblé dishes, they expose the many contradictions within these foods — the personal and public, the historical and erased, the proud and vulnerable — to their visitors.

“Awareness can be a unique seasoning,” remarks Carreiro, who praises the increasing number of restaurants integrating terreiro dishes into their offerings, while emphasizing the need for responsible popularization.

“The more our cuisine is acknowledged, the better,” says Alves. When asked about white chefs preparing Candomblé dishes without proper context or reinterpretation, he simply states, “In this city, my friend, there isn’t a white person without some Black ancestry, even if just a trace.” He adds, “We are one of the few places worldwide where Black culture influences everything — our food, our music. It is interwoven into every facet of our lives.”

Rafael Tonon is a journalist and food writer based between Brazil and Portugal. He is the author of the book The Food Revolutions.