My Journey of Trying (and Failing) to Perfect the Goan Bebinca Cake

Last Christmas, I traveled from a still-lockdown Mumbai to my home in Goa, where everything felt normal. I arrived just in time to start making our Christmas sweets. My mother, sister-in-law Larissa, and I gathered to decide what would go on our Christmas platter, known as kusvar. My mom favors comforting cakes like the semolina-and-coconut bathk and simple nankhatai shortbread biscuits. On a whim, Larissa and I chose to experiment with bebinca.

Bebinca is often dubbed the “queen of Goan desserts.” Recently, the Goan government announced its efforts to obtain an official Geographical Indication (GI) tag for it from the World Trade Organization. This multilayered cake, or pudding, is sweet, buttery, and eggy, resembling custard with hints of spice. It incorporates numerous egg yolks, baked layer by layer. With twenty-five percent of Goa's population identifying as Catholic, bebinca is essential at nearly every festival, religious or secular. Beyond Christmas, it’s prominently featured during Easter, often enjoyed after meals or with tea. No chocolate or marzipan egg can rival the charm of a perfectly fluffy bebinca.

The origins of bebinca remain somewhat mysterious. Legend has it that in the 17th century, nuns at the Santa Monica Convent in Old Goa devised a zero-waste solution. They used egg whites to starch their habits, turning the leftover yolks into sweets or doces conventuais (convent delicacies). It was Sister Bebiana who transformed the yolks into a layered cake—seven layers to symbolize the famous hills of Goa and Lisbon. In her honor, the cake was named bebinca.

Of course, that’s merely one tale. Other accounts suggest that the Portuguese introduced bebinca to the Goans; colonizers did bring the technique of incorporating eggs into various confections. Variants of bebinca exist in other former colonies, supporting this notion, such as the coconut-rice cake bibingka in the Philippines and the coconut-jaggery cake bibikkan in Sri Lanka.

In Goa, bebinca is affectionately known as bebik and has become the iconic Goan dessert. Packaged versions are popular souvenirs for tourists, while for Goans living abroad, it evokes cherished memories. Some enjoy it warm, others prefer it chilled, and the clever ones pair it with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. The hallmark of a superior bebinca is its layers—more is better. Goans will slice it, count the layers, and nod in approval if there are more than seven. Legend has it that when Sister Bebiana presented a seven-layer bebinca to a priest, he requested she add more. Nowadays, it's common to see bebincas boasting up to 16 layers.

Most Goans have a relative, or as we call it, a 'contact'—a talented baker, uncle, or aunt—known for making 'the best bebinca.' These prized connections are rarely shared outside a small circle, and my family is fortunate to have three such bakers whose delightful bebincas have been consistently delivered to my Mumbai home for the past 13 years.

Last year, my sister-in-law and I set out to join their ranks as the fourth.

I must confess: baking is not my strength. The precision and discipline required in baking, with its strict adherence to timing and math (a subject I dislike), do not appeal to me. This has not dimmed my sister-in-law's enthusiasm. Larissa entered our lives three years ago, bringing with her vibrant energy, quiet determination, positive vibes, and an irresistible charm. She finds joy in cooking and baking. Under her guidance, I bravely learned to make filos—pancakes from overripe bananas and maida—liquor chocolates, and beef stew with macaroni. With her support, the challenge of baking bebinca seemed manageable.

While the ingredients for bebinca are straightforward, the process demands time, focus, and one essential quality I lack—patience. Traditionally, bebinca was baked in earthen ovens known as tizals, placed over fires fueled by sonnam (coconut husks) and kotteos (coconut shells). The bottom tizal contained a layer of sand. Once heated, a container filled with bebinca batter was set on this sand, covered by another tizal filled with sonnam or kotteos. Occasionally, there were three tizals—sand and sonnam in the bottom one, bebinca in the middle, and more sonnam on top. However, the lack of firewood and clay dishes in our Goa apartment meant we had to rely on a modern appliance, the OTG (oven-toaster-grill).

Larissa and I used a borrowed recipe from a friend’s grandaunt, comparing it with my mama’s well-loved Joyce Fernandes cookbook. We combined freshly grated coconut with warm water, squeezing to obtain coconut milk. After separating the yolks, measuring flour, and whisking everything together with salt and nutmeg, we were ready to bake. Into the oven it went—simple enough. The first layer took over half an hour to cook, rising like a dome before settling into a flat layer after being pricked. We brushed it with ghee and added more batter for the second layer. The entire process, consisting of nine layers, consumed our whole morning. The result was a chaotic mix: the bottom three layers were burnt and stuck to the tray, while the top six layers were perfectly firm.

The best part about bebinca is that even the mishaps are tasty. We scraped off the burnt bottom layer and happily savored the crumbs. The better layers made it into the tray.

As someone who isn’t particularly fond of cooking, my experience with bebinca felt significant. My fondest childhood memories revolve around helping my mother create holiday treats. After moving away, those moments became rare. Last year, baking bebinca with Larissa reminded me that the joy of cooking comes from sharing it with others. You exchange recipes, swap tips and tricks, make mistakes (and enjoy them), and celebrate successes together.

Our second attempt at baking bebinca—rather than just tasting it—occurred at another relative’s house. In Goa, nearly everyone is connected through just a few degrees of separation. The lovely Janice Figueiredo joined the family through Larissa’s sister, Liane, who married Janice’s nephew. I had heard tales of her culinary skills. If invited to a gathering, Janice often brings her famous bebinca or sans rival (a cashew cake). I had tasted Janice’s bebinca once before, and it was undoubtedly one of the best, crafted over 30 years of experience.

After hearing about our earlier failure, she invited Larissa and me over to try again. So, on a chilly evening, we set out to bake once more. 'It’s really straightforward,' Janice assured us throughout the evening. Under her watchful eye, we repeated the process: measuring, sifting, and whisking the ingredients together.

Larissa and I quickly identified our mistake: we were too sparing with the ghee. Janice, on the other hand, generously drenched the tray in it. It was the ghee that gave each layer its beautiful sheen and slight caramelization, creating those signature leopard spots. We learned that getting the first layer right was crucial. Janice heated a baking tin with ghee on the stove, pouring in the batter until it sizzled, letting it cook for a few minutes on low heat before transferring it to the oven. Each layer needed 15 to 20 minutes to brown before being coated with another mixture of ghee and butter—'for improved viscosity and flavor'—followed by more batter.

What started as a cooking class quickly transformed into a lively gathering. As relatives arrived, we broke out the feni (local cashew liquor), and the kitchen was filled with chatter and laughter. While the layers baked, we prepared and enjoyed beef samosas, with help from Janice’s daughter and nephew. The leftover egg whites were used to make another cake, the sans rival.

Our efforts, if you could call them that, truly paid off. The finished bebinca was stunning, a golden masterpiece adorned with craters of caramelization and shimmering with ghee. It was rich, smooth to the touch, and delicately melting on the palate. It featured seven layers that, though slightly uneven, stacked beautifully.

The older Goans in the house examined the layers and smiled with approval. Our creation stood proud and sturdy, basking in the glow of the fluorescent kitchen light.

Regrettably, I am away from home this Easter, so my third attempt at bebinca will have to wait. However, when I celebrate a milestone birthday at home in a month, I am ready to honor the queen once again.

Joanna Lobo is an independent journalist based in India, passionate about exploring food and its connection to communities, her Goan roots, and the joys of life.