The secret ingredient that transforms banoffee pie

I have been labouring under a misapprehension for some time, perhaps my whole life. I thought that the ‘offe’ in ‘banoffee pie’ was a reference to the thick, gooey toffee layer that sits between the biscuit base and the cream. But no, the ‘offe’ has nothing to do with what is, in any event, really a caramel, but the coffee flavour that should be folded through the cream topping. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a banoffee pie that features the sort-of-eponymous coffee, and I am relieved to discover that wide swathes of the internet (including the fallible wikipedia) has made the same mistake. But as I experiment with the recipe, it’s clear that the coffee is an important counterpoint: the cream, barely sweetened, with bitter hints from the coffee, prevents the rest of the pudding from being overbearingly sweet (although, let’s be real, this is not a pudding for someone who lacks a sweet tooth).

If you are sticking closely to the original, the base should be made of shortcrust pastry – and in fact, Ian Dowding has been vocal in his dislike of the evolution to a biscuit-crumb base. But, nowadays, people expect that biscuit base, and it’s one of my favourite elements of the pudding – plus it’s a much, much easier base to make than the pastry. I thought I’d been terribly innovative by finely slicing pecan nuts to crumble through the biscuit base, but my research teaches me that this is not the case: both Felicity Cloake and Simon Rimmer came up with this idea aeons ago. No matter: it is an excellent addition, and I decide that I prefer bashed-up hobnobs to the more traditional digestives, as the oats give it a wonderful texture.

Unlike many of the vintage puddings we examine here, the banoffee pie has a deliciously clear history and origin story – and it’s not, as many think, an American one.