Serving Up Tradition

Words and photographs by Priscila Pacheco

Baianas de Acarajé continue a culinary craft with Afro-Brazilian roots

The aroma of palm oil attracts those who walk around Salvador, the capital of Bahia, a state located in Northeastern Brazil. It is the ingredient used to fry acarajés—black-eyed bean and onion fritters that have been sold on the streets by women known as the Baianas de Acarajé for centuries. The number of Baianas de Acarajé is not clear, as official statistics are inconsistent. Estimates put the number around 7,000 Baianas living in Bahia, most of whom are over 50 years old and are based in the tourist city of Salvador.

These women usually wear voluminous skirts, smocks, turbans, and colorful, beaded necklaces and are portrayed in sculptures throughout Salvador. Their craft was designated a cultural heritage of Brazil in 2005 by IPHAN (National Historical and Artistic Heritage Institute). Seven years later, the IPAC (Institute of Artistic and Cultural Heritage of Bahia) registered the work of the Baianas de Acarajé as an intangible heritage of Bahia.

The financially tenuous nature of the job (made worse by the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic), combined with an aging workforce, makes the future of the Baianas de Acarajé uncertain. However, intergenerational knowledge sharing, some government-funded initiatives, and the work of the Baianas de Acarajé Association have helped to strengthen and preserve this unique example of Brazilian culture.

West African slaves first brought acarajés to Brazil between the 16th and 19th centuries. In the new country, enslaved and manumitted women walked the streets selling acarajé. The name acarajé is composed of two words from the African Yoruba language — “akará,” meaning fireball, and “je,” to eat. In the Afro-Brazilian Candomblé religion, acarajé is a sacred food offered to Iansã, Xangô’s wife, both Candomblé deities known as orixás.

The Baianas’ craft is usually taught at home. An example is Dulce Mary de Jesus, age 50. The great-granddaughter of a Baiana de Acarajé, who displays her delicacies on social media, proudly says that she started going to the stand in "mainha’s belly,” “mainha” being an affectionate nickname given to mothers in Bahia.

A view looking out at Bay of All Saints, with Elevador Lacerda on the left, a public elevator that carries people between the upper city and lower city.

Rita Santos, 64, current president of the Association of Baianas de Acarajé and Mingau (ABAM).

Maria Emília Bittencourt (left) selling acarajé with one of her daughters in the Barra neighborhood of Salvador — Maria Emília Bittencourt (left) sells acarajé with one of her daughters in the Barra neighborhood of Salvador.

De Jesus learned to cook by helping her mother, but since 1992 she has had her own tent in Praça da Sé, a square located in the historic center of Salvador. “I love to be a Baiana. I think our culture is beautiful,” says Jesus. De Jesus's mother is 72 years old and works alongside her daughter. Currently, she doesn't go to the stand but cooks from home. In de Jesus’ tent, decorated with pictures of herself with famous Brazilians, she also sells other typical delicacies. Besides acarajé there are abará (another offering for orixás); cocada, a coconut and sugar candy; and bolinho de estudante (“student cake”), a sweet made with coconut and a starch extracted from cassava called tapioca, fried in oil, and sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. It is said that the candy received this name because the smell attracted many students to the Baianas tents. Other Baianas also sell tamarind sweets, fried fish, and passarinha (bovine spleen).

Cristiane Santos, 47, is another Baiana de Acarajé who is proud to continue the family tradition. “When I'm preparing my goods, I feel so happy. I feel great pride in being a Baiana de Acarajé,” says Santos. Santos works with two sisters in Terreiro de Jesus, another square in the historical center. They learned the craft from their mother Norma, 83. Santos says that her grandmother Irene, who is now 108 years old, started working with acarajé back when women walked the streets selling food from a basket on their heads. Santos does not know the exact period, but it was during the time when acarajés were served with only a chili pepper sauce and palm oil.

It is said that the first stuffed acarajé dates back to the 1950s in Salvador. Today, acarajé is stuffed with vatapá, a puree whose main ingredients are ginger, peanuts, and palm oil; caruru, an okra stew with dried shrimp and palm oil; whole dried shrimp; and tomato salad.

Dulce Mary de Jesus, 50, the great-granddaughter of a Baiana de Acarajé — Dulce Mary de Jesus, 50, is the great-granddaughter of a Baiana de Acarajé.

Circular acarajé, surrounded by other delicacies, such as fried fish and passarinha (fried cow spleen).

"Passion about the craft, Bittencourt explains that the difference between a street food seller and a Baiana de Acarajé is that Baianas both live and preserve Afro culture."

An association that unites Baianas

In 1992, a group of women created the Association of Baianas de Acarajé and Mingau (ABAM) to train Baianas, advocate for their rights, and preserve their traditions. The organization, for example, enforces traditional standards. They have resisted the demands of a small subset of evangelical women to change the name of the acarajé to “Jesus fritters,” arguing that the name runs counter to the Candomblé origins of the delicacy. In 2014, ABAM went head-to-head with FIFA (International Football Federation) to insist that Baianas be allowed to sell acarajé inside the Fonte Nova stadium like other vendors during the World Cup that took place in Brazil. And the organization also advocates for training opportunities to help the Baianas learn to manage their own businesses.

Maria Emília Bittencourt, 70, who is part of the fourth generation of Baianas in her family, believes that ABAM was created to strengthen and unify the Baianas. "The union strengthens our class. The courses are good for us to grow professionally," says Bittencourt.

Passionate about the craft, Bittencourt explains that the difference between a street food seller and a Baiana de Acarajé is that Baianas both live and preserve Afro culture. A mother of seven children, she taught everyone how to cook acarajé. Two of her daughters have since become Baianas de Acarajé and work in the tent located in Barra, Salvador's touristic neighborhood.

In addition to uniting women like Bittencourt, ABAM created the Memorial das Baianas, a museum dedicated to preserving the history of the Baianas. During the COVID-19 pandemic, the organization partnered with the cultural group Ska Reggae to carry out the project “Stories, Memories and Collections of the Memorial of Baianas de Acarajé.” This project received nearly $76,500 in funding as a result of the Adir Blanc Law, which granted emergency financial aid from the Brazilian Federal Government to protect the cultural sector during the pandemic.

The organization also used the funding to create a course called “Reproduction of Knowledge, Practices, and Identity.” According to cultural producer Luana Oswaldo, 51, the course, which demands both physical attendance and online involvement, has benefited 300 Baianas de Acarajé aged 23 to 85 years old in more than 20 cities in Bahia. Participants took classes on topicsincluding cultural heritage, logistics, customer service, food management, tourism, and women's empowerment.

Claudete de Souza, 63, resident of Vera Cruz, a city near Salvador, participated in the course. She particularly enjoyed learning how to cater to tourists. "I have always served my clients very well, but with the course, I could improve more," says Souza, who learned how to cook acarajé with her aunt and has a 31-year-old daughter who follows the same career.

Another Vera Cruz resident benefiting from the project is former teacher Jucelia da Silva, 56. She learned how to make acarajé with her mother-in-law and with her sisters-in-law. Silva's mother-in-law comes from a family that has been selling acarajé for five generations. Silva believes that constant learning is important. A frequent participant in ABAM courses, she learned a lot about logistics in this most recent course.

Maria Emília Bittencourt, 70, a fourth generation Baiana de Acarajé — Maria Emília Bittencourt, 70, is a fourth generation Baiana de Acarajé.

boxes of dried shrimp — Boxes of dried shrimp.

The project financed by the Adir Blanc Law has also enabled the construction of a virtual museum and the production of a documentary on palm oil. The movie highlights the lack of government investment to modernize palm oil plantations, which has reduced the product's supply in the market and made it more expensive. Rita Santos, 64, current president of the ABAM, points out that without palm oil there is no acarajé.

For Vanessa Castanheda, a postdoctoral fellow in Latin American and Caribbean Studies at Dartmouth College, these types of projects are important for the population to learn about the history and cultural importance of Baianas. However, she argues that the government also needs to create public policies to assist the Baianas. Castanheda comments that during the period she was in Salvador, she saw many women worrying about financial difficulties.

The problems were reinforced during the pandemic when vendors had to stop working because of social isolation. "Many Baianas were not prepared to sell over the internet,” says Rita Santos. Even when sales became possible once again, some Baianas had no money to buy ingredients to prepare the acarajés. On top of everything, the cost of ingredients and cooking gas have gone up due to the Brazilian economic crisis. Dulce Mary de Jesus needed to borrow money from friends to get back to work. The financial aid granted by the local government was insufficient and did not benefit all Baianas.

However, she argues that the government also needs to create public policies to assist the Baianas. Castanheda comments that during the period she was in Salvador, she saw many women worrrying about financial difficulties.

According to the press office of the mayor of Salvador, 120 Baianas de Acarajé were able to receive the "SOS Cultura," a municipal financial benefit created during the pandemic to help professionals in the cultural area. One of the rules for receiving the funding (equivalent to approximately $200 USD) was to work in the historic center and be registered with the Municipal Department of Culture and Tourism.

Given the problems faced by this aging working-class, the question arises as to whether the craft of Baianas de Acarajé will survive. However, Vagner Rocha, a doctoral student in Ethnic and African Studies at the Federal University of Bahia, believes that it is impossible for such a culture to vanish. According to Rocha, the entire family nucleus is involved in the production of acarajés, which ensures that there is always someone with the knowledge to continue the tradition. In addition, there is a demand for acarajés, not only from tourists but from the local population too.

"We cannot forget our African roots. Besides, acarajé is a source of income for us matriarchs,” says Jucelia da Silva, who reports feeling like a queen on her throne when she sells her acarajés on Duro beach in Vera Cruz. ●

Maria preparing the batter — Preparing the batter.

Bolinho de estudante, or “student cake” — Bolinho de estudante, or “student cake.”

a Baiana de Acarajé at work in Praça da Sé, a square located in the historic center of Salvador — A Baiana de Acarajé at work in Praça da Sé, a square located in the historic center of Salvador.

piles of beans — Piles of black-eyed peas for acarajé.

Claudete de Souza, 63, who participated in the ABAM course meant to help Baiana de Acarajé improve their business models.