
Chef Juliana
Maionese de Batata
You don't need a family secret. You need potatoes cooked until tender, onion softened by vinegar, and a homemade mayo that holds the salad together without turning it into paste.
A cooking platform built around craft, culture, and the stories behind what we eat.

Created by
You think cutting orange this way is fussy. It isn't. It's one knife, one bowl, and the reason feijoada tastes like home instead of just heavy.
You look at a peeled orange cut into neat gomos and hear that little voice: isso não é pra mim. Too careful, too restaurant, too much trouble for a fruit that's going beside beans. Anota aí: this is not decoration. This is the single sharp, sweet thing that helps the whole feijoada plate make sense.
The pê-efe teaches this better than any lecture: rice, beans, something from the pan, something green, and then, on feijoada day, orange. The orange cuts through the fat, wakes up the beans, and gives your mouth a clean place to land. That's not mystique. That's a plate doing its job.
The method is plain. Cut away the peel and white pith because the pith is bitter. Slice between the membranes because the membranes are chewy. Catch the juice because throwing it away would be silly, and I may have done sillier things in my early kitchen life, but not that one anymore.
By the end, you'll have naked little gomos, glossy and bright, ready to sit beside feijão, farofa, couve, and rice. Cozinhar não é dom, é um aprendizado. Even when the lesson is an orange.
Orange slices became the expected companion to feijoada across Brazil, especially in the Saturday service built around black beans, pork, rice, farofa, and sautéed couve. The fruit is not just a pretty side: its acidity and sweetness balance the richness of the stew and help the meal feel less heavy. Food historians are also careful with feijoada's origin story, since the romantic tale of enslaved people inventing it from scraps is now widely disputed in favor of a broader history of bean-and-meat stews adapted in Brazil.
Quantity
4 medium
firm, heavy, and juicy
Quantity
1 small pinch
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| sweet orangesfirm, heavy, and juicy | 4 medium |
| fine salt (optional) | 1 small pinch |
Pick oranges that feel heavy for their size and smell fresh at the stem end. Heavy means juice, and juice is the point here. If the fruit is dry, tired, or traveled half the world to get to you, cook with the season instead. When orange is good, it's usually cheap, local, and doing half the work already.
Set one orange on the board and cut a thin slice off the top and bottom until you see the flesh. This gives the fruit a flat base so it doesn't roll under your knife. A rolling orange is how a simple job becomes a stupid bandage.
Stand the orange upright and slice from top to bottom, following the curve of the fruit, taking off the peel and the white pith together. Turn and repeat until the orange is clean and bright, with no thick white patches. The pith is bitter, so don't leave it there and then blame the orange.
Hold the orange over a bowl and cut along one side of a membrane, then the other side, letting each gomo fall into the bowl. Work gently, following the natural lines you can see. You're not carving a statue. You're freeing the sweet flesh from the chewy membrane so each bite is clean.
When all the gomos are out, squeeze the leftover membrane over the bowl. That juice belongs on the plate, especially beside feijoada, where it brightens the beans and farofa. Toss the dry membrane when it's done giving you what it has.
Taste one gomo. If the oranges are very sweet, leave them alone. If they taste flat, add one tiny pinch of salt and toss gently until the surface glistens. Serve the gomos chilled or at room temperature beside feijoada, rice, farofa, and couve, where they cut the richness and settle the meal.
1 serving (about 130g)
Culinary guides, cultural storytelling, and the editorial depth that makes cooking meaningful.
Discover Culinary Explorer
Chef Juliana
You don't need a family secret. You need potatoes cooked until tender, onion softened by vinegar, and a homemade mayo that holds the salad together without turning it into paste.

Chef Juliana
You don't need courage for salad, you need order: dry the leaves, salt the tomatoes, dress at the last minute. That's how the fresh corner of the pê-efe stays crisp.

Chef Juliana
You don't need mayo to make potatoes behave. Dress them warm with vinegar, onion, and bacon fat, and every slice turns sharp, glossy, and ready for the pê-efe.

Chef Juliana
You don't need a secret hand for Christmas maionese. You need potatoes cut evenly, cooked just tender, cooled properly, and folded gently so the salad stays creamy, not smashed.