Dairy

Lou Lambert, another one of my chef friends who grew up on a ranch, now owns two Texas restaurants—Lamberts Downtown Barbecue in Austin, and Lambert’s steak house in Fort Worth. Lou got the idea for his seared chickpeas when he was a kid growing up on the family ranch near Odessa. “We had a camp cook who would make hominy loaded with chili powder and garlic. I adapted his dish with chickpeas. I originally put this on the menu at the first Lambert’s on South Congress, and it has been a mainstay at all the restaurants since.” I’ve been coveting this recipe ever since I first tasted it at Lou’s first restaurant. Now that I have it, I know it will become a mainstay for me, too, especially when I have some entertaining to do.

Cowboy nicknames for their cattle-drive cooks—biscuit shooter, dough puncher, and dough belly—suggest how important sourdough biscuits were to hungry, range-riding wranglers. No self-respecting chuck wagon cook traveled without a dough keg for his prized sourdough starter, the fermented yeast needed to make sourdough biscuits. I covered this macaroni and cheese with a generous blanket of buttered sourdough breadcrumbs in honor of chuck wagon cooks of the past. The rest has little to do with old-time chuck wagon cooking, but I don’t know a modern cowboy or anyone else who would turn down a bubbling pan of freshly baked mac and cheese.

Stuffed quail sizzling on the grill is a common sight at many a West Texas barbecue. A lot of my friends use a shotgun to bag their quail, but I snag mine on the Internet from The Diamond H Ranch in Bandera, Texas (www.texasgourmetquail.com), where they raise the birds and process them, too. They come vacuum-packed and ready for cooking, with the back, breast, and thigh bones removed. All I have to do is stuff them with a spicy chile-cheese mixture, wrap them up with a piece of bacon, and then put ’em on the grill. I finish them off with a jalapeño jelly glaze just before serving. In all, a mighty nice dinner treat to share with friends.

Once looked down upon as so 1950s, the iceberg wedge with tangy blue cheese dressing has made a comeback, and with good reason. I’m always amazed at the enthusiastic response when I set out these salads—either on a party buffet table, or for a sit-down dinner. Guys especially love it.

My dear friend Paula Disbrowe, cookbook author, chef, and general partner in cooking, partying, and eating, created this recipe. She says, “Don’t be fooled by the term salad. This gigantic tumble of ingredients creates an incredibly satisfying meal, with big, bold flavors that will satisfy friends and ranch hands alike. Be sure to remove any wilted or bruised outer leaves from the head of romaine, so you only use the crisp, sweet inner leaves in your salad.” This salad calls for jalapeño cornbread croutons (page 241). Bake them up first and let them cool while you prepare the rest of the recipe.

A sensational ending for a dinner party, cocktail party, or just about any event, these rich cheesecake-like bars always draw sighs of pure delight. The recipe comes from my early days as a caterer in Houston. I think they taste best cold, but no matter how they’re served, they disappear quickly.

These delicate, pale-green avocado pancakes come from my former big-city life as executive pastry chef at Anthony’s, owned by Tony Vallone, one of Houston’s top restaurateurs. The recipe for these savory pancakes was shared by a sous chef there, and I fell in love with them. We served them with crab and pico de gallo. In this version, I top them with homemade crème fraîche and trout caviar, a gorgeous, orange, medium-grained roe. (It is also more reasonably priced than many caviars and sustainably raised.) Incredibly simple, the pancakes must be made at the last minute and served warm.

It took my mother years to convince Chef Heinz at the Beaumont Country Club to share his recipe for brandied Cheddar cheese soup. Once she got the recipe, it became one of her favorite party soups. I’ve tweaked it a little, substituting beer for brandy and omitting the Cheese Whiz (it was the 1960s, after all). Serve it in little bowls, shot glasses, or espresso cups, so friends can pick it up and enjoy this rich, tummy-warming combination in a few sips, without a spoon.

Chef Quincy Adams Erickson and I worked together in Austin during my stint as executive chef for a national chain. A graduate of the famed cooking school Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, Quincy now owns Austin’s Fête Accompli, a catering company specializing in fresh, handmade appetizers. I asked Quincy to give me a cocktail party recipe for this book and, as usual, she came up with a winner. Make sure you have a small cookie cutter that will make bite-size shapes that your guests can easily pop in their mouths. Use whatever shape you’d like: circles, hearts, stars, triangles, or squares.

I keep a batch of these buttery, cheese-laden cookies on hand for drop-in guests year round as they’re better than a bowl of mixed nuts and just about as easy to make. Versatile, attractive, and positively addictive, they’re great for a before-dinner nibble, a cocktail party hors d’oeuvre, or a pre-theater or movie snack with a glass of wine.

My mom was a veteran entertainer, and the Mexican décor of her home often influenced the menu. She insisted on doing things ahead and served a favorite casserole she called “sopa” at informal dinner parties. I never understood why she used the Spanish word for soup as the name of her casserole, but after browsing through several Texas community cookbooks, I discovered that a commonly used ingredient in a similar chicken tortilla casserole was condensed soup—cream of chicken, celery, or mushroom. Frankly, my inner chef’s code of conduct means I’d sooner come face to face with an ornery Texas longhorn than serve a casserole with a condensed soup base to my guests. But I remember loving my mom’s party sopa, and since she didn’t leave me her recipe, I created this meal-in-a-dish in her honor. I’ve nixed the soup shortcut, but I’m all for picking up a rotisserie chicken from the local market to ease the workload. Best of all, the casserole can be made ahead and refrigerated or frozen—on party day, just slide it in the oven.

For those who don’t speak Tex-Mex, chile gravy is a smooth sauce made with reconstituted dried chiles, broth, flour or some other thickener, and fat. The canned version—enchilada sauce—is stacked in grocery aisles all over the country. It’s worth the effort to make homemade, though, because fresh chile gravy is about as far from the canned stuff as Texas is from Toronto. I serve my cheese enchiladas topped with gravy, diced yellow or sweet onions, and sides of refried beans (page 161) and Rosa’s Mexican Rice (page 161).

We Texans love our queso, and although I’ve seen many a fierce debate over the use of one of its signature ingredients—Velveeta—most of us grew up eating it. For us, queso spells comfort. I don’t use Velveeta for anything else, but there’s something about its ability to melt into a creamy smoothness that makes queso, queso. The dip shows up at so many Texas tables because, for many of us, queso means warmth, ease, and familiarity—just the recipe for an easy, congenial get-together with friends. (Pictured opposite, left side)

A fresh-off-the-griddle appetizer offered just after guests arrive makes for an especially warm welcome. Pork quesadillas were standard fare during my catering days, when we passed them on trays as appetizers. Most of the components for this dish are made in advance, but assembling and grilling them is a last-minute thing. Frances, my college-age daughter, is a quesadilla pro, and at a recent party she stepped right in, saying, “I know how to do this, Mom.” She kept on turning out quesadillas until the tortillas were gone and guests had moved on to filling their plates from the buffet. It reminded me how handy it is to have a young adult around to help out, freeing me to greet and mingle. My daughter is away at college for most of the year, but teenagers—yours, a friend’s, or even a neighbor’s—can be valuable elpers at parties. Money is a strong motivator, so I always pay my teen helpers, and I always train them beforehand, letting them know exactly what I expect. Oh, and I always feed them, too.

I first ate syrup cake in the deep, piney woods of East Texas with a boy I once dated. We were visiting his grandma. She served squirrel stew with biscuits and syrup cake. I don’t eat squirrel now and I didn’t then, but I got that recipe for syrup cake. I later found out the simple cake is a Cajun country favorite, typically made with cane syrup. It seems that almost everyone in Louisiana swears by Steen’s brand. If you can’t find cane syrup, substitute molasses, maple syrup, or Lyle’s Golden Syrup.

I felt like a modern-day Pied Piper as I carried a tray of these cupcakes to the dessert table at a picnic last fall. A throng of kids sprang up behind me, each one clamoring for a cupcake decorated with the familiar white curlicue and enriched with a hidden cream filling. Soon, all that was left was an empty tray and the hilarious chocolate smears that decorated the faces and fingers of the youngest children. These are simpler to make than you’d imagine and, given the excitement they always inspire, they certainly are worth the effort. You’ll need a pastry bag with a number 10 tip to inject the cream filling into the center of the cupcakes.

Someone always complains if there’s no potato salad at our annual homecoming reunion in Long view. And while I never tire of getting together with my extended family, I do grow weary of eating the same old spud salad over and over. I decided a new version was in order and combined potatoes, buttermilk, sour cream, and blue cheese into a fresh-tasting, mayonnaise-free salad flavored with fresh tarragon.

I love the simplicity of individual salads in jars. Make the salad, toss it in an ice chest, and off you go. Once you arrive at your destination, the salad is ready to eat right out of the jar. Alternatively, you can skip the jars and toss the salad ingredients together in a large bowl.

This simple, delicious side dish was inspired by a meal at one of my favorite Gulf Coast outposts, Stingaree Restaurant. This casual Bolivar Peninsula eatery (there’s a bait shop on the ground floor) serves all-you-can-eat Gulf blue crab, oysters on the half shell, shrimp in many guises, and a seeming barge-load of other fresh seafood dishes. Stingaree is proof that you can’t keep a good thing down—it was among the first to reopen following hurricane Ike, the ferocious September 2008 storm that leveled much of the peninsula. The building was damaged, but unlike many of the peninsula’s structures, it wasn’t swept away, and the owners managed to reopen just five months post-Ike. I like to serve this with any simple fish or shellfish preparation. Try it with Big Easy Whole Flounder, page 73, or Champagne-marinated Shrimp Boil, page 67.

Chicken-fried tenderloin steak was a top seller at Rebecca’s Table, but I have my bartender to thank for the idea that led to this variation. One night, a couple sat down to eat dinner at the bar, and the husband ordered chicken-fried steak. His wife liked the idea, just not the red meat part of it. So the bartender says, “Why don’t we do some shrimp for you?” She was thrilled. Served with chipotle ketchup, adapted from a recipe by Texas chef and author Terry Thompson-Anderson, chicken-fried shrimp became a best-selling appetizer. It’s also a natural for informal entertaining. Once guests arrive, fire up the skillet, and enlist a helper to dip the buttermilk-soaked shrimp in the seasoned flour mixture. Other guests would be well advised to stay nearby. Chicken-fried anything is best fresh from the frying pan. Set the shrimp on a communal platter accompanied with a big bowl of chipotle ketchup and let guests serve themselves. I guarantee the shrimp won’t last long.