Simmer

In the ’80s, sangria’s reputation took a nosedive when it came to be known as a syrupy-sweet wine sold in green bottles with a toreador deftly skirting a charging bull on the label. But if you go to Spain, you’ll quickly realize that real sangria isn’t a sugary liquid confection, but a fruity, icy cold drink that goes down easily, especially when the temperature outside is soaring. This simple-to-make sorbet turns sangria into a frozen dessert that’s even more refreshing than it is as a beverage. And that’s no bull.

There were quite a few things I missed about the Bay Area when I packed up my bags and moved to France. Burritos, bean-to-bar chocolates, and “centered” people were some of them. Okay, I didn’t miss the centered people. But I was surprised at how much I missed Meyer lemons, which are sweeter and more perfumed than regular Eureka lemons. Their vibrant, deep yellow color makes other lemons pale in comparison. If you’re lucky enough to know someone with a Meyer lemon tree, you’re likely to be handed a large sack of them when the fruits are in season. Some greengrocers and specialty markets now carry them, too. Otherwise, you can use regular Eureka lemons in this recipe, but increase the sugar to 1 cup (200 g).

Somewhere along the way, mint sherbet got a bad rap. Perhaps too many catered wedding receptions began with a pallid artificially green scoop melting away in the middle of a melon half, the sherbet chosen because it matched the bridesmaids’ dresses rather than for its taste. Thankfully, any color you’ll find in this mint sherbet comes naturally from a big handful of fragrant, zesty fresh mint. Unlike ice cream, sherbet is usually made with milk, and no cream or eggs, so I never feel guilty about indulging in a couple of scoops. Nor do I feel deprived if I’m craving something a tad creamy. Light yet creamy—it’s a recipe for a perfect marriage.

In case anyone thinks that the Internet is a cold, impersonal place, I’ve got evidence to prove them wrong. One day, completely out of the blue, I received an e-mail from a server who worked at a restaurant where I’d been the pastry chef, saying that not only did I have the sweetest smile, but that she loved the sherbets and sorbets that I made there. I don’t know which compliment was more touching, but I take any and all whenever I can, and via whatever medium they are sent. This was one of the sherbets I made at that restaurant, where I remember a different server taking a bite and her face lighting right up. “This tastes like a Mounds bar!” she exclaimed with a mix of surprise and delight. For me, that was another compliment, since that’s one of my favorite candy bars.

Some folks tell me they don’t like white chocolate. “It’s not chocolate!” they’ll say with a bit of smug certitude. True, but that’s like saying “I don’t like Champagne because it’s not white wine.” Both have merits and to say you don’t like one because it isn’t the other isn’t very logical. I fall into the camp of white chocolate lovers. To convince people of how good white chocolate can be, I often make ice cream with it and add fresh ginger for spicy contrast. And if that’s not enough, I stir in shiny, dark chocolate–covered roasted peanuts to give it nice crunch. If anyone still has any resistance to white chocolate, I call it their loss and am happy to eat the ice cream all by myself.

My parents were pretty strict with desserts. I wasn’t completely deprived, but sweets were few and far between. (I’ve since made up for lost time.) One treat they did keep on hand was a bag of store-bought pecan shortbreads, which were quite thick, had a sandy texture, and seemed a bit more sophisticated and “adult” than most other supermarket snacks. Whenever these cookies were in the house, I ate as many as I could and left a seriously plundered bag for my parents to discover. Times have changed and I’m sure the quantity of pecans in those cookies has dwindled since the good ol’ days. Now that I’m all grown up, I can enjoy pecans in any way I choose, and that doesn’t mean just pecan shortbread, but also this rich pecan-studded ice cream.

This is the world’s easiest ice cream. It takes literally a minute to put together, and doesn’t require an ice cream maker. You just toss everything in a blender, then pour the mixture into a container and freeze it, so there’s no excuse for even the machineless not to enjoy homemade ice cream. The one caveat is that the generous amount of alcohol is necessary to prevent the ice cream from freezing too hard. The good news is that all that booze means you don’t have to share your ice cream with the kids.

The first time I went to Mexico, I had no idea that ice cream was such a popular treat there. I had always associated ice cream with Italy, France, and the United States. Who knew? During that first trip, and more than a few subsequent ones, I made it a point to try the more unusual flavors, like ice cream flavored with cheese, smoked milk, and kernels of corn, and even fried ice cream (which was delicious!). But as much as I enjoyed trying new ice creams, I always found myself going back to chocolate. Here’s a recipe inspired by those coarse chunks of chocolate for sale in Mexico. They taste nothing like the disks of Mexican “drinking chocolate” sold in America, which are mostly sugar and rather skimpy on the chocolate. For this ice cream, use real chocolate and add freshly ground cinnamon for the best flavor.

When you live in San Francisco, it’s likely that at least 50 percent of your friends are real estate agents. One of my realtor friends is whippet-thin because he’s always watching what he eats. But he met his match with this frozen dessert. When he isn’t trying to talk me into buying or selling something, he talks about this gelato. People often ask about the difference between ice cream and gelato. As with most things Italian, it depends on whom you ask. But most people agree that gelato has a lower-fat base, which allows the flavors to shine through. This chocolate gelato has no cream and is proof of that theory. As is the waistline of a certain San Francisco realtor. This gelato is inspired by a recipe from Marcella Hazan.

If there’s anything better than a big, melty scoop of caramel ice cream, I don’t know what it could be. On second thought, I take that back. How about a big scoop of caramel ice doused with lots of warm chocolate sauce and sprinkled with toasted pecans? To make this ice cream the most perfect caramel ice cream you’ll ever eat, it’s crucial to cook the sugar until it’s dark amber in color and as close to—but just shy of—burnt as possible. I call it “taking it right to the edge.” I like the flavor of the ice cream made with the larger amount of salt, but because some people are salt sensitive, the recipe says to start with less, then taste the custard and add more if desired. No matter how long it’s frozen, this caramel ice cream stays scoopably soft, a big relief to those of us who are irked by homemade ice cream that freezes rock-solid and delays immediate gratification.

I feel sorry for people who tell me that their mother’s cooking was terrible: I can’t imagine eighteen years of eating bad food. Fortunately, my esteemed lineage included a mom who was a fantastic cook. Unfortunately, though, she was lacking the baking gene, so cookies and cakes were few and far between. She did, however, make wonderful tapioca pudding, which she served warm in a bright-red ’60s-style glass bowl. She always added an entire capful of aromatic vanilla extract to the pudding, stirred in at the last minute. Being hopelessly nostalgic (especially when it comes to desserts), I can still smell it to this day. Of course, back then there wasn’t much fusion cooking going on, but nowadays Thai coconut milk is readily available, and I use it in my version of tapioca pudding. In addition to vanilla extract, I include a vanilla bean for good measure. I don’t have any children, but if I did, I would hope this pudding would be just as memorable for them as my mom’s is for me.

I definitely have obsessive-compulsive baking disorder. I’d hoped to recreate the classic gâteau de riz, a French cake made by baking rice pudding in a mold. I tried fourteen times. The first time I made it, it was perfect: custardy and topped with a deep-golden crust, the top and sides bathed with a slick of glossy, thick caramel. When I attempted to reproduce it, it came out completely different with each try. Flummoxed, I sent my recipe to a friend in California. She made it two or three times and each time she also had completely different results. After a transcontinental tossing up of our hands, in her last anxiety-ridden response she told me, “but right out of the pot, it was the best rice pudding I’ve ever had.” And when I made it again, for the fifteenth time, I realized she was right.

I don’t think I have a bright future as a food stylist. For my first book, Michael, the photographer, insisted that I make and style all the food, even though I had no experience food styling. When it came time to shoot soufflés, I panicked and asked a real stylist for tips on how to keep them aloft while the camera clicked away. He suggested adding yeast to them, which sounded like it might work, so I gave it a try. But when I opened the oven door to pull out the first batch, they’d risen way high and arched over, looking like custardy Slinkys. So I went back to making soufflés a few at a time the way I knew best—without yeast—and ran them from the oven to the set to be photographed. I breathed a sigh of relief each time the photographer was able to capture a few shots before the soufflés’ inevitable descent. As soon as they started falling, we dove in and quickly polished them off before the next take. Later, when we looked at the proofs, we noticed my face clearly reflected in the spoon resting alongside the soufflés, which was pretty amusing—and completely unprofessional. Although my future as a stylist was in question, no one in the studio doubted my ability to make fantastic, if not long-lasting, soufflés.

The surprising zip of fruit chutney counters the richness of mousse au chocolat and adds a whole other dimension to this unconventional dessert. I don’t know if it’s a combination the French would approve of, but when I made it as a pastry chef on a cruise line, a few thousand people gave their consent. Each plate that came back to the kitchen was scraped clean. Unlike traditional chocolate mousse that uses uncooked eggs, this one has a cooked custard base. So, there’s no reason for anyone with concerns about consuming raw eggs to jump ship rather than dive into this dessert full-steam ahead.

Some people might consider it overkill to mix caramelized sugar with the lush flavor of butterscotch. But since the beauty of being an adult is that we can do pretty much as we please, I don’t feel the need to apologize for mixing the two in one cool custard. If you want to ramp up the flavor of the butterscotch custard with even more flavorful molasses notes than dark brown sugar can supply, try using one of the unrefined brown or cane sugars that can be found in natural food stores. Look for ones that are dark and ruddy, since they tend to have the most flavor.

Not all gelatin desserts are squidgy, old-fashioned jelled rings studded with oversweetened canned fruits. Take this thoroughly modern dessert, for example. You’ll see why it won top honors from a national food magazine that called it one of the “Top Ten Desserts of All Time.”

Despite the seemingly Indian name and ingredients, Chicken Tikka Masala is a decidedly British dish. While cooking spiced chicken in a traditional Indian tandoor oven is certainly nothing new, the British made it more to their liking by serving it in a rich, creamy tomato gravy, perfect to mop up with pieces of naan or pita bread. Its popularity soared, eventually leading Britain’s former foreign secretary Robin Cook to declare, “Chicken Tikka Masala is now Britain’s true national dish, not only because it is the most popular, but because it is a perfect illustration of the way Britain absorbs and adapts external influences.” Well then, they shouldn’t mind if I throw in a bit of Sriracha. . . .

Grits are a true thing of beauty when properly cooked. Unfortunately, instant grits can never come close. If you’re really pressed for time, wait for a pleasant Sunday morning when you can afford those few extra minutes. Your patience will be rewarded.

This popular Thai soup, known in its native tongue as tom kha gai, uses some choice ingredients that may be a little difficult to find, but I’ve listed substitutes for them in case there isn’t a specialty Asian market in your neck of the woods.

Chili con carne is one of my favorite one-pot crowd-pleasers, and incorporating a healthy dose of Sriracha just makes it that much more delectable. However, I must disclose to my fellow chili-philes: consider having an antacid aperitif (or two) before voraciously devouring this recipe. You’ve been warned. Enjoy with Bacon-Sriracha Cornbread (page 78).