Alcohol

I make batches of these in mini muffin pans, wrap them well, freeze them, and keep them on hand for last-minute parties. What a relief it is to have a dessert ready and waiting for an impromptu dinner. The only problem: I know where they are, and sometimes, especially late at night, I can’t resist unwrapping a few and eating them. (Yup, they’re pretty good frozen.) Before long, my party stash has dissipated, and I have to make some more. (Pictured on page 164, center tray.)

In these parts, everyone knows that “low and slow is the only way to go” when it comes to making barbecued brisket. Whether prepared in the oven, on the grill, or in an old-fashioned barbecue pit, it takes hours and a gentle heat to transform this tough cut into the tender, flavorful dish that shows up at shindigs throughout Texas—from UT tailgate parties, where on game days folks set up steel-drum barbecues in parking lots during the wee morning hours, to family get-together, ranch weddings, and backyard cookouts. My mom, who adored brisket, took it often to parties and family events, and I’ve recently resurrected the tradition. James De Wolf helped develop this recipe. I carted our brisket halfway across Texas—from Frederickburg’s five hours’ drive east to Long view—to share it with my family at our annual homecoming potluck.

The fading sun, an ocean breeze, a pitcher of mojitos waiting in the fridge. Open the door, fill the ice bucket, and let the party begin. Invented in Cuba and beloved by many, the rum-based mojito is an inherently festive drink. Friend and colleague cocktail specialist David Alan has created this refreshing watermelon mojito and thoughtfully devised a shortcut to reduce the workload for even the most laid-back party throwers. Preparing the base drink ahead makes it easy to crank out drinks quickly. Adding the club soda at the last minute ensures that all drinks retain the proper level of fizz. So before you set out for the beach, muddle the mint leaves, lime juice, sweetener, and rum in a large pitcher. Stow it in the refrigerator along with several bottles of soda water and a bowl of peeled, seeded, and chunk-up watermelon. Leave a dozen or so eight-ounce Collins glasses on the kitchen counter and when you arrive home with your friends—dazzled and thirsty from a day in the sun—chilly, refreshing mojitos are just moments away.

A day of lazy dipping in Gulf Coast waters calls for a cold bowl of cooked shrimp dipped in a sweetsavory sauce. That’s what my mom thought, anyway, and she always had cold shrimp on hand when we stayed at the beach. I love it, too, and it’s a great do-ahead that lets you set out something for your hungry guests as soon as you step inside after a day of sand and sun. I cook the shrimp and make the dipping sauces the day before and stick ’em all in the fridge. When I pull them out, everyone thinks I’m an organized genius. (Naturally, I politely demur.) Snacking on shrimp, nobody notices if I disappear into the kitchen for a little main-course prep work. I usually figure about one-third pound per person. The shrimp usually runs out before anyone’s hunger does, but that works for me. I want my friends to have room for dinner and dessert. If I don’t feel much like cooking, I allow about one-half pound of shrimp per person for a hands-on main course. Of course, I always offer dessert, often as simple as cookies (like Vanilla Sand Dollars, page 83) and ice cream.

While most of my friends are foodies, David Alan’s central focus is liquid refreshment. A coffee distributor by trade, he devotes most of his free time to the art of the cocktail. He writes a witty, drink-packed blog called Tipsy Texan. I asked him to create a couple of drinks for my backyard garden party. Both are beautiful to look at and delicious enough to be dangerous. The drinks are tastiest made one at a time and enjoyed immediately. If you are throwing a party with a spouse or partner, suggest they help by manning (or woman-ing) your “bar”—any small to medium table will do—for the first 30 to 45 minutes of the party. The bar action provides a focal point for incoming guests, and it’s a great icebreaker. Have all the ingredients and drink-mixing paraphernalia assembled in advance and set them out on your bar just before guests arrive. A large ice bucket, or even two, filled with crushed ice is a must.

My backyard fig tree is not always the most reliable producer, but when I have figs I make this dessert. It pairs an old-fashioned pound cake (recipe courtesy of my great-aunt Emma) with a chunky sauce made with my homegrown Brown Turkey figs. I love this dessert’s down-home elegance—a figgy topping poured over individual pound cakes baked in cupcake pans. You can use any fresh fig that’s available—light green, brown, or purple. In Texas you’ll most likely find Brown Turkeys, which I’ve been told were planted throughout the state by early homesteaders. If fresh figs are not available, use Bosc pears or tart apples. If you want a large, belt-busting dessert, use Texas-size cupcake pans. Standard-size cupcake pans will give you double the servings.

My friend Yvonne makes this salad for her summertime pool parties when we crave something cool and light, which is often. She tosses it in a big bowl, we throw something on the grill, and everyone heads for her backyard pool. Sometimes we float in the pool all afternoon, climbing out of the water only when we need a watermelon break. It’s a great way to beat the Texas heat. Using the scooped-out watermelons as serving bowls means this dish performs double duty: satisfying your guests’ appetites and adding an eye-catching decorative touch. It’s easier than you think and your friends will marvel at your artistic flair.

I placed this dish in the dessert chapter, but it’s so filling it might be best thought of as a brunch dish, or perhaps dessert-for-dinner. Adding sweetened bread crumbs to the preparation makes a French toast with extra crunch and a dark exterior, a nice contrast to the light, moist interior. I’ve turned the French custard toward the tropics by using coconut milk, and taken the topping to New Orleans with the classic combination of bananas, butter, rum, and pecans. Any other seasonal fruit can work: sliced apples or peaches sautéed in butter, fresh berries, or, when the fruit bowl is empty, your favorite jam.

My brother Michael once told me the two questions I should ask anyone who claims to make real (i.e., Texasstyle) chili. Question one: What kind of beans do you put in it? Question two: What kind of tomatoes do you use? Both are trick questions, of course, because the answer to both is none. There are no beans and no tomatoes in real Texas chili. The full name is “chili con carne,” and that’s what it means: chile peppers with meat, and very little else. When done right, it’s a beautiful thing. With only one kind of chile and at least 6 hours of simmering, it’s got the round flavors and slow-burning heat that define a “bowl o’ red.” If you want something hotter, add up to 1 teaspoon of cayenne pepper, or to taste. I usually make at least two servings, because after eating the first one (with saltines, grated Cheddar cheese, chopped onions, and, okay, even pinto beans as long as they’re on the side), I love the second serving on a hot dog or burger, or as part of enchiladas (page 64).

Salt makes tart things taste sweeter (and, oddly, cuts the sweetness of sweet things to bring out their subtler flavors) and mellows the sharpness of alcohol. The salted rim of the margarita is iconic because it capitalizes on all the opportunities lurking within the sweet-tart-alcohol bite of the cocktail; because it is beautiful; and because it revives us with every sip. The salted rim allows margaritas to be served on the tart side, so this recipe calls for more fresh lime juice and less triple sec than is commonly recommended. As tempting as it may be to bring out the heavy guns and rim the cocktail with more massive flake salts, I often prefer the fine crystalline froth of Marlborough flakey. It gives a truly satisfying crunch, like the feeling of stepping on powdered snow—a welcome sensation when drinking a margarita in the waning heat of a late summer afternoon.

Salting is a way. It’s the path you take. It lets you discover a passage through the brambles, defines the terrain ahead, sets you on a lost trail, and, toward the summit, reveals key ledges and handholds. The better your use of salt, the higher you can climb and the more enjoyable the ascent. And the view from up top is worth it. The Meadow Martini is a diamond-perfect expression of salt’s power to offer the clearest imaginable view of the most magical possible vista. Crushed Tasmanian pepperberries send blossoms of hydrangea crimson into the translucent liquid of the gin, unleashing extravagant botanical flavors. Tasmanian pepperberry (Tasmannia lanceolata) is sometimes used as a substitute for Szechuan pepper, though it harbors none of the heat and frankly bears no resemblance. If you can’t locate any, substitute a few petals of dried hibiscus or just enjoy your martini in its classic perfection, an arc of Shinkai Deep Sea salt as its only embellishment. Shinkai imparts to the lips the felicitous texture of confetti, and the unalloyed flavor of happiness itself.

The venerable Greyhound is made with vodka or gin and grapefruit juice, and if you salt that hound, you get a Salty Dog. So goes the logic. But logic is dull—or lonely. Vodka craves company. Its pure grain simplicity is receptive to a host of improvements that would wither under gin’s herbaceous glare. And who doesn’t love a peach, with all that it conjures—from climbing fruit trees to sipping Bellinis? And with the right salt—like a springwater fresh Bolivian Rose salt—the vodka and peach open up with a smiling opulence that quells the furor of even the surliest god.

Rum is distilled from various sweet products of sugarcane. Playing off rum’s sweet origins, a touch of citrusy-sweet chocolate adds intrigue to the strident heat of the alcohol, and a touch of salt unifies everything in a rush of flavor that would make Willy Wonka jealous. Cocoa powder can be substituted for the cacao beans or nibs, though it lacks their nutty fullness. No liquor cabinet should be without a small bottle of honey-smooth, smoky, tangerine-flavored Rangpur lime syrup. Made from the lime’s peel and juice, it is great not only to wet the rim of a cocktail glass, but also as a mixer in mojitos and margaritas. Kona deep sea salt is big, with a firm backbone of mineral and a glint of fresh fruit sweetness that bring harmony through leadership rather than brute force.

Life is so important. There is something you really need to say. But the high voltage coil of iron-rich Alaea Hawaiian salt rimming the Bloody Mary glass at your finger draws you like an electromagnet. The first sip trips the circuit and sends the electrical charge through your body, electrifying your nervous system, vibrating your body, rebooting the brain stem. The surge of spicy tomato juice, tangy citrus, and vaporizing horseradish courses through you. A nibble at the turgid stalk of celery returns things to rights, but by now you are far away, refreshed, restored, forgetting what it was you wanted to say.

Imagine strolling home along the long dusty road after a hard day in the fields. At the crossroads you encounter a gaggle of tow-haired youngsters sitting at a card table. “Sidecar, mister?” they shout. The sidecar is a lemonade drink for grown-ups. A touch of salt opens up the entire experience, makes it restorative. Citrus playing tag with sugar, chilled juice teeter-tottering with warming alcohol, the entire drink alloyed with salt’s wisdom and captured beautifully in a glass of coppery liquid.

Some bourbons, though they may come from deep in the Kentucky heartland of America, bear within them all the smoky mystery of a single malt Scotch brewed on the edge of a peaty moor in Scotland. To revel in the delicious tension of these two great whiskey regions, smoky up your bourbon with a pinch of smoked salt on the rocks. Take the sensation to its near-ridiculous extreme by making that smoked salt Iburi-jio Cherry, a soft and supple deep-sea salt cold-smoked with cherry wood from that much newer but dead-serious whiskey-making region, Japan. The salt brings just a hint of smoked bacon aroma that whets your appetite even as the drink slakes your thirst.

Whereas my second son was born without a volume control dial, my first son was born without an equalizer. The little one bellows and howls at the ceiling, pounds and slams on the floor. The big one rolls his eyes, giggles, and plays mind games, then lavishes you with smiles. Not surprisingly, their loves and fears and wants are nearly opposite, though not in the way you might expect. The big one, when he isn’t politicking, just wants to create elaborate dioramas of war and space travel. The little one, when he isn’t fighting, just wants to climb into your lap for a cuddle. The younger one loves to cook, the elder is a formidable epicurean. They are made from completely different machinery, as if one was crafted by a Swiss watchmaker, the other by a Tasmanian shaman. But they both love flambéed bananas with smoked salt. Cyprus hardwood smoked salt lends woody glints of bacon to the dish, while the salt’s unique massive crystals lend a perfect crunch. Either way, the dish has everything. Banana sugars caramelizing in hot butter, bourbon exploding into fire, and a globe of ice cream—the whole thing set into a smoky haze, like a carnival entering a battlefield.

They say we use only 10 percent of our brains. That assessment is immensely appealing. We are all potential supergeniuses with telekinetic and mind-reading powers, and could easily enjoy Heidegger or Joyce for light reading over coffee and donuts in the morning . . . if we only tried. But there is an easier way to experience the unbridled horsepower of our full consciousness: try roasted peaches in bourbon syrup with smoked salt. Your first bite will expand the boundaries of sensation separating your mouth from the rest of your body, and you’ll be feeling spiciness in the warmth of your hands and smokiness in the tingling of your toes. And by the third bite your mind will have moved on to peel the black backing off the edge of the universe, filling the unending space beyond with your pounding heart.

We use the cereal milk ice cream base (the unfrozen ice cream; stop after step 2 in the ice cream recipe) to make white Russians because it stands up to the Kahlúa and vodka better than regular cereal milk does. The liquor in this recipe dulls the cereal milk flavor, so we add freeze-dried corn powder to bring it back. Why Ruskies? Because I have a younger sister from Kazakhstan and a younger brother from Russia, whom my family affectionately called our “little Ruskies” when they were kids. Here’s to Zha-Zha and Dima.

For the porchetta at the RoliRoti truck, Thomas uses a deboned pork middle, cutting out about half of the belly fat and leaving about 1/2 inch of fat on the loin. If you’re unable to find pork middle (a special request item, for sure), he suggests using a skin-on pork belly and wrapping the loin inside of it. Thomas also uses his signature rotisserie. Using a home version would be ideal, but this recipe has been adjusted so that it can be made in a standard oven.