Alcohol

Sitting in the sun, overlooking the beach, I could drink margaritas all day. Unfortunately, or maybe I should say, fortunately, I don’t live in a warm climate or anywhere near a beach. If I did, I’d never get anything done. Whenever I’m looking for a taste of the tropics at home in Paris, I’ll start squeezing limes in my kitchen and I’m immediately transported to paradise (albeit with bills piled up on the counter and the dishes in the sink). Practically obligatory to serve alongside margarita sorbet are salted peanut cookies. They were inspired by the disks of solid peanut paste sold in Mexican markets called mazapan or dulce de cacahuate, which I’ve been known to nibble on with a margarita, or two, south of the border. And above it, as well.

I read an article in a magazine about the difference between being “frugal” and “cheap” and was relieved to find myself in the frugal category. I’m certainly not cheap when it comes to buying ingredients, but it does go against my frugal nature to throw anything away. Here, oranges do double duty: the insides supply the juice and the rinds become the serving dishes for the sorbet. Those who are extra thrifty can candy some of the leftover peels to go alongside (see Candied Orange Peel, page 254). Egg whites left over from another project can be used to make the fluffy meringue that hides the sorbet surprise underneath.

The first time I split open a passion fruit and slurped down the dripping juices, the intense flavor knocked me for such a loop that I felt as if a tropical bomb had gone off in my head. From then on, I was hooked. Depending on where you live, fresh passion fruit may be hard to find, but they’re well worth tracking down. Don’t shy away from ones that are a tad wrinkled, as the creases indicate ripeness (they’re often marked down in price, too!). You can also buy frozen passion fruit purée (see Resources, page 270), which is inexpensive and convenient. It’s great to have on hand in the freezer: I’ll often lop off a chunk and add it to a pitcher of orange juice for a morning tropical blast.

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.

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.

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.

My grandmother used to throw a fit if I ordered something as simple as fruit salad or soup in a restaurant. “Why pay for that? You can make it at home,” she’d say in a voice that made you feel like a fool if you had the temerity to disagree. “Order something else!” Anyone who met my grandmother knew it was best not to cross her. Otherwise, you’d hear about it, repeatedly, for the next three to five years. Minimum. I feel that way about bread pudding. It’s something I want at home, not in a restaurant. My version mingles orange and almond and is a much more refined and luxurious than the usual bread pudding. Enjoy it in the comfort of your own dining room, but pretend you’re eating it in a restaurant, without anyone to harp on you about it. In case any of your guests decides to leave a tip, I’ll gladly accept my 15 percent.

Sweet, creamy mashed banana pulp is an ideal soufflé base, but if you think bananas are just too humble to be turned into an elegant dessert worthy of serving to guests, try these simple soufflés spruced up with some warm chocolate sauce passed alongside. Be sure the bananas that you use are really ripe—the skins of yellow bananas (as opposed to red ones that are less common) should be covered with black speckles and their texture should be soft.

These light, lean soufflés get their lively flavor from the intensity of readily available dried apricots, so this dessert offers the added bonus that it can be made all year. It’s imperative to use the highly flavorful dried apricots from California rather than imported varieties, which are bland and uninspiring. You won’t be disappointed.

This tart exemplifies what the French do best: combine just a few top-quality ingredients, doing as little to them as possible. Ganache is a mélange of cream and chocolate, reportedly named after a young baker who accidentally spilled some cream into the chocolate the chef was melting. The chef called him a ganache, which is slang for “idiot,” but when he stirred in the cream, they realized the mistake was probably one of the most brilliant things to ever happen to chocolate.

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.”

I once worked with a French waiter known for a fierce scowl that could cause even the most self-assured chef and diner to wither. He tasted one spoonful of these peaches and told me that this was his idea of the perfect dessert. It was one of the few times I saw him smile. But what’s not to like? Icy peaches floating in sweet red wine is pretty close to perfection, if I do say so myself. His good mood didn’t last very long. But after that, every time we passed each other, I knew from the tiny gleam in his eye that I’d won the admiration of my toughest customer.

I’m a big fan of fruit crisps. When I worked at Chez Panisse, I learned I wasn’t alone—they were more popular than our signature dark chocolate cake. But I’m not entirely convinced that I’d choose a fruit crisp over chocolate cake. Maybe I’d order both in the name of research. This fruit crisp topping, made with crunchy polenta, stands up well to the juiciest mélange of fruits. Here, I mix apples and pears, and it may seem like a lot of fruit when you’re doing all that peeling and slicing, but it cooks down considerably during baking. Use a good baking apple, such as Gravenstein, Winesap, Pippin, Northern Spy, or Cortland.

This is an unusual tart. Not just for its brilliant red color, but for how it takes people by surprise when it’s turned out onto a serving platter. Be sure to plan in advance, as the apples really benefit from marinating in the red wine for at least one day, although two days of steeping gives them the best color. You’ll find the tart worth the wait.

If you’ve never made brown butter, it’s simple. You put butter in a pan and cook it until it develops the wonderful nutty aroma for which the French named it: beurre noisette, or hazelnut butter. Here, custard flavored with brown butter provides a rich background for a tart filled with dark rum–spiked pears and toasted pecans.

If you’re as wild about berries as I am, you’ll find that this pie is the height of luxury and one of the season’s greatest treats. It’s a dessert that I make only in the summer, at the moment when berries are abundant and at their peak. When I lived in San Francisco, I’d drive east across the bay to Monterey Market in Berkeley where flats of berries were so plentiful—and so inexpensive—that I found it impossible not to come home with at least a few piled up in my trunk. In addition to turning the berries into jams, compotes, and sorbets, I’d always bake this pie. A total of 6 cups of berries makes up the filling—use whichever types you prefer. Unless you buy berries by the flat, like I did, most berries are sold in half-pint or pint baskets, so expect to have some leftover fruit, which I know you’ll put to good use. I always did.