European

Braised meats are ideal for any large gathering because much of the work can be done the day before. In my opinion, braises actually taste better when the flavors have had time to meld and develop. And in the braising process, not only have you cooked the meat, you’ve also created a sauce. Osso buco is a classic braised dish of northern Italy, usually garnished with gremolata, a popular condiment made of minced lemon zest, parsley, and garlic. That’s fine in the winter, but in spring, I like to add two of my favorite spring ingredients: peas and pea shoots. It’s a brighter rendition of the traditional preparation. The risotto, perfumed with saffron, is the perfect starch for spooning up with the braising juices. I’m usually pro-cheese, but in the case of this risotto I find myself torn. Though the Parmesan gives the risotto richness, without it the dish is a little lighter and “more of the season.” You decide.

The stated purpose of my junior year abroad was to study at the famous London School of Economics, but the first thing I did when I got to England was land a part-time job at the Roux brothers’ (also famous) restaurant, Le Mazarin. Of all the challenges of living abroad, I never thought I’d have a problem finding something decent to eat. Boy, was I wrong. While the food we served guests at Le Mazarin was topnotch, staff meals were a different story. Stripped chicken carcasses, limp vegetable trimmings, and, if we were lucky, a box of just-add-water mashed-potato flakes were the components of just about every meal. The rest of London wasn’t offering many great options either at that time. Fish and chips and heavy pub fare dominated the food scene in the late eighties, before Britain’s culinary renaissance. The one thing I found worth eating (and could afford on the £10 a week my job paid) was scones with clotted cream and strawberries. And that’s exactly what I ate, for 6 straight months. After so many meals of strawberries and cream, it’s a wonder that I still love that combination. Panna cotta (“cooked cream”), a silken, eggless Italian custard, is an easy-to-make complement to perfectly ripe berries. I’ve added crème fraîche to the traditional recipe to balance the strawberries’ sweetness with some tang. You can make the panna cotta in individual ramekins and unmold them just before serving or make it in a large gratin dish and spoon it out at the table family-style.

Spaghetti carbonara was one of the simpler dishes in my dad’s weekend repertoire, and it was by far my all-time favorite thing to make with him. After chopping the bacon, snipping the parsley, and grating the cheese, my sister and I would stand back and watch the grand master perform the final act. As he whisked the eggs and tossed in the piping-hot noodles, we marveled at the transformation of our seemingly simple and innocent ingredients into a magnificent bowl of indulgence. It all happened in a matter of seconds; unlike his laborious stews, which took hours to make, this meal was all about instant gratification. In the spring, I stray from tradition and add lots of sweet peas and pea shoots to Dad’s original formula. The shape of orecchiette pasta suits this dish well; the “little ears” capture the sauce inside, ensuring plenty of flavor in every bite. If you can’t find orecchiette, use spaghetti or penne.

Morels are to spring what tomatoes are to summer: they epitomize the season. Their spongy texture and funny pine-cone shape give these wild mushrooms unmistakable personality. In order not to mask their delicious earthy flavor, morels are best when prepared simply. In a French kitchen, morels are often cooked with cream. And as with so many traditional pairings, when you taste the combination you understand why it’s a classic. Here the morel ragoût is bound with a little cream, spooned over toasted slices of brioche, and topped with dollops of crème fraîche. The soft herbs are left whole; when you bite into them you get a big burst of flavor.

Every time I make this flageolet gratin, I think about my first days at Chez Panisse. Everything went smoothly the first week. It seemed my studying—I had read La Varenne Pratique cover to cover and was working my way through Larousse Gastronomique—had paid off, until one of the cooks asked me to go and get a bag of “flageolets” from the storeroom. All of the blood rushed to my face. Too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know what he was talking about, I scurried away, hoping for divine intervention. In my panic, I spotted a French cookbook and quickly read that flageolets were dried kidney-shaped French beans. I found the beans in the pantry, wiped the sweat from my brow, and rushed back to my station. Saved— until the next time!

During my college years, I’d return home to Los Angeles every summer and promptly—you guessed it—look for a restaurant job. One summer, I did a stage at L.A.’s premier French restaurant, L’Orangerie. I started my stage in the pastry kitchen with Chef Yves. He taught me the classic techniques of crème brûlée, chocolate puff pastry, and soufflés made to order. But my favorite of his desserts was sautéed apples with caramel sauce and crème anglaise. A little less formal and traditional than the rest of his repertoire, that dish was simple, straightforward, and all about the apples. To make our own version of Chef Yves’s apples at Lucques, we cut the apples in half, toss them with lots of butter, cinnamon, brown sugar, and Calvados, and roast them, basting all the time, until they are a deep golden brown and glistening with spicy juices. With a scoop of cinnamon ice cream melting over the apples, this easy-to-make dessert is an elegant way to finish a winter feast.

One particularly chilly weekend (yes, we have those here every once in a while), I needed a dish that would be opulent and soul-satisfying. At first, duck braised in red wine came to mind. But, I wanted something even more intense and a little bit sweet, and I arrived at Banyuls, a fortified wine from the south of France. Extracted from grenache grapes grown on the rocky, terraced vineyards that overlook the sea, Banyuls is classically paired with chocolate and has deep notes of chestnut, mocha, and dried fruit. As the duck and Banyuls cooked together slowly in the oven, the deeply concentrated wine permeated the meat and produced a rich ruby broth. A gratin of turnips and potatoes dotted with prunes and baked with cream proved the perfect companion for the tender, falling-apart duck bathed in crimson juices.

My first real chef position was at Alloro, a small Italian restaurant in Boston’s North End. In this all-Italian neighborhood, the owner was not Italian, but rather a Portuguese guy named Armando. Some cultures care more about food than others, and, like the Italians, the Portuguese are definitely devoted to their cuisine. Armando loved to tell me about the Old Country and the dishes his mother made for him when he was growing up. This dish is traditionally made with pork loin, but when I tried it, the loin was dry and didn’t seem to marry well with the flavors of the clams. So I decided to try it with pork confit, which would get crispy on the outside but stay meltingly tender on the inside. To give more pork flavor to the broth, I added chorizo and came up with my own version of pork (and pork!) and clams. In honor of Armando, I always make my pork and clams with fried potatoes. If he had his way, everything would come with fried potatoes.

The first time I had gâteau basque, I was living in the southwest of France and trying, in my little spare time, to sample as many of the local treats as possible. Gâteau basque, a very moist, buttery cake with a certain je ne sais quoi, was by far my favorite. Despite its name, it’s not really a gâteau, or cake, but rather two layers of buttery, crumbly crust filled with pastry cream. As it bakes, the crust and filling meld into one delicious whole. This rural dessert has many interpretations, with fillings that vary from almonds to raisins to fruit jams. For this version our first pastry chef, Sara Lauren, came up with a pastry cream spiked with an unusual combination of Armagnac, rum, orange-flower water, and almond extract. The cake doesn’t taste like any one of those flavorings, but together they somehow evoke that unforgettable flavor of the Basque country.

This lamb dish is saturated with the bold flavors of Provence—rosemary, thyme, garlic, olives, and capers. First the lamb is seared with broken sprigs of rosemary and thyme to infuse the meat with smoky, eucalyptus notes. Then it’s buried under plenty of garlic and herbs, roasted in the oven until medium-rare, and served with a sweet and creamy flageolet gratin, roasted radicchio, and black olive tapenade.

This dish is the Italian equivalent of the French grand aïoli. In France, a colorful assortment of vegetable crudités is accompanied by a large bowl of garlicky homemade mayonnaise. In Italy, instead of dipping the vegetables into aïoli, they dunk them into a bowl of bagna cauda, a “warm bath” of garlic and anchovy simmering in butter and olive oil. In this dish, I toss my favorite winter vegetables with the bagna cauda and pair them with a meaty Australian bass, barramundi. Feel free to adapt the recipe to your location, season, and cravings. If you’re in the mood for asparagus or potatoes, add them to the mix. And if you can’t find barramundi, this dish is delicious when made with another bass, snapper, or halibut.

These leeks are also delicious cold, dressed with a mustard vinaigrette and served with sliced prosciutto and chopped egg.

I’m not sure which parent I’m indebted to for this recipe. Probably both. When my mother met my father, she was neither a practiced diner nor an experienced cook. To rectify the situation and satisfy his own culinary demands, my father gave my mother a copy of Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking as soon as they were married. When I was growing up, this was one of my favorite recipes from that book. I served my own interpretation of the dish at one of our first Sunday suppers at Lucques. First I browned the chicken thighs and slathered them in a quick-to-make mustard-and-breadcrumb combo and then roasted them on a bed of braised leeks. The chicken emerges from the oven crisp and brown, while the leeks become tender, and permeated with the flavors of the chicken.

When I was chef de cuisine at Campanile, I had to make brisket every Friday for the weekend brunch menu. Pounds and pounds of it passed through the hot ovens and sat resting on the counter before it was put away in the refrigerator. Sometimes I’d hear someone whisper, “Hide the brisket, she’s coming.” Nancy Silverton, the owner, would suddenly appear from around the corner, fingers poised to pilfer the fatty top layer from the roast. It was so rich and addictive, we couldn’t blame her. When you buy your brisket, don’t let your butcher cut away that top fatty layer; it adds essential flavor and keeps the brisket from drying out. Look for a brisket sold “point-on”—that triangular end is the most tender and flavorful part of the meat. You don’t have to serve both sauces with the brisket, but I think it’s super delicious that way. One bite gets an herby, acidic note of salsa verde and the next one rewards you with a fiesty horseradish cream. When I made this dish at home, my husband, brother-in-law, and best friend managed to polish off the entire 6-pound brisket by themselves while watching a single basketball game. I was shocked. It’s always better to make more brisket rather than less. And even if your friends don’t have as big appetites as mine do, you’ll be happy to have the leftovers for sandwiches or hash the next day.

In my opinion there is no better accompaniment to pork than pork. I’m shamelessly infatuated with this versatile meat and use it often, not only as the key player but also as a seasoning. In this dish it’s both—the chop is the star and the bacon supports it, echoing the great pork flavor. Brining adds an additional layer of flavor, both sweet and salty, while also tenderizing the meat, making for an extra-juicy chop. Catalan romesco is one of my favorite condiments. Made from roasted tomatoes, ancho chiles, nuts, garlic, olive oil, and fried bread, this spicy sauce is delicious on grilled fish, fried tetilla cheese, roasted leeks and onions—I don’t know where to stop. . . .

Churros and chocolate have a long history at Lucques, and an even longer one in Spain, where they dominate the dessert scene in late-night cafés. The hot chocolate is made thick and syrupy sweet, meant for dipping the piping-hot crullers. In preparation for one Spanish-themed Sunday supper, my former pastry chef Kimberly Sklar experimented with traditional churro recipes from Spanish cookbooks. Though the flavors were good, the Spanish versions seemed a little too heavy and not tender enough for our liking. Then Kim tried a batch of pâte à choux, the traditional French dough used to make such pastries as cream puffs and éclairs. It was the perfect solution. Next we set out to conquer the chocolate. Again, in my opinion, the traditional Spanish hot chocolate was better in theory than in reality. Spaniards love sugar, and their version is just too sweet for my taste. Still thick and rich in the vein of the traditional chocolate, ours is super-chocolaty but not as cloyingly sweet. I like to add a generous pinch of salt, to play up the bittersweet notes of the chocolate. This is a festive, interactive dessert that requires some last-minute attention when it’s time to fry the churros. Make the batter and hot chocolate ahead, and just before you serve dessert, invite your friends into the kitchen to help you fry. It’s fun to watch the dough transform into deep golden brown snakes and then to roll them in the glittery cinnamon-sugar.