European

This salad is practically a meal in itself, especially if you fan out a beautifully grilled sliced chicken breast or some shrimp on top. Because it contains raw egg, this dressing, which can be made ahead, should be refrigerated and used within three days.

When a dish is called Niçoise (French for “as prepared in Nice”), it’s a safe bet that it contains tomatoes, tuna, green beans, and black olives. Though you could use jarred roasted peppers, the salad is best if you roast your own. And use the best-quality canned tuna that you can get—it makes a huge difference. Start this signature salad at least one hour in advance, so you can have eleven-minute boiled eggs ready and chilled. Ditto with the beans—they should be chilled after blanching. You may use either fresh green beans or the skinny French haricots verts in this recipe. All told, this is a beautiful salad, especially when the ingredients are cut carefully and arranged in groups. This dressing, good on greens of all kinds, will keep well, tightly covered, in the refrigerator for up to a week.

Thin, buttery, and delicate, these fall somewhere between crêpes and American pancakes. It’s traditional to eat Swedish pancakes topped with lingonberries (or lingonberry jam) or another tart berry, a slice of lemon to squeeze on the pancake, and confectioners’ sugar. These pancakes cook quickly because they’re so thin. In fact, they’re so thin that most guests will want three or four. Serve with your choice of herrings (page 196) or Smoked Salmon (page 191).

Adapted from a recipe by Julia Child, this country French dessert is made by baking a fresh fruit layer in an eggy pancake, then serving it hot with plenty of confectioners’ sugar and lemon or with whipped cream or ice cream. Choose your fruit according to the season: In the winter, use apples, and in the summer, any berries or pitted cherries.

Torta—Spanish for “cake,” “loaf,” or “sandwich”—is also a substantial brunch entrée in which the eggs are baked, often with vegetables. In this version, caramelizing brings out the natural sweetness in the onion and red bell pepper. Serve this torta either hot or at room temperature with sourdough toast and slab bacon.

Made in summer at the height of tomato season, this scramble is wonderful with fresh mozzarella or burrata, a delicious, buttery-textured Italian cheese. It’s important not to overcook the tomatoes or the basil, which will keep its bright green color when added toward the end.

Modern pasty recipes, especially those in the more touristy enclaves of Britain’s farthest southern county, stretch the recipe almost as far as Titus, swapping beef for pork, the rutabaga for apple, even daring to crimp the finished turnover on the top instead of at the side. I make one without meat, in which I use goat cheese and thyme along with the usual starchy filling of potato and rutabaga. It is filling, yet somehow soft and gentle, too.

Two of these cheese-and-potato cakes are ample for a main course with maybe a spinach or chicory salad to follow.

Peppers, the red, collapsed horns in particular, are heavily linked with Hungary and its rust-colored stews. The Hungarians make ground paprika from them too, which has become their most famous culinary export. Despite their South American origins, Hungary is where I have found the most dazzling displays of peppers in the markets. Two minutes, even less, from the river and the Szabadsag Bridge, Budapest’s market stalls glow deep rust and gold with tins of paprika and strings of dried mahogany chiles. I love the crumbling wooden stalls of scarlet-capped mushrooms with their stray pieces of iridescent moss, wicker baskets of black sloes, and small sacks of red berries, and the apparently precarious piles of peppers, Christmas red, clean white, and burnt orange turning scarlet. The long peppers that curl back on themselves have the intrigue of Aladdin’s lamp but are awkward in the kitchen, tending to tip their stuffing out into the baking pan. You can roast them, though, with olive oil and lots of salt, and eat them with sesame bread torn into chunks. The most useful, called Gypsy and the size of a fat rodent, are perfect for stuffing: with spinach and cream; translucent onions, capers, parsley, and garlic; cracked wheat, green olives, and toasted pine nuts; ground lamb and cumin. But mostly they are baked with a shake of the olive oil bottle and a grinding of salt until they collapse, wrinkle, and melt into silken strips. You’ll need bread then, in fat, rough chunks, and maybe a glass of bright beer. From August to the close of the year is when the market has the most from which to choose. After that the peppers come dried, in long strings of tobacco, madder, and soot. They shouldn’t be despised. By then the stalls are mostly piled with roots and cabbages, endless sausages, and wholesomely fatty pork. The paprika stalls, stacked with red and gold tins, are kitsch in a Hansel and Gretel way, their shelves covered in fastidiously ironed lace, like the old women who run them. Gulyas, or goulash, means “cowboy” and was traditionally cooked over an open fire. My paprika-scented pork stew—you could use beef-departs not too radically from the classical dish. I include dried mushrooms and cook it in a low oven, giving it a particularly deep, smoky flavor.

Anyone who has shelled a bag of peas will know how good they are raw. Far too little is made of their scrunchy sweetness, and I put forward the pod-fresh raw pea as an idea to throw into salads of pale yellow butterhead lettuce, cracked wheat, or dishes of cooked fava beans. They work in their uncooked state only when very young and small. Old peas are mealy and sour. One rainy lunchtime in June, I put them into a simple salad of Peter Rabbit lettuce, crisply cooked smoked bacon, and hand-torn ciabatta. The result—restrained, refreshing, and somehow quintessentially English.

It is often worth introducing some sort of richness to vegetables with a heart of starch. Ideal suitors include butter, cream, bacon fat, and honey. Jane Grigson suggests cheese, often in the form of Gruyère or Parmesan, as do others, who have been known to roll a stiff parsnip mash in grated Parmesan and deep-fry it as a croquette. To this list I add my own, a shallow cake along the lines of a pan haggerty (potatoes and onions topped with cheese), made with thin slices of the root layered with grated cheese and herbs. Parsnip haggerty, anyone?

Sicily’s cooks make much of the eggplant. They fry it in crisp disks, with mint and vinegar; bake it with tomato sauce and salty caciocavallo cheese; stuff it with anchovies, parsley, and capers; or grill it over charcoal before seasoning with garlic and oregano. Occasionally, they will roll up a thick jam of eggplant in soft disks of dough like a savory strudel, called scaccie, while all the time matching it to the Arab-influenced exotica of their cupboards: anchovies, olives, fennel, mint, pomegranates, currants, and pine nuts. The thin, Turkish eggplant with the bulbous end is the one they prefer, though you could use any shape for their famous caponata, the rich sweet-sour stew braised with celery, golden raisins, vinegar, and bell peppers. I can eat this fragrant, amber slop at any time of year, but somehow I always end up making it when the sun is shining, eating it outside with flat, chewy bread and maybe some grilled sardines flecked with torn mint leaves and lemon. If you make it the day before, its character—salty, sweet, and sour—will have time to settle itself.

Bubble and squeak is an iconic British dish made by frying leftover boiled potatoes and cabbage to make a large, flat potato cake that is crisp outside and soft within. Bubble and squeak can be as simple as the traditional leftover cabbage and potato fry-up or somewhat more sophisticated, with the introduction of cheese, smoked pork, fish, or other vegetables. The bells-and-whistles versions can often successfully disguise the fact that your supper is made from stuff you found at the back of the fridge. Keeping the potato pieces quite coarse makes the texture more interesting.

The market: stumpy carrots, the prickle of frost, dark greens, the scent of wet soil. Here and there among the trestle tables are shallow baskets: Russian kale, tips of cavolo nero with their infant leaves, broccoli heads the size of a mushroom, and sprigs of purple and white sprouting so small you can hold ten in the palm of your hand. Each sprig of vegetable is so precious, so diminutive, as timid as a chanterelle. I pick them up with finger and thumb, which seems the way they must have been picked from their stems. These are shoots plucked from the stem after the growing heart of the plant has been removed. No smothering of cheese sauce, just a three-minute trip in the steamer and a classic hollandaise to dip them in, let down with a dash of cream and a grating of zest from a blood orange.

Clean flavors here, a delightful main-course salad for a summer’s day. You could use other fish, such as red mullet, if you prefer, but the richness of mackerel’s flesh goes well with the sweet beets and tart marinade. Some watercress would be good with this, and maybe a few slices of dark bread and butter.

You can purchase a product called chocolate batons (available at specialty stores and online) that’s specifically designed for rolling into chocolate croissants. But, if you’d like to make your own batons from scratch, here’s a recipe, followed by a method for shaping chocolate croissants. You could also fill these croissants with almond paste, or try savory fillings, like ham and cheese, creamed spinach, or bacon crumbles.

In Greece and Turkey, this bread is called Christopsomo or tsoureki (also known as lambpropsomo during Easter). It differs from stollen in that it’s proofed before baking, but the proofing time is shorter than for panettone. Mastic gum, also called mastica, is an aromatic gum resin derived from the bark of a Mediterranean shrub tree in the pistachio family. It can be found at stores that specialize in Greek and Middle Eastern ingredients. It adds a subtle and......breath-freshening flavor and aroma (no surprise, it has long been used as a natural breath freshener).

Hot cross buns are a traditional Good Friday bread, but they can be made anytime (in Elizabethan England they could only be baked during Easter week or during Christmas, but times have changed). There are, of course, many similar commemorative breads throughout Europe, each with their own twist. Currants and spices such as allspice, mace, nutmeg, and cinnamon are commonly used in the English version. Much folklore and many recipe variations for hot cross buns are available on the Internet (and they’re worth reading), but I prefer the following additions to the basic holiday bread recipe. However, feel free to use your own favorite spice and fruit combinations, or simply bake the buns without any additions, as the buns are wonderful with or without the fruit, spices, and glazed cross.