French

This make-ahead dessert is a great choice for dinner parties—the individual servings take very little time to plate and garnish, so you can enjoy yourself while still wowing your dinner guests with an elegant, delicious finale. The recipe’s first step calls for infusing its liquid ingredients with chopped pistachios; though the nuts themselves are later strained and removed, their fresh, delicate sweetness flavors every creamy spoonful of the rich custard. Prepared pistachio paste (available online; see Sources) adds more nuttiness and body.

Though French by definition, these delicate and lemony crêpes are an American tribute, boasting a sweet filling of tart, silky lemon curd and a juicy blueberry compote. The black currant–flavored crème de cassis contributes a sophisticated undercurrent of berry flavor to the compote and enhances its deep purple-blue color. Just as a stack of blueberry pancakes is made that much better by a melting pat of butter, a drizzle of browned butter enhances this dish with its nutty richness.

The apple tart is France’s answer to American apple pie. (Or maybe it’s the other way around, but really, who’s keeping score?) The light and buttery crust is a delicious home for overlapping slices of lightly seasoned apples. Rolling the dough over a bed of sugar fuses the granules to the crust, creating a sugary layer that caramelizes into a tantalizingly crisp outer shell as the tart bakes. I like to serve this with crème anglaise—a silky vanilla-infused pourable custard—flavored with apple’s favorite spice, cinnamon. It adds just the right amount of richness to the elegant tart. A little ice cream on the side—vanilla or caramel, for example—wouldn’t hurt either.

Those of you who love steak tartare—and there seems to be very little middle ground between those who do and those who don’t—will be positively enamored of this dish. This is a time when the quality of your ingredients is paramount—purchase the filet from a butcher whom you trust to give you the best selection as opposed to something prewrapped in the market. The egg for the mustard sauce must also be as fresh as possible as it is used raw. Savory anchovies add an extra layer of flavor to the creamy sauce, which pops with whole grain mustard. Crunchy, acidic cornichons, fresh jalapeño—an American touch—and shallots inject the lush tartare with flavor and texture.

A favorite cut of butchers, hanger steak is also the steak of choice for the quintessential French bistro dish steak frites. It may not have the cachet of a hulking porterhouse or a pricey filet, but what it lacks in name it more than makes up for in taste. Hanger steak has a rich, beefy flavor that is enhanced here by a savory rub. Bar Americain’s steak sauce is a balanced blend of the sweet and sharp notes of molasses, honey, Dijon mustard, and horseradish. You could serve this steak with Fries Americain (page 164) for your own steak frites, or you could make it the centerpiece of an American steakhouse meal by pairing it with Brooklyn Hash Browns (page 163) and Creamed Kale (page 169). (Both the rub and the steak sauce are available for purchase at bobbyflay.com.)

I always tell people that I want Bar Americain to feel French but taste American. This is a classic bistro or brasserie dish that you would find in Europe, and by making it my own, perhaps with a California Zinfandel wine and vinegar, I think we manage to do just that—feel French, taste American. This is an incredibly comforting dish capable of warming your whole being on a cold fall or winter’s day. I like the spicy heat of merguez sausage in this dish, but you could certainly use another variety of lamb or even pork sausage if you so choose.

This devilishly good appetizer is an American translation of the Alsatian tarte flambée. The pizza’s thin crust is topped with an unbeatable combination of nutty Gruyère, smoky bits of thick bacon, sweet caramelized onions, toasted slices of garlic, and tangy crème fraîche.

This classic French bistro dish is a delicious way to start a meal. Just as good at room temperature as it is hot, it’s a versatile appetizer that can be made ahead of time and even served as cocktail party fare. Thin rings of onion, caramelized until sweet and golden brown, are covered with a rich and eggy custard, topped with tangy crumbles of fresh goat cheese, and baked in a delicate crust much like a quiche. (In fact, this would also do very well at brunch!) Home-grown ingredients like local onions and a good American goat cheese, such as one from Coach Farm or California’s Laura Chenel, steer this tart from purely French to positively American. A cool salad of tender mesclun greens, lemony parsley, delicate chervil, and tarragon is tossed in a bright vinaigrette made with a reduction of fruity Pinot Noir. Plate the salad directly atop the tart so that each bite contains a bit of buttery crust, savory filling, and fresh herbs.

One of the most popular seafood dishes in France must be steamed mussels with fries. You will find moules frites in every kind of restaurant, from beachside cafés to, yes, Parisian brasseries. The seasonings do of course vary, but the most traditional preparation (moules marinière) steams the mussels in a broth of white wine, herbs, and some form of onions and/or garlic. The same ingredients serve as the jumping-off point for the fragrant green chile broth in this dish. Mild in terms of heat but heady with peppery flavor, a puree of roasted poblano chiles bestows the flavorful broth with a south-of-the-border twist that’s further enhanced and enriched by creamy coconut milk. Serving these mussels with good crusty bread—as well as the fries—is a must. Once you’ve finished the succulent mussels and crisp, salty fries, you’ll want that bread to sop up every last delicious drop of mouthwatering broth from your bowl.

One of my goals with the cuisine at Bar Americain is to re-create the classics of French brasserie cuisine with the best of America’s ingredients. The other is to put my spin on those dishes that make up this country’s culinary heritage. This dish is a perfect example of the latter. Chicken pot pie . . . could it get any more authentically American than that? It’s warm, comforting, and, in this case, super flavorful and beautiful to boot. I opt for a flaky, golden-orange sweet potato biscuit crust that opens up to reveal a garlic- and onion-scented cream sauce studded with juicy chicken, tender vegetables, and flecks of parsley. We make this dish with smoked and roasted chicken at the restaurant, and I love the extra layer of flavor that cold-smoking adds. If you are up to it, follow the directions on page 249 and skip the chipotle in adobo puree or smoked paprika, which approximate that smokiness in the recipe.

Here is that American favorite, Chicken Cordon Bleu, deconstructed. This gorgeous dish pulls the soggy ham and cheese out of the stuffing, layering them instead over a crisp, juicy chicken cutlet. The rich triple cream cheese begins to melt when it hits the panko-crusted chicken, which then anchors the paper-thin slices of cured ham to them both. Baby arugula is tossed in a bright, acidic vinaigrette of Dijon mustard and red wine vinegar before being placed atop the dish. The peppery arugula and mustardy vinaigrette cut through the richness of the cheese and complement the salty ham. I serve this at lunch, but it would be wonderful at dinner as well.

This soup is a perfect example of one of the things I love to do at Bar Americain: personalize a French brasserie classic with truly American ingredients. This is our American French onion soup. Vidalia onions are super-sweet variety of onion grown in—and trademarked by!—the state of Georgia. Their sweetness is unmatched, and the slow process of caramelizing them in this recipe intensifies their flavor. (If Vidalia onions aren’t unavailable, you can try Walla Wallas from Washington or Hawaii’s Maui onions.) Breaking though the browned crust of sharp Vermont cheddar cheese into the molten interior is the first delicious step in devouring this hearty soup. Fresh parsley pesto finishes the dish with a hit of bright color and flavor.

Bourbon is a truly American product, with Kentucky producing 95 percent of the world’s supply. According to federal law, bourbon must be at least 51 percent corn, distilled to less than 160 proof, and aged for at least two years in new charred-oak barrels. Bourbon also must be made in the United States. In other words, a foreign product that meets all of the other requirements cannot be sold here as bourbon. I love drinking bourbon straight up or on the rocks and using it in both savory and dessert sauces. It is without a doubt my spirit of choice. I also enjoy mixing it on occasion with other ingredients as long as those ingredients don’t mask the slightly woody, slightly floral taste of the bourbon. This drink is an American twist on the French 75, replacing the traditional cognac with bourbon and adding orange juice for freshness.

Eggs barely hard-cooked, dolloped with housemade mayo: without this simple, affordable bistro food, I would surely have perished under a bridge on the banks of the glittering Seine. A few bucks buys you a seat at a rickety table on a busy street for as long as you wish, leaving you free to jot remembrances and ideas as you soak up the sights, sounds, and smells of Paris. A crust of baguette dipped in the heavenly silkiness of real mayonnaise, a bite of egg, a sip of crisp lager, and you will want for little else in life, ever again, so long as you live. The waiter will scrupulously not talk to you. The beauty who spares you a cigarette flashes only a fleeting smile before vanishing. You are free, wonderfully alone. Most of my jotted remembrances and ideas revolved around my unending astonishment at just how good real mayonnaise can be. To emphasize the distinction between the ethereal wholesomeness of handmade mayo and the gelatinous goop that comes from a jar, I still refer to it by its breathy French name—just say it: oeuf mayonnaise. Homemade mayonnaise normally calls for a sprinkle of salt, but dissolving the salt in the sauce is a missed opportunity. Sprinkling little rubies of coarse alaea salt over a plop of mayonnaise reveals the clandestine romance of salt and sauce, animating this inscrutable dish, drawing attention to its splendors, and lending a glimpse of Paris to your day.

Salt isn’t fat soluble. On the face of it, this statement might not exactly make your spine tingle with excitement. Another unsexy observation: solid fat melts when heated. But combined, these two fatty facts provide the basis for one incomparably delicious meal. Heat a Himalayan salt block and toss on a duck breast, fat side down. The fat will immediately melt, but because salt isn’t fat soluble it will not dissolve, and the duck breast will pick up only the faintest trace of salt. When you flip the breast to the lean side, the moisture on the surface of the meat will start to flow and the meat will take on a beautiful glaze of salt that carries the whole dish. Meanwhile, you can fry potatoes in the hot fat glazing the salt block! Simple as this dish may seem, it makes the best duck breast I have ever eaten. Serve with a good Rhône or Languedoc wine.

One of the great diversions of life in France is an intimate evening at the local bistro, where mainstays of French food are reduced to their basic elements for quick, casual dining. Côte de boeuf en croûte de sel is among the great bistro dishes: beef rib steak, cut tremendously thick, perfectly cooked, and served piping hot with a little herbed butter. Roasted potatoes can accompany the dish, but it is perhaps best to leave the steak to itself; the dish is so simple, so satisfying, that you will likely find yourself thinking of little more than another sip of good red wine and a nice green salad to round things off. This preparation calls for a lot of salt, but fear not, the resulting steak will be seasoned to perfection. Whatever you do, use moist sel gris, never desiccating kosher salt, for your salt crust.

Don your chain mail and broadsword. Ancient food, harbinger of tragedy and regret, roast partridges spur thoughts of delicious violence, provoking a savage appetite spurred by rich flavors and primal aromas. Daedalus, who built the labyrinth that held the Minotaur, flung his brilliant disciple Perdrix off a roof, only to have him transformed into a partridge by the goddess Athena, who has a thing for geniuses. One of the oldest partridge recipes comes from the French, who would encrust foods in salt to protect them from the scorching heat of the oven. The guards of the Aigues-Mortes salt fields, had they survived being massacred by invading Burgundians, would surely have appreciated this dish. The Burgundians were eventually massacred as well, and their bodies buried in a tower filled with salt. Athena would have approved of their ingenuity, and of salt crusting in general, though it is doubtful that she would have approved of this choice of bird for the roasting.

Peas are so perfect on their own, it’s a wonder it ever occurred to anyone to cook them in the first place. But fortunately someone did. A trillion peas later, after endless refinements on the art of making a pea more perfect than a pea, the French Laundry created its cold pea soup, a spring rain cloud of viridian sugars skimming a truffled forest. But before Thomas Keller could make his soup, we had to grow up watching Julia Child chiding us about making the blanching water incredibly hot, and salting it, and treating the pea with the utmost love and care. It was Julia Child who rescued cooked peas from the ignominy of creamed cafeteria concoctions, restored their preciousness, and gave them back to us like so many incandescent pearls rolled from the fair hand of nature. A drop of saffron cream shot through with a taut bolt of salt cradles and charges this blanched pea with its own electricity.