French

Most split pea soup recipes are ridiculously predictable. Some onion, a bit of carrot, maybe some cut-up spuds. A ham hock. Inevitably, split peas are the main attraction, usually cooked to a mushy consistency. But I was looking for texture and additional flavor, so I added some dried chanterelle mushrooms; half an onion, thinly sliced well browned; some chopped tomatoes; fresh celery leaves; carrots; and spinach. I considered adding liquid smoke because the ham hock was out. But as luck would have it, one of my wooden spoons caught on fire, so I let it burn, then put out the fire and stuck the charred spoon in the soup. If a winemaker can use charred oak to enhance flavors of her wine, then why can’t I use charred wood for that desired essence of smoke in my soup? (P.S. DO NOT try this at home! Using a smoked salt should achieve similar effects without the fire!)

A classic quiche Lorraine has long been one of my favorite dishes. You can make a good crustless, meatless in the slow cooker, drawing upon that gentle heat. I like to use a smoked salt to supply the smoky flavor that would ordinarily give. Serve with a crispy green salad.

Few countries do potatoes and cheese as well as France and Switzerland. Raclette, scalloped potatoes, pommes de terre dauphinoises, whipped, or whatever, a couple hundred years of potatoes and cheese and a knack for cooking have made them experts at the many comforting ways these two inexpensive, favorite ingredients can be combined. The Auvergne is a region in south-central France known, among other things, for its popular blue cheese called Bleu d’Auvergne.

Fondue has provided nourishment to mountain folk in Switzerland and the Italian and French Alps through many a hard, cold winter. Made from what must have been, at times, the only ingredients at hand, stale bread and hard cheese, the communal rites that developed around the eating of fondue sustained spirits as well as bodies. Although Emmentaler, Gruyère, and fontina are fondue classics, you can actually use any kind of “mountain” cheese, such as Appenzeller, Comté, or Beaufort. The slow, even heat of the slow cooker is just perfect for making a smooth, effortless fondue. I suggest using a 2- or 3-quart slow cooker for the fondue. It fits more easily on the table and is more suitable size for this amount of fondue.

Thin strips of soft-candied citrus peel enliven the flavor of desserts and look beautiful as garnishes for cakes, fruit compotes, sherbets, custards, and, especially, Champagne Gelée (page 114). Although it’s convenient to have a jar on hand to use on a whim, they’re quick and easy to make.

I’ve seen fights break out among pastry chefs over what constitutes crème anglaise, so I’ll stick with the classic. This versatile custard sauce isn’t so rich that it overwhelms, but it is smooth enough to provide a creamy, luxurious component to desserts such as cakes and cobblers. Although not traditional, try a pour of crème anglaise in a bowl of fruit sorbet—the silken richness is a spot-on counterpoint to the icy scoop.

Sabayon is the French version of Italian zabaglione, an airy egg-and-wine custard. It requires a certain amount of energy—and strength—to whip up a batch. If you’ve ever heard a frenzy of whisking coming from the kitchen at an Italian restaurant, you’ve heard why many Italian cooks (especially the sturdy grandmas) have such well-developed arms. But one lick of the boozy, frothy dessert is enough to make you forget those few furious minutes of whipping. If you don’t think you’re up to the task, you can use an electric handheld mixer. But I always feel that if I’ve worked hard to make something, I’ve earned the right to eat it. You can serve the sabayon hot from the stove, although here, it is cooled and whipped cream is added so it can be held before serving.

The batter for these French puffs is made on the stovetop, then shaped and baked until the eggy mounds balloon into airy, hollow spheres. The puffs take to all sorts of fillings, from simple whipped cream (page 239) to scoops of ice cream, as for Anise-Orange Ice Cream Profiteroles with Chocolate Sauce (page 172). No special equipment is required to make them, and they come together with ingredients you probably already have on hand. A few things to keep in mind: Measure the ingredients carefully—too much liquid results in flat puffs. Dump in the flour just when the butter is melted; if you wait too long, too much of the water will cook off. The finished batter should be thick and shiny and should stick to the spatula when you lift it. Finally, be sure to bake the puffs until they’re deep golden brown all the way around. If they’re underbaked, they may collapse cooling; the darker color means the puffs will stay crisper, too.

A thin layer of frangipane baked under a pinwheel of sliced fruit in a tart shell crust not only adds richness and the flavor of almonds to complement the sweet-tangy fruit, it also helps keep the tart shell crisp because it acts as a barrier between fruit juices and the pastry. Almond paste is available in the baking aisle of supermarkets. It is not marzipan, which has more sugar and is usually used for modeling and shaping.

One of the basics in any baker’s repertoire is crème pâtissière, or pastry cream. Though the word “cream” appears in its name, there is, in fact, no cream in pastry cream. Cooking egg yolks and milk with a bit of flour creates a smooth, rich custard that looks and tastes as if it were made with cream. Pastry cream is used as the base for many soufflés. It can also be spread in a prebaked tart shell (page 229) and topped with fresh fruit to make a seasonal fruit tart, or piped as a filling into pâte à choux puffs (page 232) that are then smothered in warm Bittersweet Chocolate Sauce (page 243).

I thought I knew all about chocolate truffles until I enrolled in an advanced course in chocolate making at a school for professionals next to the Valrhona factory in France’s Rhône Valley. I spent three very intense days there learning how to combine three simple ingredients—chocolate, cream, and butter—into silky smooth ganache. In the class were eight of the top chocolatiers in the world, plus a ninth person, who quickly realized that he had a lot more to learn about chocolate than he thought he did. Ganache seems simple, but chef Philippe Givre taught us how to whip these three ingredients into a velvety paste that needed several days of rest before it was ready to be tasted. (It’s worth the wait!) It would take a whole book to explain his technique and a professionally equipped kitchen attached to a chocolate factory to try it out, so for this recipe, I’ve shortened the process a bit. Of course, to make these truffles, it’s worth seeking out the best chocolate you can find, which, if you’re lucky like I was, might be right next door.

This recipe is much easier to make than conventional tuiles because the batter isn’t as fussy and it doesn’t need to be painstakingly spread out on a baking sheet with a spatula. The heat of the oven takes care of the spreading, making sure that the cookies expand to the right dimensions as they bake. No, unfortunately, the oven can’t mix up the batter for you, but maybe in a few years kitchen technology will make that an option. The cookies can be coaxed into an endless variety of shapes warm out of the oven—they can be curled over a rolling pin for traditional tuiles, wrapped around the handle of a wooden spoon into cigar-like tubes, or molded over the bottom of an overturned teacup into nifty cookie cups for holding ice cream. You’ll have to do that part yourself, too, but then again, why let your oven have all the fun?

It was as if someone hit the switch one day and all of a sudden, a flash of electric-green took Paris by storm. You couldn’t walk past a pâtisserie without seeing something sweet and shockingly green standing out among the more traditional-looking pastries in the lavish window displays. Although the deluge of green tea desserts spread far and wide throughout the city, the best can be found at the shop of Sadaharu Aoki, a Japanese pâtissier who wows normally blasé Parisians with his classic French desserts made with a twist. He incorporates ingredients like black sesame seeds and sweet red beans into his pastries, creating a marriage of flavors that would’ve stunned Escoffier. I came up with my own recipe for these flavor-packed almond teacakes flecked with a bit of salt and sesame seeds because I was certain that the staff at his shop was tired of wiping my nose prints off the windows.

This recipe is the result of a 12-year obsession. I first fell for these wispy cookies when I bought a startlingly pricey pack of them at an upscale gourmet store in America. When I moved to France, I was surprised how common these crackly cookies are. I was so excited—they were everywhere! Have I mentioned that I’m obsessive? It shouldn’t come as a surprise, then, that I just had to come up with a recipe for the cookies myself. I checked the ingredients list on as many packages as I could get my hands on, and they certainly seemed simple enough. What followed was years of duds as I searched for ways to combine the mere handful of ingredients into the lightly caramelized croquants of my dreams. Then, suddenly, one day, after a lot of trial and just as much error, I got it right. I wasn’t the only one pleased with the results: I left a sack for the highly opinionated French woman who cleans my apartment, and arrived home later to find a little note that read “EXTRA DELICIEUX. Merci, David!”

Writing an ice cream book means two things: (1) you’ll need to buy a separate freezer, and (2) you’re going to have buckets of egg whites left over. Because this recipe uses quite of bit of egg whites, it was a staple in my repertoire for a while. I was certain all my friends (and neighbors, and delivery men, and local merchants, and the people who work in my doctor’s office) would tire of eating these coconut macaroons, but never once did I hear a complaint. Dipping the bottoms in dark chocolate isn’t required, but it really lifts the macaroons to a whole different level. I very highly recommend it.

Sabayon is the French term for zabaglione, the frothy Italian dessert made of egg yolks and wine. It was a great day when I discovered that it could be frozen and scooped like ice cream without being churned in an ice cream maker. Because of the less-than-shy wine flavor, it holds its place in a bowl of fruit soup, especially one made with intensely flavored blood oranges.

Although this dessert sounds old-fashioned, the frozen sour cream is a modern-day update. And the fact remains that it’s a wonderful way to use a bounty of ripe summer berries. Such an elegant dessert couldn’t be easier to make—the frozen sour cream, which doesn’t require any cooking, is churned like ice cream while the berries marinate in orange-flavored liqueur, and the two come together in wine glasses for serving.

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.

A few years back, I attended a class at a French pastry school that was, of course, taught by a French chef. If you’ve not worked with French chefs before, you quickly realize that to them, there’s one way to do things—and only one way. Our chef, for example, insisted on doing a cold infusion for tea, letting it steep in the refrigerator overnight. To prove his point, he steeped some tea in warm cream as well so we could later compare the results. The next day, when we had the tasting, there were muted murmurs amongst the students that we much preferred the warm infusion, but no one dared say anything to the chef. We just all nodded in agreement that the cold infusion tasted better. I still infuse tea in warm cream for custards because to me, the proof is in the pudding. Or, in this case, the crème brûlée.

When I worked as a pastry chef, I became known as “the crème brûlée bully” because I decided one night that I had had enough of crème brûlée and stopped serving it altogether. The reason? It was all that was ever ordered, and everything else on my menu went ignored. I realize now that I should have been flattered that guests liked my crème brûlée so much, and I apologize to anyone who left the restaurant feeling denied their favorite dessert. As reparation, I offer this recipe for lemon-ginger crème brûlée, the most popular flavor of the many that I’ve made, and hope I’m forgiven.