French

I think there are two types of people in this world: the lemon people and the chocolate people. This recipe is for the lemon people. But if you want to try to please both, you could add a scant 1/2 cup white chocolate chips to the soufflé base when folding in the egg whites.

The surprising zip of fruit chutney counters the richness of mousse au chocolat and adds a whole other dimension to this unconventional dessert. I don’t know if it’s a combination the French would approve of, but when I made it as a pastry chef on a cruise line, a few thousand people gave their consent. Each plate that came back to the kitchen was scraped clean. Unlike traditional chocolate mousse that uses uncooked eggs, this one has a cooked custard base. So, there’s no reason for anyone with concerns about consuming raw eggs to jump ship rather than dive into this dessert full-steam ahead.

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.

This is the French classic that everyone knows and loves. I’ve resisted doing anything to change it, except be more generous with the chocolate than the pastry chef in the average Parisian bistro. Excusez-moi, but I like chocolate so much that I just couldn’t help myself. This recipe is a good place to use top-notch chocolate, French or otherwise. You won’t regret it when your spoon cuts through the glossy surface and dives into the smooth custard below. For best results, use a high-percentage dark chocolate, one that’s 60 to 70 percent cacao.

The almond-scented French cakes known as financiers are traditionally baked in small rectangular shapes meant to resemble bars of gold. Unless you’re loaded, you likely don’t have 12 fancy, expensive French rectangular baking molds lying around, so I’ve adapted this recipe for baking in a standard-size muffin tin, which works beautifully—and won’t lead you to finanicial ruin.

Friend and fellow baker Dede Wilson presented me with a slice of this tart after she made it on television. Believe me, if every viewer could have tasted it, ratings would’ve gone through the roof! The name of this tart is a little deceptive, just as television sometimes is. The recipe calls for almond paste, not marzipan, as the title suggest. (Marzipan is almond paste’s sweeter cousin that’s used for molding and modeling.) Yes, Dede took some liberties when she named her creation, but no matter what it’s called, this tart is renewed season after season in my kitchen.

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.

I love a good, classic version of tarte Tatin, the famed French caramelized-apple tart, as much as the next guy—probably even more. But adding slices of quince makes this variation extra inviting to me. If you’re unfamiliar with quince, a cousin of the apple, it’s likely because they’re inedible in their raw state, so they tend to get neglected by folks who don’t know about the seductive, beguiling flavor that’s coaxed out of them by cooking. Like apples, quince are in season in the fall, and they’re easy to find by following your nose; when they’re ripe, their scent is rather intoxicating. I often keep a bowl of them on my dining table to perfume my entire apartment.

Inspiration can strike at the strangest times and in the most unlikely places. I was in the men’s room at Racines, a restaurant in Paris. While I was momentarily preoccupied with other things, my mind wandered and I scanned the wall facing me, which was plastered with poems and drawings from local artists. Much to my surprise, in the midst of it all was a recipe for chocolate cake. When I returned to my table, I noticed a chocolate cake with the same name on the menu, so I ordered it. It was so delicious that I excused myself again, this time taking a pad of paper and pen with me. At the restaurant, the cake is baked with a handful of cocoa nibs strewn over the top. Cocoa nibs are unsweetened roasted bits of cocoa beans; they’re pretty widely available nowadays. Their slightly bitter chocolate crunch makes a big difference in the flavor and texture of the cake, but you can leave them off if you can’t find them.

I’m not a fan of fancy, complicated desserts, but I am a fan of anything delicious—especially when it involves caramelized nuts, chocolate ganache, and Cognac-flavored crème fraîche, as this cake does. True, this recipe requires a few steps to gather the components, but slicing layers of nutty meringue and spreading layers of crackly praline cream never feels like work to me. Like all good things, marjolaine is worth the effort. To make things easy, instead of laborious buttercream, I make a simple crème fraîche–based icing, which adds a distinctive tangy flavor and isn’t so rich. You can make the praline and the meringue days in advance, and the marjolaine should be assembled at least a day before it is served to give the flavors a chance to marry, so you can stage out the preparation. It’s really not difficult to assemble once you’ve gotten the components organized. And I guarantee, when you proudly glide a slick layer of chocolate ganache over the top and then take that first bite, you’ll be congratulating yourself on a job well done.

Substituting evaporated skim milk for some of the cream reduces the fat yet maintains the richness of this classic dessert sauce.

Is there anything more impressive and exciting than a flaming dessert? It’s not nearly as complicated as you might imagine, and what better way to make your guests feel special? You can make these crêpes in advance. Refrigerate them for up to 5 days or freeze them with waxed paper between each crêpe. Just bring the crêpes to room temperature and warm on a baking sheet in a 350°F oven for 5 minutes before serving.

While vacationing in Paris, I fell in love with the delicious fruit tarts. Here is my whole grain, sugar-free version with a fragrant frangipane filling made in the classic tradition using finely ground almonds. Now you can indulge and feel great afterwards. C’est magnifique.

I first became interested in soccas (chickpea flour crepes) because they are allergen-free, glutenfree, low-carb, high-protein, and delicious! Soccas go back to at least 1860. They are from southern France, but were most likely an import from northern Africa, where they eat a lot of chickpeas. In the nineteenth century, there were socca sellers at the markets and at work sites, where they provided the morning meal to the workers. The socca sellers used special wagons with built-in charcoal ovens to keep their wares hot while they announced them with the appropriate cries of “Socca! Socca! Socca!” I have kept my socca recipe simple, because I like the rustic flavor. You can top it with olive oil, salt, and fresh pepper, or go all out, topping it with things like caramelized onions and grilled red peppers.

There’s an old French saying that madeleines are supposed to take one back to one’s childhood. So transport yourself back in time, or begin the tradition anew with your little ones. These small, light, lemony, shell-shaped sponge cakes are easy to make; you just need the proper pan. They are perfect with a cup of tea or for breakfast with a glass of rice milk.

My French friend Christèle was kind enough to share her recipe for gâteau au yaourt. I have adapted it here to be allergen-free, but it doesn’t suffer one bit. The beauty of this recipe is in its simplicity. It is easy, fast, and clean. You use the yogurt container (called “measure” in the recipe) as a measuring tool. Feel free to experiment with adding additional flavors to this cake, such as lemon or orange zest, or more rum, brandy, or cardamom. It’s a great basic template to play with.

This meatless version of a rustic Provençal stew is sensual and satisfying. A fresh, crusty French baguette is perfect for soaking up its delicious broth. A bountiful tossed salad makes it a complete meal.

When you have bought more mushrooms than you are going to use up in the week ahead, a simple way to keep them is to dice and sauté them, what the French call duxelles. You can then pack the sautéed dice in a small freezer bag and dip into it whenever you want a tablespoon or so to add to a sauce, a soup, an omelet, whatever.

It may seem crazy even to think of making a cassoulet for oneself, although this one may be large enough to share with a friend. But if you have all the different elements, it’s not much more than an assembly job. You just have to think ahead. So, when you have that Small Roast Pork Tenderloin (page 42), set aside three or four little chunks of the flavorful cooked meat (they can be frozen and labeled “for future cassoulet”). Then plan on having Braised Shoulder Lamb Chops (page 48), which is always more than I can eat in one sitting, and use that extra braised chop (it can also be frozen), along with a lot of the good juices, to be the mainstay of your cassoulet. One can usually get a good pork sausage these days; even if you have to mail-order it, it’s a staple item worth keeping in the freezer. So there you are: start your beans the night before, and put this heavenly bean dish together on a wintry day off, letting it fill your kitchen with its tantalizing aromas. You won’t regret it. When I suggested to Julia Child that she include a recipe for this great dish in Mastering the Art of French Cooking, there really weren’t any good fresh garlic sausages available to buy, so Julia agreed that she had better work out a formula for making them at home. Several days later, I went up to Cambridge, Massachusetts, where the Childs lived, to work on the book with her, and I found that one wall of the kitchen was covered in notes on the work she had done to develop a formula for the authentic garlic sausage for cassoulet. Her research had taken her back to early French charcuterie books, and she’d made notes on each of her testings, ending up with her own carefully worked-out recipe. I gasped at her meticulous research, and then asked tentatively if maybe this might not be beyond the reach of the American home cook, but she reassured me. “No, not at all,” she said. “It’s really as easy as making hamburgers.”