Tomato

Probably the quickest salsa you can make and a fresh, delicious one for chips or simply cooked fish or chicken. Best with good fresh tomatoes, but still decent with canned (and definitely better with canned than with hard, unripe “fresh”).

If you can grill the tomatoes for this salsa—especially over wood—so much the better. But you can broil or even pan-grill them, and the salsa will still be good, as long as you make sure they blacken a bit. This makes a wonderful all-purpose condiment, and a great salsa for burritos and tacos; it’s also fabulous used in an omelet or scrambled eggs.

A standard and very useful salsa, great with anything grilled. I don’t make it fiery hot—it’s based on mild chiles—but you can add more of the hot ones if you like, and it’s easy enough.

Reminiscent of canned chipotles in adobo, but obviously fresher and with an emphasis on the tomatoes and the smokiness the chipotles bring, rather than their heat. (You can, of course, make it hotter by adding more chipotles.) It’s good stirred into soups but is used primarily as a salsa for bland dishes, whose blandness will be turned around immediately.

When dried—as you will usually find them—pasillas are often called chile negro, or black chile. They are thin, small, shriveled, and very dark. They are also earthy and not especially hot, so they yield a rich, densely flavored sauce traditionally used with lamb, beef, and chicken. If you want some heat, soak a dried chipotle or two with the pasillas. If you can find fresh tomatillos, use them in place of the tomatoes. Slip off the papery husks and add a little water to the sauce.

Pumpkin seeds figure heavily in much Mexican cooking. You can buy them toasted, but toasting them is an easy enough task, and they’re arguably better when toasted fresh—especially in lard or oil. (If you’d like to avoid the mess—or the lard—you can also toast the seeds on a baking sheet in a 350°F oven or in a dry skillet as you would sesame seeds, page 596.) Ancho chiles—dried poblanos—are mild and richly flavored. You can use them freely without worrying about overpowering heat. This sauce is best served over something simple, like grilled steak or chicken.

A raw salsa, with nice strong flavors. Best with tomatillos, but still good with not-too-hard green tomatoes. I like to mix a little just-ripe red tomato in as well.

This dish contains a lot of flavors, but one distinguishes Indonesian cooking from almost every other: dried shrimp. These tiny crustaceans can be bought at most Asian markets and need only be soaked in hot water for a few minutes before use. (There’s also a shrimp paste, which requires no soaking; you can use this instead.) But, like nam pla—Southeast Asian fish sauce—dried shrimp are an acquired taste for many people. I like them, but I’ve also made this successfully without them when I fear guests will balk. Other vegetables you can prepare this way: I’ve never seen this without green beans, but certainly you could substitute any root vegetable for the carrot and zucchini or any other summer squash for the eggplant.

Ratatouille calls for a fairly specific list of vegetables: eggplant, tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, and usually onions. These are cooked slowly, together, with a lot of olive oil and some garlic. The dish is finished with fresh basil; how could it be bad? Needless to say, ratatouille is best in midsummer, when the vegetables are at their peak. It can be served hot or at room temperature and is delicious both ways. It’s especially good with grilled sausage.

The classic recipe for steaming clams and a good topping for pasta. In Italy, the smallest clams possible are used—with shells often not much bigger than your thumbnail—and here the best to use for that purpose are tiny little necks, mahogany clams, or cockles. When buying hardshell clams, make sure the shells are undamaged and tightly shut; this means the clams are alive. The only remaining challenge is to make sure the clam shells are entirely free of sand (you need not worry about the interior; that’s the advantage of these clams over steamers). Wash the shells well and even scrub them if necessary. If any clams remain closed after cooking, simply pry them open with a knife or your fingers.

A classic Spanish tapa, cooked quickly in small ramekins and served sizzling. In Spain, the ramekins are put over direct heat, which, frankly, makes me nervous; I use a heavy skillet and take that right to the table. The Spanish are practically obsessed with the type of shrimp they use and prefer them to be fresh rather than frozen; but most of us don’t have much choice. That’s okay: as long as the shrimp are of high quality, the dish will be delicious. Double the amounts here if you want to serve this as a main course, and, no matter when you serve it, be sure to offer bread as well; the sauce is incredible.

The taste of strong mustard distinguishes this Provençal specialty, which can be served as a snack or a first course. Although you can make this simple, rich crust in the food processor (follow the procedure for Sweet Tart Pastry, page 654), it’s so simple and straightforward it’s almost as easily done by hand.

The most exciting pissaladière I ever had was served it the open-air market in the heart of old Nice. It was baked in a wood-burning oven a few blocks away, sent to the market by bicycle, and eaten standing up or at picnic tables shaded by huge awnings. The wedges were gently sweet and intensely salty; the crust, just a half inch thick, was perfumed with the local olive oil and was perfectly browned and crisp. It was so simple—mostly just sweet onions on a wonderful crust. You can make a wonderful pissaladière at home: just be sure to cook the onions very, very slowly.

The slices of this Provençal custard are gorgeous, a yellow-and-green mosaic enhanced by the tomato coulis (a fancy word for “sauce”). Best warm or at room temperature, but not as good if it sees the inside of a refrigerator, so serve—as an appetizer or a main course for a light meal—within three or four hours. With thanks to Marie Martin.

You are served this everywhere in Istanbul and everywhere told this story: the dish is so delicious that the imam or priest to whom it was served simply fainted—“bayildi.” (Some people say he was so very thrifty that he fainted at the profligate amount of olive oil used, but since olive oil is no longer especially expensive—and a half cup is not that much, after all—you can enjoy this dish without guilt.) As is almost always the case, the small, light-skinned “Japanese” eggplants work best because they lack the bitterness common to larger eggplants. If you cannot get those, use the smallest eggplants you can find. This dish is always served at room temperature (or cold), so make it ahead of time.

It’s not entirely clear that this preparation originated in Italy, since portobellos pretty much surfaced (no pun intended) at the same time throughout most of the Western world; but at least it’s an Italian-style preparation. In any case, while we are accustomed to eating these large, dark, meaty mushrooms grilled or sautéed, they are also excellent served raw, as they are here, on Crostini (page 41) or in a salad.

The quantities for this recipe are extremely variable, depending on how far you want to stretch your cabbage.