Cookbooks

When I was growing up, my dad and I had an ongoing asparagus arrangement: I would cut off the tips of my asparagus spears and trade them for his ends. While most asparagus eaters like the tender tips best, to this day I still prefer the fibrous-textured stalk and would happily swap tips for ends if anyone offered. In this simple first course, asparagus is grilled, then layered with prosciutto and dressed with mustard cream. I hope it’s delicious enough to disappear before your guests have a chance to debate which end is better.

The stated purpose of my junior year abroad was to study at the famous London School of Economics, but the first thing I did when I got to England was land a part-time job at the Roux brothers’ (also famous) restaurant, Le Mazarin. Of all the challenges of living abroad, I never thought I’d have a problem finding something decent to eat. Boy, was I wrong. While the food we served guests at Le Mazarin was topnotch, staff meals were a different story. Stripped chicken carcasses, limp vegetable trimmings, and, if we were lucky, a box of just-add-water mashed-potato flakes were the components of just about every meal. The rest of London wasn’t offering many great options either at that time. Fish and chips and heavy pub fare dominated the food scene in the late eighties, before Britain’s culinary renaissance. The one thing I found worth eating (and could afford on the £10 a week my job paid) was scones with clotted cream and strawberries. And that’s exactly what I ate, for 6 straight months. After so many meals of strawberries and cream, it’s a wonder that I still love that combination. Panna cotta (“cooked cream”), a silken, eggless Italian custard, is an easy-to-make complement to perfectly ripe berries. I’ve added crème fraîche to the traditional recipe to balance the strawberries’ sweetness with some tang. You can make the panna cotta in individual ramekins and unmold them just before serving or make it in a large gratin dish and spoon it out at the table family-style.

Spaghetti carbonara was one of the simpler dishes in my dad’s weekend repertoire, and it was by far my all-time favorite thing to make with him. After chopping the bacon, snipping the parsley, and grating the cheese, my sister and I would stand back and watch the grand master perform the final act. As he whisked the eggs and tossed in the piping-hot noodles, we marveled at the transformation of our seemingly simple and innocent ingredients into a magnificent bowl of indulgence. It all happened in a matter of seconds; unlike his laborious stews, which took hours to make, this meal was all about instant gratification. In the spring, I stray from tradition and add lots of sweet peas and pea shoots to Dad’s original formula. The shape of orecchiette pasta suits this dish well; the “little ears” capture the sauce inside, ensuring plenty of flavor in every bite. If you can’t find orecchiette, use spaghetti or penne.

Black cod, despite its name, is not a true cod. Its other names—sablefish and butterfish—suit it better: its texture is as silky as sable, its flavor as rich as butter. I love the Japanese pairing of black cod and miso, but in this recipe, black cod gets a French treatment, a smothering with hazelnut brown butter. Ask your fishmonger where the black cod is from. It’s overfished in California and Oregon so look for black cod from Alaska, where the commercial fishing is better regulated. Black cod has a single row of bones that is very difficult to remove when the fish is raw. You can ask your fishmonger to remove the bones or cut them out yourself before cooking. Or just cook the fish bones and all; it’s easy to spot them and eat around them.

Morels are to spring what tomatoes are to summer: they epitomize the season. Their spongy texture and funny pine-cone shape give these wild mushrooms unmistakable personality. In order not to mask their delicious earthy flavor, morels are best when prepared simply. In a French kitchen, morels are often cooked with cream. And as with so many traditional pairings, when you taste the combination you understand why it’s a classic. Here the morel ragoût is bound with a little cream, spooned over toasted slices of brioche, and topped with dollops of crème fraîche. The soft herbs are left whole; when you bite into them you get a big burst of flavor.

This time of year, with pomegranates in season, I find myself spooning this salsa over all sorts of things, from duck to turkey and even grilled fish.

Every time I make this flageolet gratin, I think about my first days at Chez Panisse. Everything went smoothly the first week. It seemed my studying—I had read La Varenne Pratique cover to cover and was working my way through Larousse Gastronomique—had paid off, until one of the cooks asked me to go and get a bag of “flageolets” from the storeroom. All of the blood rushed to my face. Too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know what he was talking about, I scurried away, hoping for divine intervention. In my panic, I spotted a French cookbook and quickly read that flageolets were dried kidney-shaped French beans. I found the beans in the pantry, wiped the sweat from my brow, and rushed back to my station. Saved— until the next time!