Cookbooks

These skewers of sea bass are seasoned with a North African condiment called charmoula and served over marinated eggplant and peppers. Charmoula, like so many Old World recipes, has as many versions as there are cooks. Although the proportions and some ingredients vary, everyone seems to agree that charmoula must have cilantro, garlic, cumin, and paprika and then be finished with olive oil and vinegar. One Sunday when we were working on this dish, Julie Robles, then sous-chef at Lucques, suggested adding rice wine vinegar to our charmoula experiment. It’s certainly not authentic, but we both liked the milder, sweeter nuance it gave the sauce. In fact, the charmoula was so good we decided to use it twice. First we marinated the fish in the spicy condiment (acid-free, so it wouldn’t “cook” the fish), and then, as we pulled the kabobs from the grill, we slathered them once again in charmoula.

The first tarte Tatin was accidentally invented by the Tatin sisters in France, when their apple tart somehow went into the oven without its bottom crust. The sisters resourcefully laced the forgotten dough on top instead and let the tart finish baking. Once it was out of the oven, they inverted the tart to cover up their mistake. I’m sure they had no idea of the sensation that their sweet mishap would unleash. Unable to leave well enough alone, pesky chefs like me love to play with variations on the classic caramelized upside-down apple tart. In this summer version, I’ve replaced the apples with plums. The plums give off more juice than apples, which makes working with them a little trickier. To compensate for this, I toss the plums in sugar to help draw out some of their juices and then cook them on the stove with butter and sugar, creating a delicious “plum caramel.”

My father hated salad. I remember him saying, “The only salad worth eating is one with green beans and foie gras, because it’s not all mucked up with lettuce.” And yet, somehow, I grew to love salads, especially the kind with leafy greens. This lettuce-free, classic steakhouse salad, made with first-of-the-season Early Girl tomatoes, sweet young red onions, and slabs of potent Roquefort, is a tribute to my dad, who I know would approve.

I first discovered bluefish when I was working at Angels, a restaurant in Providence. I was fresh off the boat from California when Jamie, the chef, and Eileen, his sous-chef, began introducing me to all the local food specialties. First they took me to a salumeria on Federal Hill, the Italian district of Providence, where the prosciutto was called “prah-jhute” and ricotta was “rha-got.” Then one day they brought in smoked bluefish. We piled it high on crusty Italian rolls, and topped it with sliced red onions, lemon, and way too much crème fraîche. I was in Rhode Island heaven. In honor of that beguiling and unforgettable fish, here I wrap fresh bluefish in pancetta to give the fish a salty, smoked flavor. Served with a yellow tomato sauce, juicy slices of heirloom tomatoes, and garlicky aïoli, this is my tribute to summer in Rhode Island.

Gnocchi is one of those dishes that many home cooks shy away from. Whether they’re made of potatoes or cheese, the process seems mysterious—until, of course, you finally take the plunge and make a batch yourself at home. These ricotta gnocchi are quick and easy and the perfect launch into your gnocchi-making career. Once you get the hang of rolling them off the tines of the fork, there’s nothing to it. And when you’ve become the accomplished gnocchi-maker you never thought you’d be, you’ll find all sorts of ways to serve them. Try them with a fresh tomato sauce, or simply toss them in this sage brown butter.

While living in Rhode Island and working at Al Forno, I was fascinated by the celebrations that revolved around food (especially in the Italian and Portuguese neighborhoods) and the connection Rhode Islanders felt to certain local produce, like their native tomatoes and homegrown corn. The most prized dish in tiny Rhode Island is the johnnycake. Originally called journey cakes, these cornmeal griddle cakes, made with locally milled native corn, have been the pride and joy of Rhode Island since the seventeenth century. County competitions are held annually, and there’s even a group called the Society for the Propagation of Johnny Cakes that sees to it that their corn-pancake tradition stays alive and well. So it seemed natural at Al Forno to add that famous stone-ground corn to our shortcake biscuit. Here I’ve borrowed Al Forno’s foolproof recipe and added peaches and my own “soured cream.” To get the peaches nice and saucy, I marinate them in simple syrup with mint and then purée a portion of the fruit to spoon over the biscuit. Feel free to make this shortcake with whatever juicy fruit you like, such as nectarines or berries. The biscuit recipe makes about eight in all. So don’t worry when you notice one or two mysteriously missing after they’re pulled from the hot oven and left to cool on the counter; you’ll still have enough to feed six.

Everyone has had berries in cobblers and pies, but when people see this gratinéed dessert, their eyebrows rise in curious anticipation. The raspberries and custard are cooked briefly under the broiler, creating a delicious warm crust that only partially hides the tart berries and warm cream beneath. Once you learn this technique, you can use it with other berries, or winter, a gratin made with sautéed apples or pears with dried fruit is delicious, too. Choose an attractive dish that can go from oven to table.

Every year, we celebrate the heart of summer with a Sunday barbecue feast at Lucques. This annual tradition always includes at least four different barbecued meats, baked beans, long-cooked greens, grilled cornbread, and former Lucques chef Rob Chalmers’s infamous coleslaw. The first year he made it, he miscalculated “slightly” and made enough for about six hundred people! It became a running joke to tease Rob about his coleslaw, and for about a year after the barbecue, the servers and busboys used to greet every staff meal with the predictable, “What, no coleslaw?” Here is a manageable-sized recipe for Rob’s light, crunchy, and always satisfying slaw.

This recipe is a way to show off the best summer fruit you can find. If possible, use an assortment of fruits, such as plums, peaches, figs, and berries, but make sure that all the fruit is up to snuff. Rather than striving for variety and ending up with less-than-ideal examples of each fruit, you’re better off with a simpler salad composed of only the most perfect nectarines or gorgeous peaches all alone. The dressing is made by pounding some of the fruit into a juicy vinaigrette. Figs are my favorite for this purpose. They mellow the vinegar and give the dressing body and chunkiness. If you’ve never had a Marcona almond, you may not forgive me for introducing you to them. Rich and dense, this Spanish almond variety is outrageously addictive. If you can’t find Marcona almonds, use toasted regular almonds or pecans.

My cooks sometimes refer to Lucques as the “house of pork.” I use pork often and in every form I can think of—marinated, brined, grilled, sautéed, confited, braised, ground into sausage or forcemeat, wrapped around fish or poultry, as a seasoning or an appetizer or a complete main course. This recipe is proof: with three kinds of pork packed into one dish, it’s a regular porkapalooza. These burgers completely satisfy my frequent pork cravings, and I think they’ll take care of yours, too. After all, few cultures appreciate pork better than the Latin ones, and these burgers pay homage to that culinary love. And it’s some spicy, decadent homage, too: Mexican chorizo, Spanish romesco, and the coup de grâce, a slice of melted Manchego on top. Do not be afraid to cook these burgers only until pink in the middle, when they are still juicy and delicious. Not only are all dangerous pork parasites killed at 137°F (long before the last pink disappears), but those organisms have been nearly eliminated from modern pork farming, so the risk is extremely low even from completely raw pork.

Please try this recipe if you’re a lima bean hater. I used to be one, too. I detested those dried-out, mealy, frozen beans from childhood. They fell into the “dreaded vegetables” category, along with beets and Brussels sprouts. But oddly enough those very vegetables are the ones I have grown to love the most. Fresh lima beans are a revelation, and especially delicious in this purée.

This warm salad is pure southern France: tomatoes, olives, anchovies, basil, green beans, and soft-cooked eggs. It’s easy to make, but it helps to do some of the steps beforehand. As long as your spinach is cleaned and your haricots verts, potatoes, and eggs are cooked, you won’t have to do much until the last minute, when you’re pulling it all together. While your potatoes are roasting in the oven, light the grill, have a glass of rosé, and look calm, cool, and collected as you wait to finish the last-minute tasks. Recruit an unsuspecting guest or your significant other to grill the halibut while you brown the anchovy butter and finish the warm salad.

My very first chef position was at a twenty-eight-seat restaurant called Alloro, located in Boston’s very Italian North End. At that point in my career, my cooking experience was rooted mostly in French cuisine, but the owner didn’t seem to mind. When I asked him if I had to cook strictly Italian food, his answer was, “No, no, no! Cook whatever you want. We’ll just give it an Italian name.” The French bistro classic salmon with beluga lentils and red wine butter was abbreviated to “Salmone” on the menu, and other quasi-French dishes were likewise masked under short Italian names. The pasta dishes I made at Alloro also strayed from Italian tradition. For my version of the classic spaghetti alle vongole, I added generous amounts of onion, fennel, and olive oil, and sprinkled breadcrumbs toasted with thyme on top. I also finished the sauce with a spot of butter (the French influence again), which thickened and enriched it. In theory, I’m sure my version of spaghetti with clams would outrage purists in both the Italian and the French camps, but one bite ought to be enough to convince them they have lots to learn from each other. Though you might not think of it as such, the water in which you cook pasta is a valuable ingredient, in virtually any pasta recipe. Do your noodles seem a little dry once you’ve tossed them in the sauce? Rather than correcting the problem with stock (which can alter the flavor balance) or oil (which can add greasiness), add a little pasta water instead. Not only will it moisten the dish, but the starch in it (left from the cooking of the pasta) will also help bind the sauce to the noodles. Try it out; it works.

There’s a moment in late May when something in the air shifts. Fava beans and other spring treats are still plentiful and the evenings are still cool, but change is coming. The air at the farmers’ market is suddenly humid with the scent of basil. Small piles of cherry tomatoes, summer squash, and fresh beans show up on the folding tables beside mounds of fresh corn. It’s as if summer is testing the waters, seeing if we’re ready, because it can hardly hold back any longer. Before changing my spring menu to summer, I sample a few beans, checking for crunch. I peel back a cornhusk, bite into the cob—is the corn sweet yet? And finally, I pop a cherry tomato in my mouth to gauge its sugar. If they all pass the test, it’s time to make this First-of-the-Season Succotash Salad, dressed with a simple lemon vinaigrette. After waiting all year, what a joy it is to taste all these sunny flavors on one plate.

This recipe was developed by Julie Robles, longtime Lucques cook, then souschef, then chef de cuisine. It’s one of those magical recipes in which you combine a few simple ingredients and end up with an unexpectedly dramatic result. It’s a foolproof recipe, but, tasting it, you’d never know how easy it is to make. As long as you have a blender (it doesn’t work as well in a food processor) and really great tomatoes, this refreshing gazpacho is a guaranteed crowd-pleaser.