Make Ahead

My first experience making Swiss cookies was less than optimal. A friend had given me his mother’s recipe for Basler leckerle, a spiced almond cookie swathed with a kirsch glaze. They’re meant to be kept in a tin for 6 months before eating, during which time they supposedly soften up and become toothsome delights. To make a six-month story short, I was skeptical when I plucked one of the cookies out of the tin. Then I bit down and almost lost a tooth they were so hard. Since then, I’ve avoided Swiss cookies. But, some time later, at Stohrer bakery on the rue Montorgeuil in Paris, I tasted the lovely zimtsterne, star-shaped cinnamon-almond cookies of Swiss origin that are made only around the holidays, and fell in love. I was prompted to come up with a recipe that I could have year-round—as well as one that wouldn’t require a trip to the dentist. I couldn’t find a cookie cutter in the traditional zimtsterne shape of a six-point star in France where I live, so a friend brought me one from New York, which I guess makes this Swiss cookie a star of international proportions.

This is the classic gingersnap: thin, crisp, with a spicy bite. For the best flavor, use very fresh spices. I grind my own cinnamon and cloves for these, and never, ever use preground black pepper. If you don’t have a pepper mill, shame on you. Go get one. Although not a pantry staple, coarse-crystal sugar—such as Demerara or turbinado—is wonderful embedded in the surface of each snappy cookie. I find it pretty indispensable for these cookies and use it for sprinkling onto many different baked goods before they go into the oven, so I always keep a tub of it in my kitchen cabinet.

The name may lead you to think these are crisp cookies, but they’re not. They are snappy in another way—there are plenty of spices in the batter, plus a generous helping of candied ginger, making them deserving of the snap moniker. They’re good on their own, but with such a soft, chewy texture, I had a hunch that they would make dynamite ice cream sandwiches, so I filled a few with Tangy Lemon Frozen Yogurt (page 174) and popped them in the freezer. The next day, when I pulled a sandwich out of the freezer and took a bite, I stopped dead in my tracks because I was so stunned: it was the best ice cream sandwich I’ve ever had.

The Scottish have shortbread and the French have their sablés (sandy-textured butter cookies), but both cultures and cookies are so hidebound in tradition that you’ll rarely find variations. To them I say kick off those highlanders, get your heads out of the sablé, and think again. These pecan shortbread cookies are delightfully crisp, with a delicately caramelized flavor thanks to the addition of brown sugar. If you’ve seen a fancy European-style butter or a locally made cultured one and you’ve been wondering what’s a good use for it, these buttery rectangles are just the things.

I have a blanket mistrust of any recipe with a superlative in the title. “The ultimate” or “the world’s finest” always makes me raise an eyebrow. But how else can I describe these brownines? I’ve made a lot of brownies in my life, and these really are the best. I learned to make them from the late Robert Steinberg, who changed the world of American chocolate when he cofounded Scharffen Berger chocolate. Part of Robert’s unique charm was that he was quick to argue, but I learned that like most people who hold strong opinions (at least food-wise), they’re invariably right when you taste the results. He adapted his recipe from one by cookbook author Maida Heatter. The first time I made these brownies, they were a dry, crumbly disaster. Still unconvinced that they were worthy of their accolades, I listened carefully as he walked me through the steps. When he asked if I had stirred the batter vigorously for 1 full minute, I stammered and then finally admitted that I cut that step short. “Aha!” he said. So I made them again, and discovered that was one life-changing minute.

It’s a misconception that the French don’t like American food. Step into any bakery in Paris and you’re likely to see one of two things: le gâteau au fromage or les brownies. Usually the cheesecake is pretty good, but the brownies are too often pale facsimiles. For some reason that I don’t understand, the French never put enough chocolate in their brownies. In my efforts to promote international understanding, I hand out brownies freely to my Parisian friends in hopes that pretty soon, someone will get the message and ramp up the fudginess of French brownies. (Perhaps it’s because the word “fud-gee” isn’t part of the French vocabulary?) And because I sometimes can’t help showing off my American audaciousness, I’ll whip up this recipe that combines the best of both the cheesecake and brownie worlds and pass the squares around. They tend to take people by surprise—I think the French need a little more time to get used to such a cra-zee combination.

Shortly after my first book came out, my phone rang one night a little after 10:30 p.m. A reader had tracked me down to let me know, with urgency, that she loved these cookies, but that they took 10 minutes to bake in her oven instead of the 9 minutes indicated in the recipe. When in doubt, err on the side of underbaking so your peanut butter cookies remain moist. Take them out when they’re still a bit soft, as they’ll continue to firm up a bit after cooling. This time around, I’ve given a bit more latitude with the timing so as to avoid any late-night baking-related emergency phone calls.

The day we start cloning people, we must begin with Flo Braker. Not only is she a lovely woman, but she’s one of the best bakers in America. And I’m all for propagating our species with as many great bakers as we can. I’ve been making her chocolate snaps for years—they’re just right when I’m craving a crispy cookie that tastes of pure and unadulterated deep, dark chocolate. Luckily, these cookies are easy to make and a snap to reproduce in any home kitchen.

I almost started an international incident when I put some pictures of my black and white cookies on my blog. People went ballistic because I didn’t include a recipe. The problem was that I didn’t know who to credit since my recipe is culled from a variety of sources. Like New York City, the spiritual home to these cookies, my sources and inspiration for them are the ultimate melting pot: a Seinfeld episode, an email from food maven Arthur Schwartz, a recipe from the legendary Zabar’s, and George Greenstein’s comprehensive tome, Secrets of a Jewish Baker.

In the kitchen at Chez Panisse, we called these “chocolate crack cookies” because of the craggy fissures that formed on the surface of the cookies as they baked. But because the restaurant was (and still is) located in Berkeley, California, we were conscious of what that name suggested, so we came up with all sorts of less objectionable aliases: baked chocolate truffles and chocolate quake cookies, to name just a couple. Nowadays, “crack” is a term freely used to describe anything addictive. And I feel comfortable using it to describe these cookies, which are a perfectly legit way to get a chocolate fix.

Bursting with gooey chocolate chips and crisp toasted nuts, these chocolate chip cookies have us all stary-eyed.

These are the darkest, most chocolatey cookies you’ll ever sink your teeth into. A whopping full pound of chocolate and two cups of chocolate chips ensure an express route to chocolate heaven. While the cookies bake, watch them carefully and remove them from the oven while they still feel molten in the center and just barely cooked around the outer edges because you want them to remain soft and chewy once they’re cool. But I suspect a few will go missing before they have a chance to cool completely.

When I was going over the recipes to include in this book, next to this one my editor wrote in big letters “BY ALL MEANS.” So I took that as a “yes.” Because of the caramel, the mousse is slightly soft even when frozen, so it’s best stored in the coldest part of your freezer. But don’t forget about it back there. Once you taste it, I doubt that you will.

From the roadside stands in the French countryside to the village shops of Greece to the markets of Italy, wherever I spot a market vendor selling jars of thick, sticky, locally produced honey, I feel obligated to buy some. If you think all honey is the same, you haven’t tasted ruggedly bitter Italian chestnut honey or the syrupy, aromatic lavender honey from sunny Provence. This recipe is a good way to use any type of interesting honey that you may have in your pantry. Be sure to use the freshest, crispest, best-quality pistachios you can find. And never toast them, which subdues their vibrant green color.

Up until a few years ago, white peaches and nectarines were an oddity in America and finding them was nearly impossible. Happily, they’ve now become fairly common, and you can spot them in grocery stores and farmers’ markets across the land. Their flavor is not as intense as their yellow counterparts, but their delicacy is part of their appeal. Also appealing is how when white nectarines are cooked with their skins and then puréed, the finished mixture is an ivory hue with a faint touch of rosy pink. I came up with this dessert when I was the pastry chef at Monsoon, an Asian restaurant run by Bruce Cost, one of the best cooks I’ve ever met in my life. Unlike American dinners, most Asian meals don’t end with a full-on dessert. So my challenge was to create desserts that customers would find appealing enough to order after sharing spicy, authentic, and sometimes challenging fare—like the turtle soup served with raw turtle eggs floating on the surface, or the sea slugs that tasted (slightly) better than they looked. I had to make sure the desserts would bring people back from whatever culinary precipice we took them to. This fruit sorbet, resting in a five-spice cookie cup and served with berries steeped in sweet plum wine, was the perfect landing pad.

One late summer weekend, I was visiting a friend who lives in the wilds of Northern California, and I noticed lots of wild blackberry bushes with berries that were so plump and ripe that they were practically falling off the branches. I can never resist free food, so I set out for an afternoon of heavy picking. When I came back, my basket loaded down with fresh berries, my friend casually asked, “Did you see the rattlesnakes?” “Um . . . no, I . . . I didn’t,” I replied. Actually, I was really glad to have missed them. That incident didn’t quite scare me away from picking other types of fruits and berries, but I’ll let others risk their lives for blackberries, which I’ve been happy to plunk down money for ever since that day.

I know you’re going to be tempted to use seedless watermelon here, but don’t. I’ve never tasted one that I particularly liked. And because I have a penchant for making things harder than they should be, I don’t mind plucking out the seeds. For some reason, the harder something is to make, the better it tastes. (And I wonder why I spend a majority of my life in the kitchen.) Don’t worry about using a fancy sake—inexpensive brands work really well in this recipe. And unless you read Japanese, you’re not likely to be able to ascertain the difference trying to read the labels at the store.

There’s nothing I like better than very, very cold Champagne. So cold that I usually drop a small ice cube into my glass to make sure it’s as chilled as possible. I always feared that it was offensive and crass to ice down Champagne until I went to a tasting of Krug Champagne, considered by many to be the finest of them all. I didn’t dare drop an ice cube into any of the glasses that were presented to me, but I did confide that I often did so to one of their experts, who surprised me by saying that it’s perfectly acceptable to put a bit of ice in Champagne for the very reason I do it. For this sorbet, you don’t need to use the finest French Champagne. In fact, I’ve made it successfully with Italian prosecco and Spanish cava—without offending anyone.

If you can’t decide whether to serve something chocolatey or fruity for dessert, this sorbet is for you (and your guests). It’s incredibly easy to make, and even people like me, who aren’t especially fond of chocolate and fruit combinations, will be won over.

The first time I split open a passion fruit and slurped down the dripping juices, the intense flavor knocked me for such a loop that I felt as if a tropical bomb had gone off in my head. From then on, I was hooked. Depending on where you live, fresh passion fruit may be hard to find, but they’re well worth tracking down. Don’t shy away from ones that are a tad wrinkled, as the creases indicate ripeness (they’re often marked down in price, too!). You can also buy frozen passion fruit purée (see Resources, page 270), which is inexpensive and convenient. It’s great to have on hand in the freezer: I’ll often lop off a chunk and add it to a pitcher of orange juice for a morning tropical blast.