Beverages

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.

Even before the recent coffee-caramel craze, I was proudly baking up these custards because they bring together two of my favourite flavors. Although I’d love to take responsibility for starting the trend, the only thing I can say with certainty is that I’m unabashedly crazy for the combination. For best results, use very strong espresso because you want to make sure that the coffee flavor is bold enough to stand up to the deep, dark caramel. I think the custards are best served chilled, like some of those barista drinks.

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.

Not all gelatin desserts are squidgy, old-fashioned jelled rings studded with oversweetened canned fruits. Take this thoroughly modern dessert, for example. You’ll see why it won top honors from a national food magazine that called it one of the “Top Ten Desserts of All Time.”

I once worked with a French waiter known for a fierce scowl that could cause even the most self-assured chef and diner to wither. He tasted one spoonful of these peaches and told me that this was his idea of the perfect dessert. It was one of the few times I saw him smile. But what’s not to like? Icy peaches floating in sweet red wine is pretty close to perfection, if I do say so myself. His good mood didn’t last very long. But after that, every time we passed each other, I knew from the tiny gleam in his eye that I’d won the admiration of my toughest customer.

I’m a big fan of fruit crisps. When I worked at Chez Panisse, I learned I wasn’t alone—they were more popular than our signature dark chocolate cake. But I’m not entirely convinced that I’d choose a fruit crisp over chocolate cake. Maybe I’d order both in the name of research. This fruit crisp topping, made with crunchy polenta, stands up well to the juiciest mélange of fruits. Here, I mix apples and pears, and it may seem like a lot of fruit when you’re doing all that peeling and slicing, but it cooks down considerably during baking. Use a good baking apple, such as Gravenstein, Winesap, Pippin, Northern Spy, or Cortland.

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.

If you’re as wild about berries as I am, you’ll find that this pie is the height of luxury and one of the season’s greatest treats. It’s a dessert that I make only in the summer, at the moment when berries are abundant and at their peak. When I lived in San Francisco, I’d drive east across the bay to Monterey Market in Berkeley where flats of berries were so plentiful—and so inexpensive—that I found it impossible not to come home with at least a few piled up in my trunk. In addition to turning the berries into jams, compotes, and sorbets, I’d always bake this pie. A total of 6 cups of berries makes up the filling—use whichever types you prefer. Unless you buy berries by the flat, like I did, most berries are sold in half-pint or pint baskets, so expect to have some leftover fruit, which I know you’ll put to good use. I always did.

I’ve been accused of peeling bananas incorrectly. Several people have pointed out that I, who always peel bananas from the stem end, do it wrong, and they advised me to peel them like monkeys do: by grasping the bottom of the fruit and pinching the banana open. To be honest, I found that it doesn’t make all that much difference, especially when using the bananas in a dessert. Peeling technique aside, this pie does differ from the usual butterscotch cream pie. I use homemade chocolate-cookie crumbs in the crust and make the filling with lots of dark brown sugar, which gives it a toffee-like creaminess that separates it from the jungle of other pies out there.

This is the dessert for lemon lovers. It’s light, but supersaturated with lemon flavor. Semifreddo usually refers to a dessert that’s partially frozen, but this cake layered with lightened lemon curd was christened “semifreddo” by the Italian American chef at the time at Chez Panisse. I don’t know about you, but I find it pretty hard to win an argument with an Italian, so I let the name stick. I based this recipe on the lemon semifreddo that one of my colleagues, Linda Zagula, made at the restaurant. It was not only popular with the customers, but with me, too—I couldn’t resist sneaking a mouthful every so often. And from the scraped-clean spoons I’d find hidden in the pastry fridge after all the guests had gone home, I knew I wasn’t the only one.

Here’s a superb dessert for highlighting summer peaches when they are at their peak of flavor and so juicy that you struggle to pick up the slippery slices that elude your grasp. This is an ideal dessert to bring to a summertime picnic or barbecue: it’s easy to assemble in advance and even easier to eat.

I’ve found that as I get older, I tend to forget about the things that aren’t all that important to me, like paying bills, what day it is, and so on. But I never, ever forget a dessert. A few decades ago, some friends who had lived in Brazil for a few years invited me for dinner and served bien me sabe, a moist concoction of sponge cake and coconut cream. And I never got it out of my head how fantastic that simple combination tasted. Years later, when I was the pastry chef at a restaurant that specialized in Asian cooking, I had the opportunity to seek out and use all sorts of tropical fruit, many of which I hadn’t ever seen before. And I thought bien me sabe would be the perfect backdrop for a jumble of exotic flavors. Although I’ve used the types of tropical fruit that are the most widely available, feel free to add or use others in place of what I’ve suggested. But just be sure to heat them through, as most tropical fruits contain a heat-sensitive enzyme that causes custards to break down. I learned this the hard way. I like the way large shreds of fresh coconut look on top of this dessert. If you have the inclination, crack one open, shave off large shards, and toast them to use as garnish.

I had a cake crisis at Club Med in the Bahamas. A round yellow tin was waiting in my room when I arrived, and when I pried off the lid, inside was a small rum cake. Curious, I sliced off a small wedge, and then another, and then another. It took every bit of willpower in me not the finish the entire cake right then and there. But I thought that I should I save half to share with my partner who’d gone for a swim. We went to lunch, and when we returned to the room, the other half of the cake was missing, apparently the work of an overzealous housekeeper, or one who liked the cake as much as I did. When I got home from that trip, I set to work recreating that lovely golden cake with island flavor courtesy of a little dose of coconut milk and a lot of dark rum. I added a tasty coconut-rum glaze for good measure, although you can skip it if swimsuit season is around the corner. If you make this cake, be sure to keep an eye on any leftovers.

This is one big, tall, scrumptious dessert: layers of moist banana cake topped with a mocha ganachelike frosting, and crowned with handfuls of salted candied peanuts. Speaking of tall and scrumptious, I made this cake for a friend who’s a showgirl at the Lido in Paris as a thank you for allowing me a behind-the-scenes visit. She shared it with her colleagues between high kicks on stage and she assured me that even though those women are leggy and lean, their cake-eating capacity knew no limits. The next morning, I read an email, sent at 3 A.M., undoubtedly just after the last curtain call, giving the cake quite a few thumbs up. Or, should I say, a few legs up?

I hate to admit this, but when I was a kid, my all-time favorite snack was those coconut-coated cake-and-cream filled marshmallow snowballs packaged in sticky pairs. Their neon-pink color was so fluorescent and I ate so many that I’m sure my insides are still glowing. Now I’m all grown up and presumably know better, but from time-to-time I still like a coconut-and-cake fix. This recipe is the remedy. The cake should be assembled at least a few hours before you plan to serve it so the flavors have time to meld. I guarantee that the most memorable thing about this cream-filled coconut cake concoction will be how great it tasted, not its shocking color.

This recipe uses canned pumpkin rather than home-cooked fresh pumpkin simply because the moisture content is consistent and no one wants to take any chances with a cheesecake after spending all that money on cream cheese. This is a fantastic holiday recipe, and as with regular cheesecakes, the secret to great results is to begin with all the ingredients at room temperature and to not overbeat the filling.

American cheesecake is to Italian cheesecake what slouching around the house in a sweatshirt and jeans is to stepping out on the town in a tailored Armani suit. When I stopped comparing Italian cheesecake to its comfy American cousin, I was finally won over. Made with ricotta cheese instead of pounds of cream cheese and sour cream, it’s lighter and leaner, and perfectly accompanied by fresh fruit compotes or colorful sauces. For best results, use whole-milk ricotta cheese. Or even better, seek out fresh ricotta from a local producer. And be sure to watch it carefully during baking, taking it out when it is just barely set.

This cake always reminds me of my trips to Brittany, an exceptionally beautiful region in western France that borders the Atlantic Ocean. The often-blustery weather is the only thing that stands in the way of Brittany becoming a major tourist destination. Aside from the chilly climate, the region is famous for its hand-harvested sea salt and salted butter caramel, both of which I would travel to the ends of the earth for. And no matter where you go in the region, you’ll find buckwheat being served in various guises, from griddled galettes to kig ha farz, a local curiosity made by poaching a pasty buckwheat batter in the sleeve of a linen shirt until it’s firm. Then it’s rolled on the counter until it breaks into tiny bits, like buckwheat couscous. They say it’s something that you need to be Breton to enjoy, so I must have some Breton in me since I loved it since the first time I tried it. I’m happy to have this cake in my repertoire because I enjoy the hearty taste of buckwheat in my desserts, too.

One of the pitfalls of having a blog is that you leave yourself open to all sorts of questions. The most common are from folks who want to substitute ingredients. I always want to reach through my computer screen, grab hold of their shoulders, and say, “But I worked so hard to develop this recipe. Please make it just as it is!” When I was working on these cupcakes, I began with the simple idea of individually filled chocolate cakes, similar to the kind I had as a kid, but with an adult sensibility. So I added a pour of Irish cream liqueur to the filling and spiked the ganache icing with a tipple of whiskey, which effectively wiped out the possibility of making these kid-friendly. So please don’t ask if you can make them without either, because the bad news is that you can’t. But the good news is that you can have them all for yourself and you don’t have to share them with the kids.