Melon and Figs with Prosciutto and Mint
Corn, Squash, and Beans with Jalapeño Butter
Shaved Summer Squash with Squash Blossoms
Grilled Halibut with Indian Spices and Yellow Tomatoes
Cherry Tomato Crostini with Ricotta
Roast Pork Loin Porchetta-Style
Fresh Shell Beans with Sage and Garlic
Nectarine and Raspberry Macedonia
Green Cilantro and Tomatillo Salsa
Fish Tacos with Shredded Cabbage and Lime
too darned hot, alors!
Melon and Figs with Prosciutto and Mint
I didn’t make the obligatory pilgrimage to Europe straight out of college. Instead, I went to French films, cultivated European friends, and read every Mediterranean cookbook I could find. The writings of Richard Olney (another American transplant) provided a kind of inspiration for my generation of cooks, and it was easy to see why he wanted to live in Provence.
My European friends seemed to share a sense of the table that felt normal to me. The simple white cloth, the bottle of wine, the ancient ladle that served the soup. I was drawn to the idea that the experience of dining is an end in itself—so very different from pretentious American restaurants that claimed European inspiration.
I began to cook and gather friends at table the way my European friends did. When I finally did get to Europe, I’d been running the café at Chez Panisse for a few years and cooking in the Provençal spirit. Instead of giving me a raise, Alice had sent me to the South of France for three months, armed with her list of people to contact. There I met three cooks, each with a style (and lesson) of her own.
With Lulu, I sensed immediately a down-to-earth grace, generosity, true joie de vivre. On my visit to her old family vineyard in Bandol, she apologized that we weren’t eating outside, where any normal person would want to be, but there was the mistral: it was too windy. We did have a glass of their Domaine Tempier rosé in the garden where her son was readying the fire for quail.
Even inside that old formal Provençal dining room, with Lulu’s grandmother’s great armoire, the meal felt as easy as if we were eating outdoors. First came a salad of yellow roasted peppers and rice, then the grilled quail with herbs, and then local goat cheeses and, later, an apple tart. The meal went on for hours, filled with lively stories and the spirited bonhomie of friends who hadn’t been together in a while. I brought away Lulu’s idea of a fine and relaxed table.
With Martine, lunch began with a trip to the little street market in Vence on a brilliant sunny day. Everything I’d read about in my Provençal cookbooks was there—eggplants, tomatoes, peppers—but little round squash too, and more olives than I’d ever seen.
Martine’s house was surrounded by fig trees and the air was sweet with the scent of ripe figs. The big garden had many places to linger—wicker chairs for aperitifs, old tables tucked in leafy spots for easy lunches. Late morning, while the house was still cool, Martine made toast. Little Provençal toasts, some with tapenade, some with eggplant. She sliced some home-cured air-dried duck breast and set out a little bowl of radishes and another of olives. Melon, green salad, grilled fish, and those figs. That was it. And that’s what I took from Martine.
Nathalie, who lived then in an old farmhouse in the Lubéron, took me all over in search of the best food from local artisans: pieds-et-paquets, braised lamb trotters with tripe from her butcher, or perhaps, fresh green tapenade with almonds from a local olive grower. Between trips to the region’s many flea markets, we’d hunt out the tastiest local goat cheeses and sausages.
Nathalie understood the art of the long braise. I learned to make her stellar Provençal daube in a clay pot, simmered in a low oven for hours: beef, eggplant, mushrooms, a touch of tomato, and, in a typical Nathalie gesture, some sprigs of the rosemary she knew to grow on the nearby grave of Albert Camus.
The traditional hors d’oeuvre in Provence is a crust of toasted bread smeared with a dab of a tasty spread. The idea is to offer your guests a little something before the meal, but nothing too filling. A bowl of olives is de rigueur, and a platter of these savory croutons (or toasts or crostini) is suitably casual.
Day-old baguettes are a staple in most Provençal kitchens, and there, as in the rest of the Mediterranean, old bread is always put to good use. Of course, it’s possible to use fresh bread, but day-old works better. To make the toasts, simply slice a baguette as thin as possible. Paint the slices—an average baguette will yield about 20 slices—very lightly with olive oil, spread them in one layer on a baking sheet, and bake at 375°F until barely browned, about 10 minutes. Cool the toasts to room temperature.
Any number of savory pastes (such as the three that follow) can be used to top the toasts. Traditional favorites include anchoïade, a garlicky anchovy paste, and tapenade, a black and green olive paste. Other choices are goat cheese with herbs, roasted pepper puree, or basil pesto. All can be made a day ahead.
Then, just before serving, the toasts are spread quite lightly with the topping, just a soupçon—a scant teaspoon per toast.
This is the simplest olive paste. For a version with more complex flavors, see Olive Relish (page 66).
Grind all the ingredients to a fine paste in a blender or food processor. Scrape the paste into a bowl, taste, and adjust the seasoning. Thin with a little more olive oil if you like.
Grilling the eggplant gives this spread a faint smoky flavor.
Put the eggplants under the broiler, over an open flame, or over hot coals and cook for 10 minutes or so, turning frequently, until the skins are blackened and the flesh is soft. Set aside to cool.
Cut the eggplants lengthwise in half and scrape the flesh from the skins. Chop the eggplant flesh coarsely with a knife and put it in a bowl. Pour off or blot any juices, and season with salt and pepper. Add the lemon juice, capers, garlic, parsley, and chives. Stir in the olive oil with a fork and mash everything a bit. Taste and adjust the seasoning.
This walnut paste is of Arabic origin but it works well in a Provençal context.
Grind all the ingredients to a paste in a blender or food processor. Put the paste in a bowl. Taste and adjust the seasoning, adding a little more oil if necessary.
This easy first course depends entirely upon the quality of the fruit. Rely on the expertise of growers at farm stands or farmers’ markets. Look for truly ripe, firm, locally grown melons like cantaloupe, honeydew, Charentais, or Crenshaw. Search out figs—Black Mission, Adriatic, or Kadota—that are soft to the touch, promising fruit that is juicy and sweet. A firm unripe fig will be neither.
Halve the melons and remove the seeds. Slice into thin wedges, then remove the skin with a paring knife. Lay the melon slices in the center of a large platter.
Cut the figs in half and arrange them over the melons. Surround with the prosciutto. Just before serving, cut the mint leaves into ribbons and scatter the mint over the platter.
It has been said that the three ingredients required for a true salade Niçoise are potatoes, green beans, and anchovies, but this salad has evolved to include tomatoes, tuna, and peppers and any number of other “creative” touches. Beware of ordering one in a restaurant—all manner of culinary travesties are routinely committed in the name of salade Niçoise, even in France.
Classically, the components are all dressed together. Here I’ve segregated the ingredients and piled them onto colorful platters, all the better to show off their individual glories. They’ll reconnect on each diner’s plate. Everything for this salad can be prepared several hours ahead of serving and kept at cool room temperature. Now all you need is a well-shaded table and lots of chilled rosé.
Boil the green beans in salted water for 5 minutes or so, until just tender. Drain and spread them out on a kitchen towel to cool.
Boil the new potatoes in salted water for 12 to 15 minutes, until tender. Let cool, then cut into halves.
Cut the tomatoes into wedges and put them in a bowl. Add the sliced peppers and set aside.
Season the tuna with salt, pepper, and the crushed fennel seeds. Drizzle with a little olive oil. Grill over coals, or sear in a hot cast-iron pan, for about 3 minutes per side, keeping the tuna on the rare side. Set the tuna aside to cool. (Or you can cook the tuna just before serving so it’s still a bit warm.)
To serve the salad, season the green beans with salt and pepper, dress lightly with a few spoonfuls of the basil vinaigrette, and pile onto a platter. Cut the eggs in half, season with salt and pepper, and drape an anchovy fillet over each one. Surround the beans with the eggs. Season the peppers and tomatoes with salt and pepper, add a few spoonfuls of basil vinaigrette, and mix gently, then put them in a shallow serving bowl or on a platter.
Pile the new potatoes on another platter, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and drizzle with a little vinaigrette. Cut the tuna into thick diagonal slices or break into rough pieces and arrange alongside.
Decorate all the platters with basil leaves. Pass the aïoli separately.
serves 8–10
This dressing is good for greens and perfect for tomato salads too.
Put the shallots and garlic in the red wine vinegar, adding a little salt and pepper. Crush the basil leaves and add them. Macerate for 10 to 15 minutes.
Whisk the olive oil into the vinegar mixture. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Let the sauce stand for half an hour, then remove the basil leaves. Use the vinaigrette within a few hours.
Aïoli, handmade garlic mayonnaise, is the wonderful, classic Provençal sauce based on garlic, olive oil, and fresh egg yolks. Other Mediterranean garlic sauces, like the Spanish allioli and the Greek skordalia, are closely related.
I might sound like a purist snob, but I really must deflate the many myths about aïoli: For one, adding other ingredients like dried tomatoes, wasabi, and the like may make a tasty sauce, but you just can’t call it “aïoli.” Flavored mayonnaise can contain garlic, but true aïoli contains no seasoning but garlic. If you add garlic to store-bought mayonnaise, you will not reproduce aïoli’s fresh flavor. Another myth is that aïoli will keep for a few days. Not true. The fresh garlic flavor dissipates rapidly; aïoli must be eaten within a few hours. And, yes, you can make aïoli with a handheld electric beater, just be careful not to whip too much air into it.
For the best aïoli, use an extra virgin olive oil that is neither too peppery nor too strong. Try to find a fruity Provençal oil or use a mild Tuscan or California oil.
Have all the ingredients at room temperature. Put the egg yolks in a bowl and stir with a wire whisk for a minute or so until they thicken slightly. Add a spoonful of oil at a time, whisking well as an emulsion begins to form. Be sure to incorporate the oil completely after each addition to prevent the emulsion from breaking.
Once you’ve incorporated half a cup of oil and the sauce is thickening nicely, continue to whisk in the oil at a more rapid pace. When the sauce becomes too thick, add a tablespoon of water to thin it, and then continue adding the oil, thinning again with water as necessary. The finished sauce should be about as thick as softly whipped cream.
Stir in the garlic, and add a good pinch of salt and a little freshly ground pepper. Let the aïoli stand for a few minutes, then stir well and taste for salt. Refrigerate the sauce, and use within a few hours.
Herbs grow wild all over Provence, but lavender is typically cultivated in those long lush rows you see in photographs. Provençal bees make lavender honey, and if you’re lucky enough to find a jar, use it in this recipe.
In a stainless steel pan, warm the milk to just under a boil. Turn off the heat and add the lavender. Let steep for 15 minutes or so, until the milk has a faint lavender flavor.
Strain the milk and return it to the pan. Add the cream and honey and warm gently.
Beat the egg yolks with the salt in a small bowl. Gradually whisk in 1 cup of the warm milk mixture to temper the yolks, then add the contents of the bowl to the pan. Cook gently for 5 minutes or so, stirring diligently, until the mixture thickens slightly.
Strain this thin custard into a large bowl and cool. Chill in the refrigerator.
Freeze the custard in an ice cream maker. There’s an ideal temperature for ice cream—you want it to firm up after it’s done, but not freeze solid. So transfer it to the freezer for just a little while, then serve (or store it in the freezer and leave it out to temper before serving).
slightly all-american
Corn, Squash, and Beans with Jalapeño Butter
Josephine is a card shark with a wicked sense of humor. She is also a wonderful self-taught cook with an intuitive sense of how to make simple, delicious food. Spending time on a ranch in the California Sierra Mountains where she cooked, I would often tell Josephine that I’d enjoyed the meal. She’d reply, “It’s nothing fancy. I’m just a salt and pepper cook.”
Maybe. But she could make a mean pot of pinto beans and whip up a batch of perfect corn bread. Cooking three meals a day for hungry ranch hands is a thankless task; most ranch cooks get more gripes than compliments. But Jo charmed everyone with honest, wholesome, real food—all-American food—like good pot roast, vegetables from the garden, hot Parker House rolls, fruit pies, and cinnamon buns from scratch. Everything was completely delicious, full of flavor, perfectly seasoned. To the good ingredients on hand, Josephine added her calm common sense, her sure-footed experience—and salt and pepper.
Salt and pepper are truly essential to good cooking. Do this: Take a peppercorn and give it a little chew, then leave it on your tongue for a moment. First you get warmth, and a bit of numbing, but soon a rounder, zestier flavor comes through. From the inside, you taste spiciness; the black outer layer is earthier. What a complex collection of flavors in one tiny peppercorn! Does freshly ground pepper really make a difference? You’ve just proven it does.
White and green peppercorns have very distinct flavors too, and they really cannot be used interchangeably with black pepper. Although all peppercorns grow on the same vines, they’re harvested and treated differently. White pepper (the ripe inside of the peppercorn) has a very particular intensity. The French use it in white sauces so it will not show, but I like black pepper in white sauces: it might show, but it will not overpower. Green pepper tastes, well, green to me (which makes sense, because green peppercorns are harvested as immature berries). It should be used only when you want that very greenness, say in some Asian dishes.
There’s a great brouhaha about salt these days, and some of it is justifiable. Expensive artisanal sea salt is naturally produced, unrefined, and high in minerals and flavor. There are many kinds to choose from. In the United States, high-quality sea salt is produced in California and Maine. Natural sea salt is mined in Utah, and then there’s red sea salt from Hawaii. French sea salt is widely touted, especially fleur de sel, as is the lovely, flaky English Maldon salt.
But no matter which salt you prefer, I believe it’s more important to settle on one particular kind of salt and use it for all general seasoning. Otherwise there’s the danger of over- or under-salting if you keep switching, because some salts really are saltier than others. You might discover some wonderful salt in France (for a pretty Euro), but that doesn’t mean there’s not great salt anywhere else. I don’t like the flavor of iodized salt, and I prefer coarser than finer, so I like additive-free kosher salt as an inexpensive, easily found alternative to refined iodized table salt. I save the artisanal stuff to sprinkle at the table.
This isn’t so much a recipe as a way to think about tomatoes. Those glorious heirloom varieties in an impossible rainbow of colors that have enlivened farmers’ markets in the past few years can enliven the dinner table too. You need sweet, ripe summer tomatoes for the dish to succeed. Make sure you never refrigerate tomatoes—store and serve them at room temperature.
You want 4 pounds ripe summer tomatoes, different colors if possible. Choose heirlooms such as Green Zebra, Brandywine, Yellow Taxi, Mortgage Lifter, Cherokee Purple, and Lemon Boy. Herbs—basil, chives, or parsley—are optional.
Wash the tomatoes and remove their cores with the twist of a paring knife. Slice the tomatoes about ½ inch thick with a serrated knife.
Arrange the tomato slices on a large platter. Scatter torn basil leaves, chopped chives, or slivered parsley over the top, if you wish. Just before serving, sprinkle sea salt lightly over the tomatoes, or pass a bowl of sea salt at the table.
I grilled chicken breasts recently and they turned out well. Why, my friends wanted to know, aren’t they dry? The answer was simple enough. I used good-quality free-range chicken breasts. But, more important, I cooked them properly, which is to say I took them off the grill at just the right moment. The chicken breasts were at cool room temperature before I cooked them. I seasoned them with only salt and pepper, a little olive oil, and fresh rosemary. The fire was the right temperature (not too hot). The mistake most cooks make is grilling over a fire that is too hot, so they’re scorching instead of cooking.
I put the breasts skin side down on the grill, let them brown slowly, and took care not to burn them. Then I turned them over and grilled them only another couple of minutes. “Treat them like a roast,” I said. “Let them rest a few minutes on a platter, and they will be moist and juicy.” Then I sliced them on a thick diagonal.
It’s a good idea to flatten the breasts a bit so they’ll cook evenly.
The best grilled chicken salad uses the same technique: Let the grilled breasts cool, but don’t let them get cold. When they’re still barely warm, slice them and dress with a vinaigrette, then toss quickly with tender spicy greens like arugula or young mustard greens.
Buy organically raised, free-range chicken from a good butcher or natural foods grocery.
Remove the tenderloins from the chicken breasts and reserve for another purpose. With a sharp knife, trim the breasts of extraneous fat, leaving the skin intact. Place the breasts between two sheets of plastic wrap or waxed paper and flatten them a bit with a mallet or meat pounder.
Lay the breasts on a baking sheet and drizzle with a little olive oil. Season the chicken breasts on both sides with salt and pepper. Strip the leaves from the rosemary sprigs, chop them roughly, and sprinkle over the breasts. Let them rest at cool room temperature for up to an hour (or refrigerate for several hours and bring to room temperature before cooking).
Prepare a fire in a charcoal grill. When the coals are hot, set the grilling rack over them and let it heat. Be sure the rack is not too close to the coals and that the heat is not too fierce. The heat level should be that of a medium-hot sauté pan. A beefsteak can take higher heat, but for chicken, the heat must be gentler.
Lay the chicken breasts skin side down on the grill. Let them cook for about 6 minutes, until the skin is golden and crisp. Turn them over and cook for 2 minutes more. Remove the breasts to a warmed platter and let them rest for 5 to 8 minutes before serving. Carve them into thick diagonal slices.
serves 8–10
Use this recipe as a guide, incorporating other summer vegetables such as okra, wax beans, snap peas, and sweet peppers. The jalapeño butter is also divine on corn on the cob.
Heat the olive oil in a large heavy-bottomed pan over a medium flame. Add the diced onion and let it cook for 5 minutes or so, until softened.
Add the garlic, corn kernels, summer squash, and green beans. Season well with salt and pepper. Increase the heat to high, and cook, stirring well, for a minute or two. Add a cup of water and cover the pan. Cook the vegetables for 5 to 7 minutes, stirring once or twice. When they are cooked to your liking—soft, but not too soft—add some jalapeño butter and mix it in gently.
Serve in a warmed bowl, topped with chopped cilantro, if you wish.
Put a stick of softened butter in a small bowl. With a wooden spoon, stir in 1 minced jalapeño pepper (remove the seeds before chopping for a less spicy butter). Add salt and pepper, the grated zest and juice of 1 lime, and a tablespoon of slivered chives. Mix well.
This humble dessert is made velvety by the blueberries, which thicken the sauce. You can also use other berries, such as raspberries, loganberries, boysenberries, or olallieberries, or use all blueberries. Serve with vanilla ice cream, Crème Fraîche (page 41), or Barely Whipped Cream (page 69).
Preheat oven to 350°F. To make the topping, combine the flour, brown sugar, and cinnamon in a bowl. Add the butter and work it in with your fingertips until you have a crumbly mixture.
In another bowl, toss the blueberries and blackberries with the granulated sugar. Pile the sugared fruit into a large gratin dish or two pie plates. Mound the topping over the fruit.
Bake for an hour, or until the topping is nicely browned. Cool for 15 minutes before serving, or serve at room temperature.
yellow hunger
Shaved Summer Squash with Squash Blossoms
Grilled Halibut with Indian Spices and Yellow Tomatoes
This is a book of recipes and menus, but I hope what it is, too, is a book about cooking by instinct—improvisational, the sort of cooking that doesn’t need a recipe. Take zucchini. Take it, please. I know, it’s the summer garden’s little joke: too much, too big, not funny. Or is it?
Say you cut up an onion. Stew it slowly, salted lightly, in plenty of olive oil. Chop a zucchini or three—yellow or green, any size is fine, cubes are good. Add salt and garlic and a little red chile and simmer slowly over moderate heat until the squash is tender and juicy.
You can serve this simple concoction in a surprising number of ways: for a first course as a sort of soup, sprinkled with good olive oil and fresh chopped herbs; in an open-faced sandwich, with ricotta salata or mild feta and hot pepper; as an accompaniment to simply cooked fish or chicken. Or turn it into a wonderful pasta sauce: Stir the hot squash into soft, wide pappardelle or giant shells, with a good spoonful of fresh ricotta, a fistful of grated Parmigiano, and freshly ground pepper.
Or make a huge pancake of yellow and green zucchini, crisp and savory—it’s a sight to behold. Pick your zucchini, and while you’re out there, grab some parsley, oregano, chives, whatever, and lots of basil. Julienne or grate 6 to 8 zucchini. Put in a bowl and add salt and pepper, chopped herbs, 2 or 3 beaten eggs, and a little grated Parmigiano, or not. Heat olive oil in a well-seasoned cast-iron pan, pour in the zucchini mixture, and let it brown on one side. Flip the pancake and finish it on the stovetop, or run it under the broiler until it’s puffy.
One summer day at the market, everything that appealed to me seemed to be in intense shades of yellow and gold: yellow peppers, yellow tomatoes, golden peaches, the sweetest summer squash sidling up to dewy lemon-colored squash blossoms. I began to feel a yellow hunger. This salad of yellow summer squash, sliced paper-thin and dressed with fruity olive oil, makes a fine beginning to a yellow meal.
Rinse the zucchini and wipe dry with a kitchen towel. Cut off both ends of each one. Using a mandoline or sharp thin-bladed knife, cut the squash lengthwise into very thin slices. Put the squash into a large bowl and cover with a damp towel until you are ready to serve—it only takes a minute or two to finish the salad.
Just before serving, season the squash lightly with salt and pepper and toss gently. Drizzle with olive oil just to coat. Add the juice of half the lemon. Toss again, taste, and adjust the seasoning.
Mound the dressed squash on a platter. Tear the squash blossoms (petals only) into strips and scatter them over the salad. With a sharp vegetable peeler, shave the cheese over the platter. Serve immediately.
Indian spices turn any white fish flavorful—and yellow too.
In a dry cast-iron pan, toast the cumin, coriander, fennel, and cloves over medium heat until fragrant, about 2 minutes. Transfer to a spice grinder or mortar and grind fine. Put the ground spices in a small bowl and add the turmeric and cayenne.
Lay the halibut on a baking sheet and season with salt and pepper. Drizzle with the olive oil. Sprinkle the spice mixture over the fish, then massage it in. Cover and refrigerate for up to several hours. Bring the fish to room temperature before cooking.
Prepare a fire in a charcoal grill. Grill the halibut over medium coals for 3 minutes per side, until just opaque throughout (the fish can also be cooked under the broiler, baked in a hot oven, or pan-cooked).
Arrange the halibut on a large platter and surround with the yellow tomatoes. Sprinkle the tomatoes lightly with salt. Spoon a little yogurt sauce onto each portion and pass the rest at the table. Sliver the mint leaves with a sharp knife and scatter over the platter.
serves 8
Raita—the classic Indian yogurt sauce—can be spruced up with grated radish, carrot, or cucumber, but I like this plain version.
Put the yogurt in a bowl. In a small frying pan, heat the olive oil over a medium flame. Add the mustard and cumin seeds. When the seeds begin to pop, add the garlic and let it sizzle, without browning, about 10 seconds or so.
Scrape the contents of the pan into the yogurt. Stir in the ginger and chile. Season the sauce with salt and pepper. The sauce will keep in the fridge for a day or two, but it tastes best freshly made. It also makes a good dressing for cucumber salad.
This is not a cooked peach dessert, nor is it overly sweet. In the spirit of this dinner, it is pure peach and pure yellow.
Peel the peaches with a sharp paring knife. Slice the fruit and put in a bowl. Sprinkle with the sugar and toss gently. Pour the wine over the fruit, cover, and refrigerate for several hours.
To serve, spoon the peach slices into shallow bowls or glasses, adding half a cup of the winey juices to each.
feeling italian, part I
Cherry Tomato Crostini with Ricotta
Roast Pork Loin Porchetta-Style
Fresh Shell Beans with Sage and Garlic
Nectarine and Raspberry Macedonia
All over Italy you can buy porchetta—the national treat of roast suckling pig seasoned with wild fennel and rosemary, black pepper, and garlic—from vendors in special stainless steel trucks, fitted out with selling counters, that travel from town to town and park in markets or piazzas, just like old-fashioned ice cream vans. To my mind, snacking on porchetta with a little glass of wine is a far better thing than Mister Softee.
Often two or three porchetta trucks may be parked at the same spot. Invariably, there will be a longer line at one of them, for obvious reasons. When you get to the window, you’re asked if you want the porchetta sliced from the fat end or the lean—and, of course, the fat end is the best. You always have to buy more than you need, because it’s hard to get home without eating some along the way, especially the crispy skin. Porchetta is delicious warm, but perhaps even better room temperature or cold.
The pigs on those porchetta trucks are not exactly suckling age (which would be a bit below twenty pounds), they’re usually larger. If you can get a small suckling pig, it’s easy to roast it in your oven or on a spit in the back yard. That’s about as close as you can get to a pig on wheels here.
But you needn’t have a whole pig to replicate the experience. A pork shoulder, loin, or leg seasoned properly—that is to say generously, not holding back on salt, pepper, garlic, or herbs, and left to cure overnight—will make delicious porchetta. It’s most important to track down the best-quality farm-raised pork and, thankfully, farmers are once again breeding pigs that taste like pigs, concentrating on flavor (which includes some fat), not on producing that tasteless “other” white meat.
Choose sweet, ripe cherry tomatoes—of different colors if possible. Sweet 100s, Ida Gold, Red Currant, Sun Gold, and Green Grape are names to look for. Also search out interesting basils, such as purple-hued opal, piccolo fino, or Greek bush, in addition to the familiar big-leaved Genovese basil. Try to get good fresh ricotta from an Italian deli or specialty cheese shop. The supermarket variety is a watered-down version of the real thing.
In a medium bowl, macerate the shallot in the red wine vinegar with a little salt. After a few minutes, whisk in the olive oil. Add the pounded garlic and the cherry tomatoes, season well with salt and pepper, and toss gently. Leave to marinate for a few minutes.
Cut the ciabatta into ½-inch slices. Spread the slices on a baking sheet and toast on both sides under the broiler until golden. Swipe the toasts very lightly with a peeled garlic clove. Don’t push too hard on the garlic—you want the bread to have just a hint of garlic flavor.
Spread a tablespoon of fresh ricotta on each toast, then put them on a platter. Sprinkle with a little salt and a little red pepper. Spoon the marinated cherry tomatoes over the toasts. Sliver or tear the basil leaves and strew over the crostini.
Because it’s available in our supermarkets year-round, we tend to forget that garlic, like tomatoes, has a season, and that season is summer. Of course, you cook with garlic all year, but summer’s the time to let new-crop garlic’s sweetness shine. Winter’s sprouty garlic should be used in smaller quantities and is far better cooked.
I never understand why people think peeling garlic is such a big deal. Run from that prechopped garlic in a jar or those prepeeled cloves in containers—it all tastes old, oxidized, and rank. It’s so easy to do it right. Hold a firm, fresh garlic clove top to bottom between your thumb and forefinger and quickly squeeze the clove until the skin pops. Then the clove is easily peeled. It’s the same idea as smashing the unpeeled clove under the blade of a knife, but this way the clove isn’t bruised until you’re ready to chop it.
You don’t need a garlic press or any other fancy garlic gadgets. If you have a mortar and pestle, use that for pureeing, but you don’t really need one to smash garlic to a paste. Here are three tricks:
1. The French grandmother’s fork method: Press the tines of a fork against a cutting board. Then rub a garlic clove back and forth over the tines to make a quick garlic paste.
2. Thinly slice a garlic clove and sprinkle with salt. With a sideways scraping motion, mash the salted slices with the side of a large knife. The salt provides the friction to create a fine puree.
3. Or use the technique I learned years ago from a French chef: Holding the handle of a large chef’s knife, turn the knife upside down, with the sharp side up. Now use the flat, dull back of the blade to crush the garlic clove to a rough puree.
Choose good-quality, non-factory-farmed pork, on the bone or boneless, as you prefer. What’s important is to have a nice layer of fat; ask the butcher not to remove too much. If you live in an area where fennel grows wild, collect a few feathery fronds. Otherwise use the fronds from cultivated fennel.
Turn the pork roast upside down and insert the garlic slices into the loose flesh. Sprinkle the roast with the fennel seeds and black pepper. Season the meat generously with salt and drizzle a little olive oil over it. Strip the leaves from a rosemary sprig or two, chop them roughly, and sprinkle them over the pork. Massage the seasoning into the roast.
Line a roasting pan with rosemary sprigs and fennel fronds. Set the roast on top. Cover and refrigerate for an hour or two, or, better, overnight. Bring to room temperature before cooking.
Preheat the oven to 425°F. Roast the loin for about an hour (about 45 minutes for a boneless roast), until the internal temperature reads 130°F. For a smokier flavor, cook the roast outside over coals to the same interior temperature. Remove the roast, cover loosely with foil, and let it rest for 15 to 30 minutes before carving.
serves 8–10
Pork and beans is always, to me, a thrilling combination and a wonderful thing to eat year-round, but fresh shell beans are a seasonal treat not to be missed. In the South, black-eyed peas, crowder peas, and fresh limas are longtime favorites and farm stands there always have them fresh in season. More and more, fresh shell beans, such as cranberry, flageolets, and cannellini, are appearing in farmers’ markets around the country. If the beans are already shucked, packed in a little bag, it’s a gift. If you can’t find them fresh, substitute dried heirloom beans from a recent harvest. Summer shell beans cook quickly, usually in 30 minutes or so, and have a sweet, creamy succulence.
Shuck the beans from their pods and put them in a heavy-bottomed pot. Add water to cover by an inch or so. Add a splash of olive oil, the bay leaf, sage leaves, and a good pinch of salt. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to a gentle simmer. Simmer the beans for about 30 minutes, until the skins are soft and the beans are tender and creamy.
Taste the beans and add salt if necessary. Cool the beans in the broth. (The beans can be cooked several hours in advance.)
To serve, reheat the shell beans. Drain them (reserve the broth for another purpose) and put them in a warmed bowl. Grind over a little black pepper and drizzle with a little olive oil.
Macedonia was a popular fresh fruit salad here in the fifties, but it has been a staple summer dessert in Italy forever. It can be made all summer long with a mix of ripe fruit, cut small, lightly sugared, and moistened with a bit of wine or liqueur. This version features just sweet nectarines and fragrant raspberries, but feel free to add other berries or stone fruits, grapes, or melon.
Cut the nectarines into slices or chunks and put them in a glass serving bowl. Pick over the raspberries and add them. Sprinkle lightly with sugar (ripe summer fruit needs very little), and add the grappa and wine. Mix gently, cover, and refrigerate for several hours before serving.
viva fish tacos
Green Cilantro and Tomatillo Salsa
Fish Tacos with Shredded Cabbage and Lime
How do you think about a meal? For me, much depends on the weather. A few years ago, I was in Paris during a record heatwave. By eight in the morning, it was already 90 degrees; even at midnight, the sidewalks were steaming. There was no end in sight. I woke one morning from a troubled sleep somewhat perversely craving fish tacos and margaritas.
I know it was a little nutty, like being in Mexico and longing for Champagne and blini, but my heart was set on it. So, first thing, I called around and invited friends for a taco fiesta after sundown. When they asked what to bring, I replied, “Cold beer. And lots of ice.” Of course, finding the ingredients for tacos in Paris presented a bit of a problem. Fortunately I knew a shop that imported handmade tortillas from Mexico: expensive, but I was in it now. I had to have them. I found a big tailpiece of white-fleshed fish and begged a bag of ice so I could get it home still fresh. I knew I could find cilantro and chiles at the Asian grocery.
My craving was not for those Southern California–style fish tacos that are just fried fish with mayonnaise. They have their fans, but I am not among them. What I fantasize about are the beachside fish tacos I used to eat in a tiny makeshift joint near Veracruz, Mexico—simple tacos completely satisfying with an ice-cold Corona—fresh-grilled fish piled into warm, floppy corn tortillas, topped with shredded cabbage instead of lettuce, because the place had no refrigeration and cabbage, unlike lettuce, did fine without it. Now I always want cabbage with my fish tacos.
It may seem excessive to suggest making your own tortilla chips, but their flavor is so much better; most commercially made chips seem too thin, not like real tortillas. And this is the traditional way to use day-old tortillas.
Slice the tortillas into 1-inch-wide ribbons. Heat the oil in a cast-iron frying pan to 375°F. Fry the tortilla strips a handful at a time until crisp and lightly golden, about 2 minutes. Drain on absorbent paper and sprinkle with salt.
As more and more commercial salsa pours into the marketplace (heavy on pineapple and fire-roasted mangoes), there is something doubly pleasurable about just-diced onion and tomatoes carefully cut into bright squares. This salsa is spirited and delicious and tastes good on almost everything. Make it fresh and eat it within an hour or two, or it loses its crunch, like a salad that’s gone wilty.
Put the tomatoes, onion, and chiles in a bowl. Season with salt and pepper. Add the parsley and cilantro and mix well. Taste and adjust the seasoning.
This green salsa is especially good with fish. It is rather spicy, but it gets balance from the tomatillos, which add both sweetness and acidity. Look for tomatillos that are small and bright green, with fresh husks. Serve this the day it is made.
Remove the husks from the tomatillos. Put the tomatillos, onion, garlic, and jalapeños in a large saucepan. Add water just to cover and a good spoonful of salt. Bring the mixture to a boil.
Pour the mixture into a shallow dish. When it’s quite cool to the touch, add the chopped cilantro and puree in a blender to obtain a bright green, frothy salsa.
Pour the salsa into a serving bowl.
I prefer this avocado salad to trickier guacamoles full of extra ingredients. Look for avocados that are just ripe and a little firm. Overripe avocados can taste strong and oily. When you find that really good avocado, it needs nothing more than lime juice and salt, and maybe some scallions. Dip a chip into it, put some in a fish taco, or spread it on toast.
Cut the avocados in half and remove the pits. Scoop out the flesh with a soupspoon and put it in a serving bowl. Add the scallions, a little salt, and the juice of 1 lime. Roughly mash all the ingredients together with a wooden spoon. Taste and adjust for salt. Add more lime juice, if needed.
Put the bowl on a platter and surround the bowl with the radishes.
The best fish tacos require good fresh fish, good tortillas, and good salsa. Look for freshly made corn tortillas at a Latino grocery—they are always superior to those found in supermarkets. And homemade salsa is always better than store-bought.
Set all the accompaniments out on the table so everyone can assemble their own taco, folding a steaming hot tortilla around a chunk of grilled fish, and adding avocado, salsa, cabbage, and lime. Have a big tub of beer on ice. For dessert, cut up a watermelon, or serve paletas, frozen fruit ices on a stick sold in Mexican groceries.
Season the fish with salt and pepper. Sprinkle over the chile, garlic, and oregano and drizzle with the olive oil. Rub the seasoning into the fish, then cover and refrigerate for 2 to 4 hours. Bring the fish to room temperature before cooking.
Shred the cabbage with a mandoline or a sharp knife and put it in a bowl. Lightly salt the cabbage and toss well. Add the lime juice, toss again, and let sit for 10 minutes or so.
Grill the fish over hot coals, or broil it, for about 3 minutes per side, until just opaque. Put the fish on a platter and surround with cilantro sprigs and lime wedges.
To warm the tortillas, heat them a half dozen at a time: If you have the grill going, spread out the tortillas and heat them well on both sides, letting them puff a little. Or keep a cast-iron griddle or comal over a steady flame in the kitchen so you can warm tortillas throughout the meal. Wrap them in a clean napkin to keep the steam in—you want them soft.
serves 8–10
hot day, cold chicken
I suppose you can’t exactly call the chicken/egg thing a partnership, since it’s not exactly consensual. The particular genius of human intervention was to capture the birds in the wild and raise them for food—first harvesting the eggs while they were plentiful, then, as the flock aged, boiling the meat for soup and other dishes. If you had a few extra eggs, you made a cake, but eggs were considered a luxury.
But what began as a brilliant and perfectly eco-friendly tradition—keeping just enough chickens around the yard to supply eggs and meat for a small family—burgeoned into the big, hellacious business of factory farms, where chickens on drugs are confined in cages, lights blazing at all hours to encourage nonstop laying. This specter of avian enslavement—which produces eggs aplenty and inexpensive but bland, flavorless fryers—is enough to turn you off commercial birds (and their eggs) forever. And it should.
Just a few years ago, the only place you could find farm-raised chickens and eggs was at a farmers’ market, or on the farm. But conscientious cooks and consumers have lobbied to change all that. Now even mainstream supermarkets carry healthier, natural chickens and organic eggs from “happy hens.”
For me, the daily egg is a necessity. Some days, I’m convinced that sunny-side up eggs are the best; other days I want my eggs poached—perhaps for lunch in a red wine sauce.
Fried eggs have all sorts of possibilities. On a slice of bread drizzled with good olive oil, or on a plate of spicy spaghetti. Or my childhood fave, a version of egg-in-the-hole we used to call eggs James Cagney (for long-forgotten reasons), where you cut out a circle in a slice of bread with a water glass, melt some butter in a pan, lay in the bread, break an egg into the hole, then fry the thing on both sides. Or quail eggs fried and served on baguette slices with a drizzle of harissa for an hors d’oeuvre. In Italy, I was once served half a dozen fried quail eggs on creamy polenta showered with shavings of fresh white truffle. Utter extravagance. In England, I ate wild gull eggs with celery salt, collected by a licensed gull-egg forager. The yolks were a brilliant orange, and the flavor somewhere between fowl and fish (some people think duck eggs taste fishy too—others swear they make the best cakes).
For salads of every sort, the best accompaniment is a soft-centered, almost runny, hard-cooked egg.
A cold glass of borscht is a refreshing beginning to a hot-weather meal. My favorite is modeled after one at Barney Greengrass, an old Upper West Side Jewish delicatessen in New York, where pink borscht, served in a water glass, is always on the menu. The borscht can be made a day ahead. Indeed, a pitcher of borscht in the fridge can even substitute for lunch on a sweltering afternoon.
Peel and slice the beets and put them in a large saucepan. Cover with the water and add the garlic, shallots, bay leaf, coriander, cloves, cayenne, sugar, vinegar, and olive oil. Add a good spoonful of salt. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer and cook for 15 minutes, or until the beets are tender. Check the seasoning of the broth—it should be distinctly sweet-sour, peppery, and flavorful. Correct the seasoning, adding salt and cayenne if necessary and freshly ground pepper.
Puree the soup well in a blender, then strain into a large bowl. Chill in the refrigerator or over ice.
Just before serving, whisk in the yogurt. Taste and adjust the seasoning, adding a splash of vinegar if necessary. Thin with a little water to achieve the correct thickness—like a thin milk shake.
To serve, pour into small water glasses. Garnish with freshly ground pepper and, if desired, fresh dill or chives.
{ANOTHER REFRESHING BEVERAGE} SUMMER BUTTERMILK DRINK
For an ultraeasy hot-day beverage, try this: Pour cold buttermilk over a few ice cubes in a large glass. Sprinkle a little salt and freshly ground pepper on top. Crumble a few cumin seeds between your fingertips, and add the cumin and a speck of cayenne. Stir and enjoy.
This jellied chicken is an idea based on the French classic, jambon persillé. Two caveats: You have to like aspic, and you have to make it the day before you serve it. Then invite friends who’ll appreciate it—this is the quintessential labor of love. The upside is that once it’s made, it only needs unmolding, and the meal is ready. The terrine is delicious plain, or serve it with a dab of Plain Homemade Mayonnaise (page 57), a simple vinaigrette, or Herb Vinaigrette (page 270).
Remove the skin from the chicken legs. Put them in a heavy-bottomed pot with water just to cover. Add the white wine, bay leaf, celery stalk, garlic, coriander, peppercorns, and a good spoonful of salt. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a gentle simmer. Skim off and discard any surfacing fat and foam. Simmer the chicken legs until they are tender, about 30 minutes. Remove the legs and set aside to cool. Leave the broth at a low simmer.
When the legs are cool enough to handle, tear the meat from bones. Return the bones to the simmering broth and cook the broth for another 30 minutes.
Roughly chop the chicken meat and put it in a bowl. Add the parsley, chopped celery leaves, tarragon, scallions, and capers. Season with salt and pepper and a pinch of cayenne. Mix well, and transfer to a 2-quart terrine or deep serving dish and refrigerate. Strain the broth through a fine-meshed sieve, then put it in the refrigerator to cool completely.
When the broth is completely chilled, remove any congealed fat from the surface. Pour the broth (it will be partially jelled) into a pot. Be careful not to include the sediment that has settled at the bottom. Heat to just under a simmer. Taste for salt and adjust, then turn off the heat.
Soften the gelatin in the white wine vinegar and then dissolve in the broth. Allow the broth to cool to room temperature, then ladle it over the chicken. Cover and refrigerate overnight so that the terrine sets completely.
To serve, invert the terrine onto a large platter and unmold. Surround with leaves of butter lettuce and halved or quartered hard-cooked eggs.
serves 8–10
Bring a medium saucepan of water to a boil. Lower 6 large organic eggs into the rapidly boiling water. Simmer for exactly 9 minutes. (For a slightly runny center, cook the eggs for 8 minutes.) Remove the eggs from the boiling water and plunge them into a bowl of ice water to stop the cooking.
When the eggs are cool (this doesn’t take very long), tap the shells on the counter to crack them, then return the eggs to the ice water. This will allow the cold water to seep between the eggs and the shells, making the eggs easily peelable. The eggs will be firm but with a moist, soft yolk.
These pickles are wonderful with any cold meat dishes or charcuterie. The basic version takes a week to make, but there’s a quick method here too, for overnight pickles.
Combine the garlic, herbs and spices, salt, water, vinegar, and olive oil in a bowl. Stir to dissolve salt. Pack the turnip wedges into a clean quart jar and pour in the brine mixture. Screw on the lid. Put the jar on a shelf in the kitchen and turn it over every day for a week.
After a week, refrigerate the pickles. Use within a month.
makes 1 quart
{IN A HURRY} QUICK PICKLED TURNIPS
For a faster pickle, simmer the turnips in the brine for about 8 minutes, or until cooked but still firm. Cool the pickles in the brine, then refrigerate overnight before serving.
{FEELING PINK} PINK PICKLED TURNIPS
For pink pickles, add 1 small red beet, peeled and sliced, and omit the turmeric.
Clafoutis follows the model of every simple European housewife’s dessert: Make a batter, pour it over some fruit, bake. Cherry is the best, I think. A little kirsch accentuates the flavor of the cherries.
Preheat the oven to 375°F. Butter and flour a 10- or 12-inch gratin dish or large cast-iron frying pan and arrange the cherries in the bottom. Scatter the blanched almonds evenly over the cherries.
Beat the eggs with the brown sugar and flour. When the mixture is smooth, whisk in the milk. Add the almond extract and the kirsch. Pour the batter over the fruit.
Bake for 40 minutes, or until the top is nicely browned and a skewer inserted in the center comes out clean. Let cool, then dust with powdered sugar. Clafoutis tastes best at room temperature.
