Fruit

The clafoutis was invented in Limousin, France, to showcase that region’s famous cherries. Some compare the eggy consistency of clafoutis to flan, as it’s neither cake nor custard. To me, it’s more like an extra-thick crêpe dotted with fruit. Clafoutis puffs beautifully as it bakes, and hot out of the oven, it’s crisp on the outside and airy in the middle. When chilled, however, it collapses, becoming dense and custardlike. I love it both ways. One of the great aspects of clafoutis is its versatility. Once you know how to make the batter, you can make great desserts with it year-round. At Lucques, we’ve made clafoutis with sautéed apples in the winter and with berries in the summer. For the fall, I like a clafoutis featuring that indigenous American jewel, the cranberry. This dessert is delicious as is, but if you want to gild the lily, serve it with a dollop of bourbon-spiked whipped cream.

This is not your mild-mannered pork chop! The pork porterhouse is two cuts of meat in one—just like its better-known cousin the beef porterhouse. From the short loin of the pig, the pork porterhouse (porkerhouse?) consists of the soft, luscious tenderloin on one side of the bone and the meatier loin on the other. The classic American accompaniment to pork is, of course, apples. But in place of the traditional applesauce, I like to serve these hefty chops with the time-honored duo of apples and potatoes. Called deux pommes, or two apples—one from a tree and one from the earth—the two are sautéed together until crispy and golden brown. To show off more of fall’s cornucopia, I’ve added quince, “Eve’s apple,” to the mix. Slathering the chops with quince jam (membrillo in Spanish cuisine, cotognata in Italian) is a sophisticated nod back to that applesauce. Be sure to cut the quince, apples, and potatoes into similar-sized pieces, so when they’re cooked they all look the same. The mystery is part of the fun; there’s no telling which bite will be which pomme.

This recipe is in honor of Hadley Fruit Orchards, a legendary stop on the way to Palm Springs where “ice cold date shakes” have been soothing weary and overheated drivers on Route 10 for years.

During my cooking stage at Pain, Adour et Fantaisie, a two-star restaurant in southwestern France, days off were few and far between for the commis (French for grunt line cooks). Whenever I got the chance, though, I’d round up my fellow workers for a road trip to the Basque country. We always knew when we crossed the border into Spain, because everything looked different—the Spanish hillsides were rugged and less pristine than the green countryside of southwestern France. We were cooks, so food was the first thing on our agenda. After plates of jamón and several bottles of red wine, we headed to the bakeries, where I was charmed by the simple, heartfelt sweets of the Basque bakers. A few years back, I was reminded of those quick forays into Spain by an excellent cook named Brian Edwards. His training in Spain had left him with fond memories he was eager to share. When he described his favorite Basque dessert, pastel vasco, I knew it was my kind of sweet. A simple pound cake made with rum and layered with fruit compote sounded like the perfect addition to our dessert list. My pastry chef at the time, Kimberly Sklar, did some research and perfected her own version of this rustic Spanish sweet. We put it on the menu, but for some reason it didn’t sell. One morning, I toasted a slice of leftover cake in a buttered cast-iron pan and ate it with warm berry compote. Unable to fathom how such deliciousness could be ignored, I put it back on the menu, embellishing the description just a little: “Pastel Vasco, toasted in the wood-burning oven with blackberries and poured cream.” The power of words is amazing. We sold out night after night.

Dates were always part of the December onslaught of gifts for my father from his patients. Packages of dried fruit would arrive with bottles of booze, crates of Hickory Farms smoked meats and cheeses, and boxes of C. C. Brown’s pecan turtles. Once my sister and I had made our way through all the other edible gifts, our sugar-dazed eyes would turn toward that untouched wicker tray of shrink-wrapped dried fruit. After one bite of those rock-hard dates covered in shredded coconut, we were convinced that dates were inedible. It wasn’t until my late twenties, when I moved back to Los Angeles, that I gave dates another chance. It didn’t seem right that something so prominent in the local landscape was absent from my culinary landscape. With date farmers at every turn, I broke down and tried a date. Soft, chewy, and rich, this was definitely not the date of my childhood. I embraced my newfound love with a vengeance, sampling all the different varieties. Now I can’t imagine life without dates. For this tart I like Deglet Noors, which have a pleasing chewiness without the cloying sweetness of some other varieties. If you can’t find Deglet Noors, you can use another variety; just make sure the dates are plump and supple. (See Sources for my favorite date farmers who ship across the country.)

Figs and almonds—a classic pairing. For this tart, I cut the figs into quarters and sauté them with sugar, butter, and vanilla for a jammy texture. Then I pour the super-easy custard base into a baked pâte sucrée crust with the caramelized figs, and bake until the top is slightly browned. Be sure to bake the crust completely before filling it, to ensure it stays crisp. Although this tart is so very French, it reminds me just a little bit of all-American Fig Newtons.

This dish was inspired by a trip to Tunisia a few years ago. I fell in love with the Tunisian cooks’ use of spices and the bowls of harissa served with every meal. What surprised me most was the use of caraway, which I had always thought of as an Eastern European spice. For this Tunisian-flavored stew, I season the lamb shoulder overnight with caraway, coriander, chiles, cayenne, and paprika, and then braise it in an aromatic broth with cinnamon and allspice. For a traditional braise I usually deglaze with wine, but in keeping with Muslim prohibitions common in Tunisia, I refrain and substitute lemon juice, which also adds a bright, acidic note to the stew.

This grilled pork confit evolved one night when I was making a staff meal at Lucques. I salvaged the leftover ends and trimmings from the day’s pork confit, crisped them in my favorite cast-iron pan, and ran to the walk-in to see what produce I could find to add to the dish. When I got back to the stove, I noticed half the meat was missing. Looking around, I saw that all the cooks had their heads down, suspiciously quiet. Half of my staff meal had disappeared, but I couldn’t be angry. Who can resist succulent pork, hot and crispy, out of the pan? Something so irresistible deserved to be shared with the outside world, so I put this staff meal on the menu!

Although they might sound like an odd combination, hot crispy squid and spicy chorizo tossed together with spinach, cilantro, and olives make an irresistible warm salad. This salad is a salute to the Portuguese and the Spanish, who have been cooking seafood and meat together for centuries, long before the term “surf and turf” was coined.

At Lucques, we search out the heirloom varieties of corn, available all summer long from our local farmers’ markets. This soup is spiced with jalapeño and cilantro and topped with avocado cream and lime. The key to its silky texture is blending it long enough at high speed and adding enough liquid to achieve the consistency of heavy cream. Although customers swear this rich soup must have cream in it, the only cream you’ll find is in the topping that garnishes the soup: a delicious purée of avocado, crème fraîche, and lime juice.

This early fall medley was made famous by the legendary Richard Olney, whose books brought the south of France to kitchens all over the globe. In his recipe, the prosciutto is julienned, scattered over figs, and drizzled with a crushed-mint cream. In this version, I add melon, and instead of thin strands of prosciutto, I drape whole slices around the fruit to create a layered antipasto. There’s no right or wrong type of fig for this dish; as long as they’re super-ripe, luscious, and oozing, they’ll work beautifully. If you have the luxury of choosing more than one variety of fig, such as Genoa, Adriatic, or Honey, this is a spectacular way to show them off. The same rules apply for the melon: just pick the sweetest, most perfumed one you can find.

This refreshing chilled purée wakes up your palate with a jolt of sweet pepper essence, cooling yogurt, and the ubiquitous Middle Eastern spice sumac. Sumac is made from the dried berries of a sumac tree, and in the Middle East it’s sprinkled over everything from kabobs to yogurt to rice. The dark-crimson powder lends an acidic, lemony flavor to this soup.

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.”

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.