Fruit

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.

This Irish condiment, sold in jars under the name Patum Peperium, was created in 1828 and is still made by only one company, from a secret blend of anchovy, butter, herbs, and spices. The story goes that the man who created it presumed that ladies’ taste buds were too delicate for this hearty anchovy spread. As my version demonstrates, I disagree.

Julie Robles, one of the first cooks at Lucques and later the chef de cuisine at A.O.C., came up with this delicious savory (as opposed to sweet) cherry compote. This time of year I go crazy for cherries and also serve this compote on roast pork or with an assertive cheese like Taleggio.

While living in France, I took some time off from the savory kitchen to explore the sweet side of Paris at Pâtisserie Christian Pottier. Although I was fascinated by the fancy layered creations there, I preferred simpler, homier pastries, like buttery madeleines, crisp millefeuilles, and of course the very French financiers. Invented in a pastry shop near the Paris Stock Exchange, these one-bite cakes provided a quick sweet fix for bankers on the run. They were originally made in small rectangular molds to resemble gold bricks, but financiers can now be found in myriad shapes and sizes all over France. The easy-to-make batter has ground nuts, egg whites, sugar, and vanilla brown butter. At Lucques, we sometimes bake our financiers into round cakes and serve the slices with sugared summer fruit and whipped cream. Try a slice crisped in the toaster the next morning for breakfast.

One of my favorite dinners growing up was my mother’s veal piccata. Her recipe came from an old cookbook called The Pleasures of Italian Cooking, by Romeo Salta, a gift to her from my father. My father had been a devoted fan of Romeo Salta when he was the chef at Chianti in Los Angeles in the fifties. Back then, it was a swinging Italian joint with red-checkered tablecloths, opera 78s blasting, and red wine flowing into the late hours. My mother’s (and Romeo’s) veal was pounded thin, sautéed, and drenched in a lemony caper-butter sauce. There’s nothing wrong with that classic rendition, but, to add another layer of flavor, I brown the butter and finish it with salsa verde, a pungent purée of capers, anchovies, garlic, oregano, and tons of parsley. To get the finest, crispy crust on the veal, I dredge it in Wondra, a finely milled flour sold at most supermarkets. This dish is home-style Italian comfort food at its best.

Call me boring, but I prefer my sweets on the simpler side, and I drive my pastry chefs crazy with my penchant for, well, plain vanilla. When it comes to custards, I’m a particularly staunch traditionalist. So, when pastry chef Roxana Jullapat told me about her coconut flan, I was skeptical. But its elegant and classic presentation charmed me instantly—a snow white cylindrical custard oozing with golden caramel syrup and surrounded by Elgin Marble apricots simmered in Beaumes de Venise, orange juice, and spices. Roxana’s coconut flan convinced me that there’s life beyond a vanilla pot de crème (which is also delicious! See page 235).

Like a lamb shoulder or veal shank, duck legs require a long, slow braise (in fat in this case, rather than stock) to break down their sinew and make them succulent and tender. Choose an earthenware dish or a roasting pan that will hold the legs snugly (the legs should just fit in the dish, without overlapping). Four cups of duck fat sounds like a lot, but don’t worry, most of it is left behind in the pan, and you can use it over and over again, as long as it’s strained well and kept chilled or frozen. You can also store the duck legs in the fat.

Inspired by main-course salads found in the bistros of France, this dish comprises some of my favorite ingredients—beets, mustard, dandelion, and soft boiled egg. The salmon is covered in minced herbs, seasoned with fleur de sel, and then slow-roasted in a humid oven until it’s moist and custardlike at the center.

After a year of 80-hour workweeks cooking in France, I moved to Boston, where I worked a very civilized 40 hours a week. With so much free time on my hands, I focused my attention that summer on making ice cream sandwiches. I sandwiched lemon ice cream with gingersnaps, coconut ice cream with macadamia nut tuiles, and mint ice cream with chocolate chunk cookies. My friends and neighbors could hardly keep up with the frozen cookie–ice cream combos that filled my freezer. Many summers later at Lucques, local farmer James Birch delivered several unexpected crates of his delicious Santa Rosa plums. We were drowning in summer fruit at the time, and I couldn’t imagine what on earth we were going to do with those extra plums. I remembered that hot Boston summer and decided to purée the plums into a sorbet and sandwich them between chewy molasses cookies. If it’s a truly lazy summer day, you can skip the sandwiching step and serve the sorbet in bowls with the cookies on the side.

In Italy, there are many variations of semifreddo, which, literally translated, means “partially frozen.” Sometimes a semifreddo is made from sponge cake layered with slightly frozen cream; other times it’s cake-free, simply a lighter version of ice cream. At Lucques, we make this semifreddo from an uncooked “custard” base that has beaten egg whites (to make it buoyant and light) and whipped cream (to prevent it from freezing completely) folded into it. The result is a creamy frozen dessert that doesn’t require an ice cream maker or a true custard cooked at the stovetop. Strawberry and rhubarb are a classic combination, but though it’s tempting to temper the sourness of the rhubarb with sweet strawberries, I prefer the intense mouth-puckering quality of rhubarb on its own. This is a great party dessert since you can prepare all the components ahead of time.

This not-too-sweet tart is the perfect ending to a spring meal. The key to keeping the pastry nice and crisp is to bake it ahead and then scoop out some of the center, to make room for the filling. Don’t overmix the ricotta filling or you’ll smooth away those luscious natural curds in the cheese. At Lucques, we add dried blueberries to the fresh blueberry compote, giving it an unexpected chewiness.

The first incarnation of this dish did not include rice. Tasting it over and over again, I knew it needed a final element that would bring its flavors into harmony: nutty farro, meaty bass, pungent green garlic, sweet pea shoots, tart tangerines. I racked my brain for just the right thing, then remembered a sample of black rice I had stashed in my desk drawer weeks before. I had little experience with black rice—varieties of rice whose kernels are covered by extremely dark bran. The black rice I found was grown in the salt marshes of the Veneto, so I cooked it in an Italian style. As I would for risotto, I sautéed the rice in olive oil to seal the outer layer and toast it slightly. Then I deglazed with white wine, added water, and let it simmer away. When the rice was done, I found it solved my problem perfectly. The rice’s marshy origins gave it a subtle oceany taste, complementing the fresh fish and giving the entire dish a springtime-by-the sea coherence. What’s more, there was a visual bonus: the black rice was gorgeous to behold, coated in its own deep purple sauce.

Look in any Sicilian cookbook and you’ll find a recipe for the popular side dish, or contorno, of cooked greens with currants and pine nuts. I make Swiss chard the main attraction of this dish, layering it onto a savory tart with rich and tangy goat cheese, then topping it with sweet currants and toasted pine nuts. Use a crumbly, slightly aged goat cheese, such as Bûcheron, Rodin Affiné, or the domestically produced Laura chanel aged chèvre. Feel free to substitute any other tender greens, such as the tops of beets or turnips, or a bunch of young mustard greens for the Swiss chard.

Certain foods taste better when you eat them with your hands, like barbecued ribs and corn on the cob. This salad is the perfect way to indulge that primal urge. Use the endive leaves as scoops to gather up some olive shards, a fava bean or two, and a slice of lemon. The crisp spears explode with flavor, and before you’ve finished the first your hand will be reaching for another. Hand out forks if you must, and make sure to tell your friends that the Meyer lemon slices are for eating. They’re sweet and delicious, peel and all. Slice the olives thinly, so their intense taste doesn’t overwhelm the other ingredients. As for the dressing, gently stir (don’t whisk) in the cream to incorporate it without whipping it.

Peaches and bourbon is about as Southern as you can get. Drying the fruit before steeping is key—the flavors are concentrated and yield a strong, clean peach essence; fresh fruit, on the other hand, releases its water into the liquid and dilutes the infusion. The only problem with dried peaches is that they will soak up some of the bourbon, resulting in some loss, but it is worth it. Today, high-quality dried peaches are available in most supermarkets, which greatly simplifies the process. When the infused bourbon is tasted straight, the fruit flavor may seem subdued, but mixing it with sugar or sweetened ingredients awakens the peachiness. We created this infusion for our Pêche Bourbon cocktail (page 46).

Our wild strawberry cordial is actually somewhere between a fruit purée and a syrup. The idea was to create a high-octane strawberry flavor to blend in a French 75 cocktail (page 69). Much of the flavor comes from the wild strawberries we have imported frozen from France—they are tiny in size but big in flavor and vary from light yellow to deep red. You can use regular fresh strawberries, but make absolutely certain that they are ripe and fragrant.

Pineapple syrup is a very simple affair and a tasty sweetener made for use in the Pisco Punch (page 116). The flavor experience is different from using juice or fruit, because although it is clean, it picks up much of the vegetal characteristics of the pineapple. This syrup has many applications and can substitute for simple syrup to add more depth in tropical cocktails.

This is our favorite sangria recipe—it involves a little more effort than the usual sangria, but its flavor is far more complex than just wine mixed with orange juice. It really should be enjoyed with food, preferably tapas and small plates. It is an excellent companion to cheese and fish as well.