Fruit

Friend and fellow baker Dede Wilson presented me with a slice of this tart after she made it on television. Believe me, if every viewer could have tasted it, ratings would’ve gone through the roof! The name of this tart is a little deceptive, just as television sometimes is. The recipe calls for almond paste, not marzipan, as the title suggest. (Marzipan is almond paste’s sweeter cousin that’s used for molding and modeling.) Yes, Dede took some liberties when she named her creation, but no matter what it’s called, this tart is renewed season after season in my kitchen.

The first time I saw a fresh fig was nearly three decades ago when I was living in upstate New York. I had no idea what it was. Then I moved to California and saw them everywhere. I can’t say for sure that fresh figs were the reason I stayed put there for so long, but they certainly were one of them.

I once found a long-forgotten jar of homemade quince marmalade in the back of my refrigerator. Rather than throw it out, I took it with me to a friend’s house out in the country with the hope that one morning I could slip it onto the breakfast table and no one would be the wiser. But I was so mesmerized by the gorgeous rosy hue of the quince preserves that, instead, I used the marmalade as a filling for this amazingly easy-to-make jam tart. The tart is easy for a couple of reasons. The first is that there is no filling to make or fruit to cut up—any type of thick jam or marmalade, homemade or otherwise, is all you’ll need. The second is that the dough doesn’t require rolling: two-thirds of it is pressed into the tart pan, and the rest is formed into a log, sliced like refrigerator cookie dough, then layered onto the tart to create the top crust. Truly a piece of cake to make, this tart serves as a wonderful breakfast pastry. In the end, the marmalade did indeed make an early (well, not too early) morning appearance on the table, and I didn’t have to be sneaky about it.

I never would have thought of pairing white chocolate with lemon. My first taste of the combination was in the form of a slice of a towering lemon pie with white chocolate sauce at a restaurant in San Francisco. The second was in a filling made of the two enrobed as a neat square of chocolate at Theo Chocolate in Seattle. I didn’t need any more convincing that the pair is delicious match. My third experience with the combination was making these tartlets, and they were a charm as well. Although I’m happy to share my recipes, I’m not so big on sharing desserts, so I made these tartlets in individual portions. You can swirl each plate with the white chocolate sauce or, if you’re better at sharing than I am, you can pass a bowl of it at the table.

I tried to explain to some French pals what a “treehugger” is, a term that we Americans jokingly use to refer to a person who participates in well-intentioned earth-saving activities. Judging from my friends’ baffled expressions, the meaning got lost in translation. There are now a few French people wandering around scratching their heads, puzzled about nutty Americans with a penchant for wrapping their arms around tree trunks. I’m guilty of hugging a few trees myself. I read that using Brazil nuts is something positive that we can do to help sustain the rain forests, so I came up with this tart, which is packed full of them. I can’t say you’ll feel better about saving the planet if you make it, but anyone who doesn’t give it a try is, in my opinion, definitely nuts.

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’ve never had whole wheat puff pastry before, you’re in for a treat. While many people love the taste of the buttery layers of traditional puff pastry, adding whole wheat flour gives it a hearty, nutty taste that I find especially appealing when paired with apples. I also reason that the whole wheat balances out what some might consider an injudicious amount of butter in the dough. This is a quick puff pastry, adapted from a technique I learned from Linda Zagula, that takes a fraction of the time and work required to make the traditional kind. It still takes six turns to roll it out, but you do the first four all at once, then the last two later. And the pastry recipe makes enough for two tarts, so you can wrap the extra piece and stash it away in the freezer, ready for the next tart.

I love a good, classic version of tarte Tatin, the famed French caramelized-apple tart, as much as the next guy—probably even more. But adding slices of quince makes this variation extra inviting to me. If you’re unfamiliar with quince, a cousin of the apple, it’s likely because they’re inedible in their raw state, so they tend to get neglected by folks who don’t know about the seductive, beguiling flavor that’s coaxed out of them by cooking. Like apples, quince are in season in the fall, and they’re easy to find by following your nose; when they’re ripe, their scent is rather intoxicating. I often keep a bowl of them on my dining table to perfume my entire apartment.

The first time my parents took me to Disneyland, they probably assumed that they’d be spending the day racing after an energetic tyke who’d try to get on as many rides as possible. Instead of hitting all the main attractions, I discovered the Welch’s grape-colored pavilion and begged my parents to let me spend the day there, chugging inky-purple Concord grape juice. I doubt the pavilion is still there, but it was the start of my lifelong love affair with this native American grape. You might think seeding the quantity of grapes for this recipe would require a considerable amount of time. But I timed myself, and it took less than 30 minutes. Simply slice each grape in half and pluck out the seeds. If you have kids, you can get them to assist, although don’t hold me responsible if any of them develops a grape addiction as a result.

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.

When you have your own website, you develop a thick skin and come to expect all sorts of questions, including being asked advice about marketing $4,000 keepsake boxes for storing chocolate truffles (“Don’t do it,” I responded) to inquiries about preferred styles and brands of undergarments (that one didn’t get answered). This recipe was a topic in an online forum that I came across, and some fellow remarked, “Why would anyone make their own marshmallows? Or graham crackers?” While I wanted to respond, “Well, why would anyone make a hamburger from scratch? Or a salad?” I thought that not getting to taste this pie himself was punishment enough. Personally, I can’t think of anything more fun than making marshmallows and graham crackers, but if you’d prefer to take a few shortcuts, I’ve offered suggestions in Variation.

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.

For some reason, whenever I’m interviewed, the question always arises: “What would be your last meal?” Or, sometimes it’s: “If you were stranded on a deserted island . . .” I find both to be rather morbid questions—who wants to think about their last meal or being stranded on a deserted island?—and I never quite know how to respond. But if I had to list the things that I couldn’t live without, I’d say chocolate and fried chicken. The third food in my holy trinity is passion fruit. If you haven’t tasted passion fruit, this pound cake is the perfect introduction. If I’m ever stranded on a deserted tropical island, I might get lucky and find a few vines of passion fruit and perhaps some cocoa pods, but I won’t hold out much hope for getting any fried chicken.

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.