Citrus

After years of carefully studying dessert habits, I’ve begun to refine my theory that there are two types of people—those who like lemon desserts and those who like chocolate. I’ve observed that there’s a subspecies that likes desserts with a crunch, a group that includes me. I’m a big fan of seeds, and I like to add them to these jam-filled cookies to put them squarely in the crunchy camp. Or should I say “roundly,” since they are, indeed, round. But feel free to use any cookie cutters you have—round, square, oval, or even heart-shaped.

I almost started an international incident when I put some pictures of my black and white cookies on my blog. People went ballistic because I didn’t include a recipe. The problem was that I didn’t know who to credit since my recipe is culled from a variety of sources. Like New York City, the spiritual home to these cookies, my sources and inspiration for them are the ultimate melting pot: a Seinfeld episode, an email from food maven Arthur Schwartz, a recipe from the legendary Zabar’s, and George Greenstein’s comprehensive tome, Secrets of a Jewish Baker.

Sabayon is the French term for zabaglione, the frothy Italian dessert made of egg yolks and wine. It was a great day when I discovered that it could be frozen and scooped like ice cream without being churned in an ice cream maker. Because of the less-than-shy wine flavor, it holds its place in a bowl of fruit soup, especially one made with intensely flavored blood oranges.

From the roadside stands in the French countryside to the village shops of Greece to the markets of Italy, wherever I spot a market vendor selling jars of thick, sticky, locally produced honey, I feel obligated to buy some. If you think all honey is the same, you haven’t tasted ruggedly bitter Italian chestnut honey or the syrupy, aromatic lavender honey from sunny Provence. This recipe is a good way to use any type of interesting honey that you may have in your pantry. Be sure to use the freshest, crispest, best-quality pistachios you can find. And never toast them, which subdues their vibrant green color.

Recipes aren’t written in stone, which is a good thing (literally speaking), because lifting a cookbook would be a Herculean chore, and because (figuratively speaking), I love to tinker with recipes and am always thinking of ways to improve them. Lemon has always been one of my favorite flavors of frozen yogurt, as I like things that are tart and tangy. But I often wondered how some commercial lemon ice creams and frozen yogurts got that extra zing that homemade batches lacked. The answer came to me when I was in an ethnic spice market and saw little bags of citric acid crystals. I brought some home and did a test, adding just a few granules to the frozen yogurt mix before churning. When I dug my spoon in, I realized with the first taste that I’d found exactly the flavor I was looking for.

Anise is used liberally in Mediterranean and Middle Eastern desserts, but it is an underused spice in the American pastry repertoire. I find it adds an exotic touch, at once familiar yet a tad elusive. It seems especially intriguing to people who aren’t used to it paired with orange or chocolate, or both, as it is in this twist on classic ice cream puffs.

One late summer weekend, I was visiting a friend who lives in the wilds of Northern California, and I noticed lots of wild blackberry bushes with berries that were so plump and ripe that they were practically falling off the branches. I can never resist free food, so I set out for an afternoon of heavy picking. When I came back, my basket loaded down with fresh berries, my friend casually asked, “Did you see the rattlesnakes?” “Um . . . no, I . . . I didn’t,” I replied. Actually, I was really glad to have missed them. That incident didn’t quite scare me away from picking other types of fruits and berries, but I’ll let others risk their lives for blackberries, which I’ve been happy to plunk down money for ever since that day.

There’s nothing I like better than very, very cold Champagne. So cold that I usually drop a small ice cube into my glass to make sure it’s as chilled as possible. I always feared that it was offensive and crass to ice down Champagne until I went to a tasting of Krug Champagne, considered by many to be the finest of them all. I didn’t dare drop an ice cube into any of the glasses that were presented to me, but I did confide that I often did so to one of their experts, who surprised me by saying that it’s perfectly acceptable to put a bit of ice in Champagne for the very reason I do it. For this sorbet, you don’t need to use the finest French Champagne. In fact, I’ve made it successfully with Italian prosecco and Spanish cava—without offending anyone.

Sitting in the sun, overlooking the beach, I could drink margaritas all day. Unfortunately, or maybe I should say, fortunately, I don’t live in a warm climate or anywhere near a beach. If I did, I’d never get anything done. Whenever I’m looking for a taste of the tropics at home in Paris, I’ll start squeezing limes in my kitchen and I’m immediately transported to paradise (albeit with bills piled up on the counter and the dishes in the sink). Practically obligatory to serve alongside margarita sorbet are salted peanut cookies. They were inspired by the disks of solid peanut paste sold in Mexican markets called mazapan or dulce de cacahuate, which I’ve been known to nibble on with a margarita, or two, south of the border. And above it, as well.

If you can’t decide whether to serve something chocolatey or fruity for dessert, this sorbet is for you (and your guests). It’s incredibly easy to make, and even people like me, who aren’t especially fond of chocolate and fruit combinations, will be won over.

I read an article in a magazine about the difference between being “frugal” and “cheap” and was relieved to find myself in the frugal category. I’m certainly not cheap when it comes to buying ingredients, but it does go against my frugal nature to throw anything away. Here, oranges do double duty: the insides supply the juice and the rinds become the serving dishes for the sorbet. Those who are extra thrifty can candy some of the leftover peels to go alongside (see Candied Orange Peel, page 254). Egg whites left over from another project can be used to make the fluffy meringue that hides the sorbet surprise underneath.

The first time I split open a passion fruit and slurped down the dripping juices, the intense flavor knocked me for such a loop that I felt as if a tropical bomb had gone off in my head. From then on, I was hooked. Depending on where you live, fresh passion fruit may be hard to find, but they’re well worth tracking down. Don’t shy away from ones that are a tad wrinkled, as the creases indicate ripeness (they’re often marked down in price, too!). You can also buy frozen passion fruit purée (see Resources, page 270), which is inexpensive and convenient. It’s great to have on hand in the freezer: I’ll often lop off a chunk and add it to a pitcher of orange juice for a morning tropical blast.

In the ’80s, sangria’s reputation took a nosedive when it came to be known as a syrupy-sweet wine sold in green bottles with a toreador deftly skirting a charging bull on the label. But if you go to Spain, you’ll quickly realize that real sangria isn’t a sugary liquid confection, but a fruity, icy cold drink that goes down easily, especially when the temperature outside is soaring. This simple-to-make sorbet turns sangria into a frozen dessert that’s even more refreshing than it is as a beverage. And that’s no bull.

There were quite a few things I missed about the Bay Area when I packed up my bags and moved to France. Burritos, bean-to-bar chocolates, and “centered” people were some of them. Okay, I didn’t miss the centered people. But I was surprised at how much I missed Meyer lemons, which are sweeter and more perfumed than regular Eureka lemons. Their vibrant, deep yellow color makes other lemons pale in comparison. If you’re lucky enough to know someone with a Meyer lemon tree, you’re likely to be handed a large sack of them when the fruits are in season. Some greengrocers and specialty markets now carry them, too. Otherwise, you can use regular Eureka lemons in this recipe, but increase the sugar to 1 cup (200 g).

My grandmother used to throw a fit if I ordered something as simple as fruit salad or soup in a restaurant. “Why pay for that? You can make it at home,” she’d say in a voice that made you feel like a fool if you had the temerity to disagree. “Order something else!” Anyone who met my grandmother knew it was best not to cross her. Otherwise, you’d hear about it, repeatedly, for the next three to five years. Minimum. I feel that way about bread pudding. It’s something I want at home, not in a restaurant. My version mingles orange and almond and is a much more refined and luxurious than the usual bread pudding. Enjoy it in the comfort of your own dining room, but pretend you’re eating it in a restaurant, without anyone to harp on you about it. In case any of your guests decides to leave a tip, I’ll gladly accept my 15 percent.

When I worked as a pastry chef, I became known as “the crème brûlée bully” because I decided one night that I had had enough of crème brûlée and stopped serving it altogether. The reason? It was all that was ever ordered, and everything else on my menu went ignored. I realize now that I should have been flattered that guests liked my crème brûlée so much, and I apologize to anyone who left the restaurant feeling denied their favorite dessert. As reparation, I offer this recipe for lemon-ginger crème brûlée, the most popular flavor of the many that I’ve made, and hope I’m forgiven.

I think there are two types of people in this world: the lemon people and the chocolate people. This recipe is for the lemon people. But if you want to try to please both, you could add a scant 1/2 cup white chocolate chips to the soufflé base when folding in the egg whites.

Many countries have a version of caramelized custard turned out of its mold for serving—from Mexico’s flan to France’s crème renversée. No border seems to be a barrier to the migration of this universally popular dessert. Cardamom is rather an exotic spice, but it is sometimes used in classic American coffee cakes and other familiar baked goods. Do not buy preground cardamom because its flavor dissipates quickly and you’ll miss the wonderful aroma released by cracking the seeds yourself. Oftentimes, cardamom seeds are sold still in their papery husks or pods, which should be peeled away to reveal the seeds within.

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 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.