Eastern European

I remember having this condiment someplace in the Balkans, and it has been a summertime staple at my house ever since, especially when small crisp pickling cucumbers are abundant. A couple of hours before we eat, I salt the cuke slices and let them wilt. Just before we sit down, I toss the slices in yogurt with mint from the garden. A spoonful is enough to sauce a portion of fish, but I make it in big batches, because everyone heaps it on their plates as a dinner vegetable. Double the formula here to make a generous side dish serving six.

Paprika is found nowhere in Italian cuisine except in the cooking of Trieste and its surroundings. Though the years of domination by the Austro-Hungarian monarchs were resented by the Italian-speaking Triestines, their descendants have not given up the city’s traditional adaptations of Hungarian dishes like this goulash. Serve Middle European style with potatoes (boiled or mashed); Italian style with polenta or fettuccine; or with steamed rice.

Caraway seeds often season cabbage dishes; here they give pork a tangy coating. If you plan to make the cabbage to serve on the side, begin preparing that recipe first, since the total time is about an hour.

Introduced to Vietnam by the French as salade russe, this salad is a fine example of how Viet cooking blurs culinary and cultural traditions. Home cooks incorporated it into their repertoire, and I grew up treating it as any other Viet vegetable dish. During the summer, my mother served it with roasted chicken that had been marinated in garlic and Maggi Seasoning sauce. While there are many versions of this salad, I prefer combining the three root vegetables with chopped egg and a creamy herb vinaigrette. Use red beets for a beautiful magenta salad, pink or golden beets for a jewel-toned salad. For an interesting barbecue menu, serve the salad with Grilled Lemongrass Pork Riblets (page 145), Grilled Corn with Scallion Oil (page 183), and a lightly dressed green salad.

Ajvar is a red pepper spread found in some European and Middle Eastern grocery stores.

Peppers, the red, collapsed horns in particular, are heavily linked with Hungary and its rust-colored stews. The Hungarians make ground paprika from them too, which has become their most famous culinary export. Despite their South American origins, Hungary is where I have found the most dazzling displays of peppers in the markets. Two minutes, even less, from the river and the Szabadsag Bridge, Budapest’s market stalls glow deep rust and gold with tins of paprika and strings of dried mahogany chiles. I love the crumbling wooden stalls of scarlet-capped mushrooms with their stray pieces of iridescent moss, wicker baskets of black sloes, and small sacks of red berries, and the apparently precarious piles of peppers, Christmas red, clean white, and burnt orange turning scarlet. The long peppers that curl back on themselves have the intrigue of Aladdin’s lamp but are awkward in the kitchen, tending to tip their stuffing out into the baking pan. You can roast them, though, with olive oil and lots of salt, and eat them with sesame bread torn into chunks. The most useful, called Gypsy and the size of a fat rodent, are perfect for stuffing: with spinach and cream; translucent onions, capers, parsley, and garlic; cracked wheat, green olives, and toasted pine nuts; ground lamb and cumin. But mostly they are baked with a shake of the olive oil bottle and a grinding of salt until they collapse, wrinkle, and melt into silken strips. You’ll need bread then, in fat, rough chunks, and maybe a glass of bright beer. From August to the close of the year is when the market has the most from which to choose. After that the peppers come dried, in long strings of tobacco, madder, and soot. They shouldn’t be despised. By then the stalls are mostly piled with roots and cabbages, endless sausages, and wholesomely fatty pork. The paprika stalls, stacked with red and gold tins, are kitsch in a Hansel and Gretel way, their shelves covered in fastidiously ironed lace, like the old women who run them. Gulyas, or goulash, means “cowboy” and was traditionally cooked over an open fire. My paprika-scented pork stew—you could use beef-departs not too radically from the classical dish. I include dried mushrooms and cook it in a low oven, giving it a particularly deep, smoky flavor.

Babka is a rich, yeasted cross between bread and coffee cake with an equally rich Russian and Polish culinary heritage. The name is derived from the Russian baba, which means grandmother, an appropriate name for this wonderful comfort food. While it is mostly known as a popular Jewish bread filled with some combination of chocolate, cinnamon, almonds, even poppy seeds and sometimes topped with streusel, it can also be filled with raisins or soaked with rum, as in baba au rhum. The dough is rich enough that it can also be used for brioche and kugelhopf. In American bakeries, babka is most often formed as a twisted loaf with veins of the sweet filling running throughout, baked either in a loaf pan or freestanding. However, the Israeli version, known as kranz cake, uses a dramatic shaping technique that many of my recipe testers found appealing. This recipe is my favorite version, with both cinnamon and chocolate in the filling. Of course, you can leave out the chocolate and make a cinnamon sugar version, or leave out the cinnamon and make just a chocolate version, but I say, why leave out either? It’s easier to grind the chocolate chips or chunks if they’re frozen. After you grind them, you can add the cinnamon and butter and continue to process them all together. The streusel topping is also optional, but I highly recommend using it on the freestanding versions.

A satisfying meatless take on the classic Hungarian goulash, this makes good use of seitan, a high-protein, low-fat meat substitute.

We got this recipe from our good buddy (and Bobby’s neighbor) Michael Peay. He remembers his mom always used to make more than he and his brothers ever could eat because their house was so popular with their friends, especially around dinnertime. This stew, full of good porky sausage and plenty of tender cabbage, was his favorite childhood meal.

Or as we like to call them—Hungarian pigs in a blanket! (We’re a bit silly, if you haven’t noticed.) This dish traveled into our hearts long ago and has satisfied our families for generations. It was surprising to us that this comfort food that we grew up on wasn’t that bad for you! Made with lean ground beef, rice, and veggies, and covered in a tomato sauce, these rolls will fill you up but not weigh you down.

From Russia with love! Our stroganoff has all the velvety richness of the original comfort-food favorite, with just a little kick (we can’t help ourselves—we’re from Texas, where Tabasco sauce is practically a food group). Our secret ingredient is tomato soup! We added the soup to brighten up the overall flavor of the dish. But don’t worry, our variation of this classic is still enough to make you want to Cossack-dance your way back for seconds.

My fabulous hairdresser on the set of Desperate Housewives, Gabor, shared this recipe with me. In fact, he shared the very recipe his grandmother had used for decades—the card it was on must have been about eighty years old and was written in Hungarian! It took Gabor some time to decipher it, but I’m grateful for his efforts. It’s so delicious! It’s funny to think that almost every culture has some variation on the big pot of fragrant, nourishing stew. I’m glad to have been introduced to this one. The bell peppers add sweetness and color; the dish is really beautiful when made with green, red, yellow, and orange peppers, but feel free to use whatever you prefer or can get your hands on. The stew is amazing served over buttered egg noodles. And don’t worry about leftovers; this is even better after sitting in the fridge for a day or two.

A hearty stew with a robust taste, just right with the nutty flavor of bulghur wheat.

Just like Grandma might have made for you, if she were Hungarian.

No large sign—just a plaque next to a simple security button—tells you that this is the gate to a simple building housing the Cercle Bernard Lazare. The center was named in memory of Bernard Lazare, who, during the Dreyfus Affair, was a left-wing literary critic, anarchist, Zionist, and newspaper editor. He bravely defended Captain Dreyfus, and won over Jewish artists such as Camille Pissarro to the cause. The center sponsors Jewish cultural events, choosing not to advertise its location because of previous anti-Semitic attacks. When I entered this very bare-boned building, it was full of activity. Jeanine Franier came out of the kitchen to greet me, bringing along a waft of the delicious aromas from her oven. Every Thursday, before the center’s weekly lectures, she cooks. She believes that people listen to lecturers more attentively if they know a little food will be served. Regardless of what her staff cooks as a main course, this cheesecake from her Polish past is served for dessert. It has become an integral part of the lectures, and was published in the Cercle’s cookbook, called Quand Nos Boubés Font la Cuisine (When Grandmothers Cook), which she wrote in part as a fund-raising device, in part as a way of preserving a culture that is rapidly being forgotten. The cheesecake reminds me of many I ate all over France, including the one at Finkelsztajn’s Delicatessen in Paris. It tastes clearly of its delicate component parts, unlike the creamy block of cheesecake with a graham-cracker crust we find in the United States.

This recipe, made from mashed potatoes fried in little patties, came from Poland to Metz a century ago. I have tasted different versions of Passover and Hanukkah chremslach, whose name refers to the well in the pan in which they were traditionally formed before frying. Sometimes stuffed with meat, they should be eaten piping hot, as directly from the pan as your fingers and tongue can stand.