French

A light, appealing dessert that is a French classic. You may simply serve the pears after poaching them but the browning is a very nice touch. Pinot Noir is the ideal wine for this, but any fruity, not-too-tannic red will do.

Crème brûlée may seem mysterious, but it is actually quite straightforward and simple. Just remember two things: One, like almost all custards, this one is done before it appears to be; remove it from the oven when it is still jiggly. And two, brûlée means “burnt,” not browned. It’s important that some of the topping blacken; the best tastes of campfire-toasted marshmallows. Chefs, and many devoted home cooks, use a propane torch to melt and brown the sugar in the final step. If you have one lying around, give it a shot—just hold the flame so it touches the sugar, which will react quickly. Move the flame around so it touches all of the sugar; when the melted sugar begins to blacken, it’s done.

Panna cotta is a no-brainer, sweetened cream thickened with gelatin. It has long been made with whatever dairy is around, and I think it’s far better when a certain amount of the cream is replaced by buttermilk. The result is more complex and not so stultifyingly rich.

Soufflés are far easier than most of us have been led to believe, and, surprisingly, they’re quite flexible; with the exception of whisking and folding in the egg whites, they can be prepared several hours in advance. You may, of course, make the soufflé with vanilla extract instead of a vanilla bean. The difference is real but subtle.

Between the omelet and the pancake lies the crêpe, an almost pastalike thin wrapper usually served as a snack or dessert. (Not always, though; see Buckwheat Crêpes, page 86.) They are universal but most closely associated with France and are sometimes made with chestnut flour (which, if you can find it, is a nice change). Fill them with cooked berries or other fruit, with fresh ricotta mixed with a little sugar, with chocolate sauce, or with anything else you like—ice cream, whipped cream, and so on. There was a time when you needed a special crêpe pan—one reserved strictly for this purpose—but a six- or eight-inch nonstick skillet is the perfect vessel.

Served on the street in the medieval city of Pérouges, not far from Lyons, this sweet, crisp pastry, preferably served hot, makes a fantastic snack or a surprising dessert. Serve, if you like, with crème fraîche, whipped cream, or sour cream and cut-up fruit.

The basic cake of the French pastry repertoire is génoise, used as the foundation for dozens of cakes and other desserts. While it is essentially sponge cake made with butter, it’s rarely eaten plain or on its own. Rather, it might be moistened with liqueur or sweet or fortified wine (Grand Marnier, Sauternes, or Oloroso sherry, for example) and served with a little whipped cream or used as a building block for other desserts like Trifle (page 651).

Madeleines are a classic French sweet, a delightful spongy cookie in a convenient bite size. The longer the batter is chilled, the greater the chance that you will have the signature madeleine hump. Serve warm, please.

An elementary ingredient of French pastry. The pastry cream will be predictably richer if you use heavy cream (preferably not ultrapasteurized) but is equally delicious with half-and-half or whole milk.

Tuiles are better known, but the same cookies are popular in Sweden. You can make them without almonds, but unless you have allergies I don’t know why you would. Great alone or with ice cream or fruit.

Ratatouille calls for a fairly specific list of vegetables: eggplant, tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, and usually onions. These are cooked slowly, together, with a lot of olive oil and some garlic. The dish is finished with fresh basil; how could it be bad? Needless to say, ratatouille is best in midsummer, when the vegetables are at their peak. It can be served hot or at room temperature and is delicious both ways. It’s especially good with grilled sausage.

Everyone knows about sweet crêpes (page 645), but visitors to France quickly become addicted to these—the classic snack food of Brittany—especially the ham-and-cheese variation. Traditionally, the batter sits for an hour before starting to cook. As long as you plan ahead a bit, that shouldn’t be a problem. But in a pinch you can skip the resting period—it doesn’t make too much difference—and overall these are easy to make and great as savory starters or a light lunch or supper.

The taste of strong mustard distinguishes this Provençal specialty, which can be served as a snack or a first course. Although you can make this simple, rich crust in the food processor (follow the procedure for Sweet Tart Pastry, page 654), it’s so simple and straightforward it’s almost as easily done by hand.

Gougères are perfect dinner party fare; they’re elegant, delicious, and filling, all of which buys you a few extra minutes when you’re getting the main course ready. Gougères are fried as commonly as they’re baked, but baked gougères hold numerous advantages for the home cook: they’re less messy, they can be baked in advance (even a day ahead: let them cool to room temperature, store in an airtight container overnight, then reheat in a 200°F oven), and they can be served at room temperature. I like them best made with well-aged Gruyère, but any of the cheeses suggested below will work well.

Salt cod is an ancient food, the result of a need to preserve plentiful catch while still at sea. It has been used in many different ways, but one of the greatest is brandade de morue, a Provençal classic that is rich, filling, and truly special. Though salt cod isn’t available everywhere, it can be found in many supermarkets, without much trouble, and making brandade is easier than ever thanks to the food processor (use a mortar and pestle if you insist on tradition). Brandade can be served with crusty bread, spread on Crostini (page 41), or stuffed into roasted tomatoes or peppers, especially piquillo peppers (page 492 or 47).

A classic Niçoise appetizer that is like fondue—a “warm bath”—of anchovies, garlic, and olive oil (you can use butter in place of some of the olive oil if you’re feeling indulgent), served with fresh raw vegetables. It’s an unusual dish by today’s standards but remains a wonderful combination. A fondue pot is the ideal serving vessel, because it’s important to keep the sauce hot at the table; an earthenware dish that retains heat well will work if you preheat it and serve the Bagna Cauda immediately.

Most cultures enjoy mushrooms, but none treats them more regally than the French. This prime example is best made with lots of butter (not bad with the smaller amount, either, of course) and wild mushrooms. But if you have access only to cultivated mushrooms, combine a couple of varieties—button with shiitake and portobello, for example, and, if possible, a small handful of dried porcini, reconstituted as on page 112. This can also be served as a side dish, especially with poultry.

The most exciting pissaladière I ever had was served it the open-air market in the heart of old Nice. It was baked in a wood-burning oven a few blocks away, sent to the market by bicycle, and eaten standing up or at picnic tables shaded by huge awnings. The wedges were gently sweet and intensely salty; the crust, just a half inch thick, was perfumed with the local olive oil and was perfectly browned and crisp. It was so simple—mostly just sweet onions on a wonderful crust. You can make a wonderful pissaladière at home: just be sure to cook the onions very, very slowly.

This is a pizza in all but name, and it disproves the notion that “creative” pizzas began in California. Creamy, smoky, and crunchy, it’s a real winner.

The slices of this Provençal custard are gorgeous, a yellow-and-green mosaic enhanced by the tomato coulis (a fancy word for “sauce”). Best warm or at room temperature, but not as good if it sees the inside of a refrigerator, so serve—as an appetizer or a main course for a light meal—within three or four hours. With thanks to Marie Martin.