French

To make a tasty cheese sauce for vegetables, add 1/2 cup shredded cheese.

This dish is a specialty of the South of France, but living or visiting on the coast of Georgia you are quite likely to see it offered on menus. I hope you enjoy The Lady & Sons’ version of this wonderful French dish. Feel free to add any of your favorite shellfish to the pot.

The inspiration for this recipe came on a recent visit to France. In a small bistro, I was served an elegant but amazingly simple gratin, just a thin layer of sautéed onions with grated Parmigiano-Reggiano on top, baked in a hot oven to form a crisp, fragile delicacy. When I got home, I decided to replicate it—but with a base of thin bread slices underneath the onions, to make it easier to assemble and serve. To my great delight, the bread became wonderfully crisp in the oven, adding more texture, and at the same time captured the delicious onion juices. The key to wonderful flavor here is slowly cooking the onions in a big skillet—they should be meltingly soft without any browning, and moist without excess liquid. Sweet onions are the best—large Vidalia, Maui, Walla Walla, or any other of the fine varieties now available. A gratinate—the Italian term for a baking dish encrusted with cheese or other crisp topping—fills a big sheet pan. It will serve a large group as an appetizer or a lunch dish, or make a great hors d’oeuvre for a crowd, cut in small pieces. You can bake it ahead for convenience, and serve it at room temperature or briefly warmed in the oven.

I think of Robiola as what I always want Brie to be. It’s even more lush than that French imposter, with a smooth, flowing core that’s like pure silk. The very best specimens must be tasted in Italy, where they don’t let unpasteurized milk stand between any man and his cheese. We get very fine imports here, however, and depending on the producer, your Robiola may be fashioned from either goat, sheep, or cow’s milk, or a combination. Because Robiola is so rich, I like to pair it with something tart and jammy, like this easy gooseberry compote. To serve, make sure the compote has cooled completely and the Robiola is at room temperature to allow it to be its runny, best self.

The classic French preparation for snails—bathed in puddles of garlic butter—formed the inspiration for this pasta. Although the agnolotti would be spectacular on their own, wearing only the barest of sauces, adding briny snails and a bright, intensely flavored compound butter makes the dish that much more special. You can find good-quality canned snails at European markets and some high-end grocery stores. Wait to make your sauce until the pasta is cooking; if you heat the butter too far ahead of time, the herbs might brown.

My initial exposure to French cuisine was during my first trip to Europe. It was long before I would eat in any three-star restaurants, and that exposure—the best I could have asked for—came from sitting in cafés. I was a wide-eyed twenty-three-year-old (and I was told by a waiter not to practice my high school French on him). I remember beautiful, colorful plates of vegetables going past me. I soon learned it was the classic French presentation of crudités, an assortment of three or four salads served together. It was fresh, affordable, and very appetizing, and it was served all over the city. Once in a while I’ll run this as a special in my restaurant; then I’ll forget about it until I crave it again. Any one of these salads can stand on its own, but if you put them all together they make for an extraordinary meal. Marinated Lentil Salad with Creamy Goat Cheese and Ripe Tomatoes (p. 113) would be a welcome addition to the mix.

I learned this recipe when I spent the summer in the kitchen of the Hotel Sofitel in Paris, some twenty-five years ago. Roland Durand, the chef, graciously accepted me as a stagiare, or apprentice, and I was able to work in all sections of the kitchen, including the butcher shop and bake shop. I love this cake for its texture, which is moist and rich-looking but very light, and for its versatility. It goes with so many different things, but it’s also delicious all by itself. I like to dress it up with a Pistachio Crème Anglaise and some raspberries or tart cherries.

Buttery, golden crêpes, with just a sprinkle of sugar or a warm, luscious filling, are one of the simplest, most appealing, and most versatile of all desserts. They are easy to make ahead and freeze, and a snap to whip up at a moment’s notice—what’s not to love! In fact, my earliest cooking memory is making crêpes or “roll-up pancakes,” as we used to call them, for my little brother and me while watching Popeye cartoons early on Sunday mornings. My mom taught me how to do it so she could get a little extra sleep! We would roll them up with grape jelly on the inside and confectioners’ sugar (probably way too much) on the outside. Hmmm, wonder if our kids, Kelly and Evelyn, want to learn this recipe….

I never thought I liked lemon desserts. Then one summer, while visiting friends in the little French village of Hyères, I experienced the most sublime marriage of lemon and butter, in the form of a humble lemon tart. It came from a pastry shop called Le Pâtisserie des Artisans, and I was too shy to ask them for the recipe. So I vowed to myself that I would research every lemon tart recipe I could get my hands on until I found one that came close. Finally, I found this version in an old cookbook called (roughly translated) Secrets of the Best Restaurants of France. It is different from any other I’ve tried, and captures the sunny flavors I can still taste in my memory. I’ve since returned to Hyères and tried to find that pastry shop (I remember it was near the outdoor market), but I think it closed. Too bad—I would have liked to tell them about my epiphany.

If this recipe looks too daunting at first blush, you might consider making it in stages. The syrup for the praline mousse can be made two days in advance, and the cake can be made the day before the dessert is assembled. Or tackle just the cake the first time, and serve it with some strawberry jam and a little whipped cream on the side. Then imagine how good (and beautiful) the cake will be with the mousse on the inside. I prefer to assemble the roulade in the morning and give it all day to get moist and flavorful in the refrigerator. Some sliced ripe strawberries or peaches send it over the top.

Years ago I drove through France with English friends on our way down to Provence. We were trying to decide where to stop for the night and couldn’t agree, so we kept passing by pretty country inns until finally it was dark, options were limited, and we were all tired and cranky. We agreed to stay at the very next place we came to that offered rooms, which turned out to be a rather dismal box of a building with very little charm. Just our luck! We went in and asked the woman who greeted us if we could possibly have a meal as well as a room. She told us to take a fifteen-minute walk, and then she would be ready. We stumbled around in the dark, hungry, weary, and not expecting much. When we returned to the house, we were greeted by a lovely platter of crudités, a country terrine with mustard and cornichons, sautéed river trout with lemon, and cauliflower that had been browned in butter. Needless to say, we were lucky after all! I’m sure there was dessert too, but the thing I dreamed about long after was the cauliflower. This preparation is still one of my favorite things to eat.

This, to me, is the essence of French home cooking: a simple sauté and flavorful pan sauce made with vinegar, mustard, and tarragon (the quintessential French herb). If you can’t find fresh tarragon, you can use tarragon vinegar instead and finish the dish with chives, but it’s just better with fresh tarragon. For the best results be sure to use a flavorful Chicken Stock (p. 206). If yours tastes a little weak, start with two cups instead of one (as called for below) and let it reduce longer to concentrate the flavor.

“Fumet” is the French term for an aromatic broth (typically fish or vegetable, though it can also refer to a meat stock) that is simmered down to concentrate the flavors. Making your own fish stock is easier than you think and adds irreplaceable flavor to recipes, such as Gulf Coast Bouillabaisse (p. 220) and Southern Shrimp Stew (p. 228). Whatever you don’t use can be frozen in small plastic containers (for up to 2 months), so you can pull it out for quick seafood pasta, risotto, or poaching liquid for a fresh fillet.

I have always loved leeks, but now they have a particularly romantic context in my life. The first time I met my (then future) husband, Chip, he cooked chicken with leeks, a dish that knocked me out. (I guess I should mention that he worked as a professional chef in New Orleans for ten years.) He blanched the leeks, so they were bright green and pliable, then wrapped them around a stuffed chicken breast. It was the most beautiful, seductive presentation. Since then, every time I cook with leeks I think of that dish—and him. Leeks have an interesting, subtle flavor that suggests asparagus or salsify (a root vegetable). A lot of Americans don’t know how to use them, and they tend to be pricey. But this simple bistro presentation shows that they are worth the splurge. This is the most basic French preparation for leeks, and one of the most delicious. It’s also the recipe that sold me on them forever.

Once you master a classic vinaigrette, the variations in flavor—and the things you can drizzle it over—are endless. What follows are my all-time favorite dressings, but feel free to alter the recipes to include your favorite vinegar, citrus juice, mustard, or herb. You’ll find a range of dressing personalities to suit just about every salad under the sun.