Mediterranean

Bouillabaisse, the Mediterranean fish stew that is more difficult to spell than to prepare, is traditionally neither an idée fixe nor the centerpiece of a grand bouffe, but a spur-of-the-moment combination of the day’s catch. The key to bouillabaisse is a variety of good fish of different types, so use this recipe as a set of guidelines rather than strict dogma and don’t worry about duplicating the exact types or quantities of fish.

Some people argue that a true paella must contain only meat or seafood, never both, that a true paella can be prepared only in a paellera, or that true paella must be cooked outdoors over wood. Perhaps they’re all right. What’s clear to me is that you can produce a fabulous rice dish I call paella in just over half an hour, which makes it a great option for weeknights.

The scallop is ideal for fast cooking, because even a large scallop needs only to be browned on both sides to complete its cooking. A good sear on the outside caramelizes the shellfish’s natural sugars and leaves the interior cool, creamy, and delicious.

The main ingredients are standard Italian, the technique and appearance are standard, but the seasonings are from the other side of the Mediterranean. And that’s the key: by substituting a couple of different spices, most or all of which you have sitting in your kitchen already, you can transform the common into the exotic.

Much of the flavor of shrimp can be lost in the cooking, especially when you’re grilling or broiling, which allows the juices exuded by the shrimp to escape. Far better at preserving the crustacean’s essence is cooking it in liquid, and among the best of those liquids is olive oil. This is not sautéing, but cooking the shrimp slowly in the oil, to tease out its liquids without evaporating them, so these juices combine with the oil to create an irresistible sauce. I usually peel shrimp before cooking, but in this instance the shrimp are better left unpeeled, for the simple reason that the shells contain as much flavor as the meat (maybe more), and you want that flavor in the sauce. The results are a little messier, and certainly more difficult to eat, but they are tastier—and the dish is easier to prepare.

In a cafe in southern France about thirty years ago, I sat in a bistro and timidly prepared to order salade Niçoise. Just then, a huge bowl of steaming, powerfully fragrant mussels was delivered to a man sitting at the table next to me, and I boldly changed my order. The hot mussels were essentially tossed with fennel and fennel seeds, which I could see, but the licorice bouquet and indeed flavor were far stronger than that combination alone could provide. Later, I realized that there was a secret ingredient: an anise liqueur, either Pernod or Ricard. The combination is alluring.

Many years ago in Barcelona, I saw mussels and clams cooked a la plancha—on a thick slab of hot metal much like the griddles used by short-order cooks. The technique is common in Spain, indeed throughout the Mediterranean. Though the mollusks are usually served unadorned, they’re filled with their own flavors as well as a certain smokiness contributed by their juices, which burn on the hot surface. This smokiness sometimes makes people think that mussels cooked this way are cooked over wood, but that is not the case, nor is it necessary. It’s best to serve the mussels in the same skillet in which they cooked. To eat, remove a mussel from the shell and dredge it on the dried juices of the pan.

Most soups have origins, but none more so than this Mediterranean one of France, whose antecedent is usually called something like boiled water. At its most impoverished, this is no more than garlic simmered in water to give it flavor, with a few crusts of bread added for bulk. Simple as it is, boiled water is the perfect example of how an almost absurdly elementary preparation can be converted quickly and easily into one that is nearly grand. Use stock in place of water if you have it. This is a fine place for canned stock, because the garlic-scented oil will boost it to a higher level. Remember to cook the garlic very gently to add complexity and color; by then browning the bread in the same oil, you increase its flavor immeasurably. Also consider doubling the amount of bread given in the recipe here; like me, you may find the allure of bread crisped in garlic-scented oil irresistible.

Meatballs are one comfort food trend among many, all of which seem to have been with us since the nineties for no obvious reason. Maybe we've all gotten so very tired of politics and obstructionists and pundits and sign-wavers and bad times and bank bailouts and... OK, comfort foods aren't going away any time soon. So try this Greek-inspired dish, the flavors based on those from the eastern part of the Mediterranean.

Truly one of the great delights of Eastern Mediterranean cooking, always refreshing and comforting. For an easier version, try simplest Egg-Lemon Soup (or the Lithuanian recipe that follows) as a variation. I am tempted to say you must use good homemade stock for this, but I’ll leave it as a recommendation. I had the soup made with tomatoes once—a regional variation—and enjoyed it very much. But the color may not be what you’re expecting.

An ancient dish that is made almost everywhere nuts and grapes are grown. Serve with rice or bread.

This is a Mediterranean dish that can be done more authentically if you can get your hands on branches of fresh edible bay (laurel), but that’s not always easy (you could use rosemary or fennel branches quite successfully, and they’re equally traditional, though obviously different in flavor). In the original version, you throw a few branches of bay (laurel) onto a grill and top with sausage. My oven method uses somewhat less bay and is virtually foolproof. Other cuts of meat you can use here: chunks of pork or lamb, cut from the shoulder, or boneless chicken thighs.

This dish nicely combines the Mediterranean trio of garlic, red wine, and coriander. I first had it in southern Spain, where the culinary influence of North Africa remains strong. Like most braises, it takes time but, once the initial browning is done, very little work. There are a couple of ways to deal with the coriander: You can leave the seeds whole and wrap them in cheesecloth or just leave them in the sauce and eat them. Or you can crack them first, either with a mortar and pestle or by putting them in a plastic bag and crushing them with a rolling pin or the bottom of a pot. I like crusty bread here, plus a salad or steamed vegetable; the dish is complex and attention-grabbing enough not to bother with much more. Other cuts of meat you can use here: lamb shoulder is a great substitute; chunks of beef chuck or brisket are also good.

I’ll never forget the first time I made these; I went out with a friend to his small “vineyard”—he had a few wild grapevines growing in his backyard—and we picked the leaves and painstakingly cut the heavy veins from all of them, then blanched them and began. I’ve never eaten better, though canned or bottled grape leaves make the process much easier. Unlike most stuffed vegetables, grape leaves are usually served cold. However, they can be served hot, just after cooking, topped with Avgolemono (page 596) or simply some yogurt thinned with a little water and warmed with a tablespoon or two of minced garlic and some salt and pepper. Other vegetables you can prepare this way: cabbage leaves (see page 445).

Like many Mediterranean vegetables, these are cooked until quite soft—none of this crisp-tender business—and commonly served at room temperature, making it a fine dish to prepare in advance.

In most parts of the world, and certainly throughout the Mediterranean, seafood salad is as simple as this: you dress some poached fish with olive oil and loads of lemon. (Actually some people prefer vinegar, and it’s certainly traditional in many places, but I always go with lemon if I have it.) If you want to make it more elaborate, you add poached vegetables or serve it on a bed of greens. So view this simple recipe as a guideline, not as dogma; use whatever fish you have, a variety or something as simple and common as shrimp. Add vegetables and vary the seasonings if you like. It will be fine any way you do it.

Throughout the eastern Mediterranean, you’ll find cool cooked greens sprinkled with olive oil and doused with lemon. Every green you can cook is used in this way, from spinach to wild greens I’d never heard of. It’s great with collards, dandelions, mustard, broccoli raab . . . you get the idea. If you know you’re cooking greens one night, make a double batch and prepare these the next day. Juicy, tart, and refreshing, this is the ideal summer vegetable dish.

Most closely associated with Greece, this is seen throughout the Eastern Mediterranean, and it remains a standard. It works equally well with whole eggs or yolks, but it is far prettier when you use yolks only. It’s a simple sauce, not meant to be especially elegant, but quite flavorful. Perfect with steamed green vegetables.

You don’t see much cilantro in Europe, but you find it in the southeastern part of the continent, where several cultures mingle. Regardless of this sauce’s origin (it is closely related to Tarator or Skordalia; recipe follows), it is fabulous with grilled meats, especially lamb. Walnut oil is not essential here, but it really does make a difference.

A simple version of Bouillabaisse (page 138) that uses only one type of fish and is thickened by aïoli, the wonderful garlicky mayonnaise of Provence and Liguria (also called “the Italian Riviera”). Ask your fishmonger to gut and fillet the fish and to give you the head and bones for the stock, which of course can be made in advance. (Within limits you can use as many heads and bones as you like. See Fish Stock, page 161.) Serve this stew with crusty bread and a salad.