Cast Iron Skillet

My dad enjoyed few desserts. For him, they needed to be simple and not very sweet. This uncomplicated cake, which he dubbed hobo cake because making it at campfire represented the simple life of a hobo, was one of his favorites. We enjoyed it at the campfire as well as around the comfort of our fireplace. You don’t have to be an accomplished baker to make this cake; it’s very easy and quite tasty. You can top each serving with a dollop of crème fraîche to bring it into the present time.

Panini are pressed and griddled Italian sandwiches that can be filled with any number of simple fillings. They can be made with focaccia, soft rolls, or other breads. My favorite bread for this nutty, smoky combination is multigrain. Smoky Romesco Sauce flavors the bread and is also used for dipping.

Other than a soft bun or white bread, cornbread is the choice for barbecue. Min has been making it so long she only uses the recipe in her head. After years of working with the test kitchen staff of Martha White, the historic Nashville flour and cornmeal company, and writing the live radio commercials for Martha White’s Friday night segment of the Grand Ole Opry, who needs a recipe? The key, of course, is self-rising cornmeal mix. Southerners prefer white cornmeal (made with white corn) to yellow. So do Rhode Islanders, as R. B. likes to point out, where the native white corn johnnycakes are as ancient as their close cousins, Southern hot water hoecakes. Either way, white and yellow are interchangeable and basically a regional preference, like white and brown eggs. Don’t get hung up on color. For cornbread, it’s all about crust and batter. First, the best crust comes only from a well-seasoned black iron skillet preheated with bacon drippings or oil. When the batter hits the pan, POW! It sizzles. Second, the batter must be creamy and pourable. If your batter is thick and dense, add more liquid, because you want the batter to slide to the edges of the pan with ease. Cornmeal absorbs quite a lot of liquid, and even a shot of water can loosen things up. Get the feel of good cornbread batter, and crumbly, dry cornbread will be a thing of the past. Now, about the balance of outside crust to inside moisture. For Min, the finest cornbread is an inch thick and a mile wide. Most 2-cup recipes baked in an 8- or 10-inch skillet are just too tall, denying the cornbread its rightful ratio of crust. Min uses about 1 1/2 cups of cornmeal mix for a 12-inch skillet and only about a cup for a 10-inch. Sugar is also an issue that divides cornbread camps. The most common cornbread recipes and mixes are often half flour and half cornmeal, with a heavy dose of sweetness. We’re in the other camp, using very little sugar (or none at all) in skillet cornbread. It’s just a matter of taste. If you live in the land of self-rising cornmeal mix, get acquainted with it and use it to replace the plain cornmeal, flour, leavening, and salt. It’s the best way to go. If not, and you don’t have a relative to send you some, give this a try. Always serve cornbread flipped out of the pan with the beautiful browned crust faceup. Whatever you do, invest in a good cast-iron skillet. It will bring your family generations of top-notch cornbread.

New Orleans–style barbecued shrimp, called “barbecue” even though they have nothing to do with smoke or a grill, are usually prepared in the oven. We do ours in a big hot pot on the stove because this dish is all about the buttery, garlicky sauce. Mass quantities of crusty French bread are required for sopping. We plunk the big pot in the middle of the table and go to town. It’s an exceptionally good time tearing into long baguettes and washing everything down with plenty of cold white wine. Sometimes, we remember the salad.

This indoor burger recipe make six burgers (too many for one pan), so use the broiler or finish the pan-seared burgers all at once in the oven. Ground beef is available in plenty of designer styles and fat-to-lean ratios. Use what you like. Remember that the higher fat content varieties like chuck have a rich, juicy taste and a smoother texture than the leaner ones, which tend to be dry and grainy. Chuck will also spatter up your stovetop and broiler a bit more. Either way, good ventilation is important. Burger doneness is an individual right that the government recommends you exercise at 160°F for proper food safety. Whatever temperature you pick, remove the burgers from heat when they are about 5 degrees below that target as the temperature will continue to rise while the meat rests. R. B. himself goes into fits above 130°F. He’s still with us, knock on wood, despite rare burgers and the raw oysters he downs with abandon.

You can’t pick them up with your fingers or gnaw the bones, but country-style boneless “ribs” make nice pork barbecue. We like this hot-covered-pot-in-the-oven method to speed things up without sacrificing taste or tenderness. Moisture and smoke are trapped inside and the pork’s fat keeps the meat from drying out. If you’re among the 20 percent of households without a slow cooker, this is for you.

A heavy little cast-iron hibachi is R. B.’s favorite outdoor grill for fast and efficient high-heat cooking. Indoors, that efficiency is called the broiler. Both tools use direct high heat to sear tender cuts of meat hot and fast. It’s just that the broiler heats from above, the grill from below. Even better, the broiler gets burning hot in minutes with the turn of a knob. Quick Sticks are a very loose version of Thai satay—thin cuts of chicken and steak rubbed with curry, threaded onto skewers, and quickly broiled. The dipping sauce is first-class cheating—barbecue sauce with some chopped peanuts thrown in. Icy Q-Cumbers (page 153) are a Quick Sticks must.

Have we cheesed you out? Take a cheese break and try this straight vegetable-bean puree with nutty sweet garlic and smoked paprika. It may not be the lead-off dish to a night of Crock Dogs, but it fashionably introduces dressier barbecue dinners. We especially like it with Tandoori BBQ Chicken Thighs (page 96), Cider-Soy Pork Tenderloin (page 79), House Lamb Shanks (page 128), and Ultimate Cheater Oven-Smoked Salmon (page 132).

It was not often,that one was plump enough in the purse to buy a kilo or so of meat from the butcher, carry it home, and cook it up into some luscious, soulful dish. When fortune placed in one’s purse a few centesimi more than were necessary for subsistence, one sought out the carnacottaro (an itinerant seller of cooked meat).

The Abruzzesi have long feasted on wild rabbit and hare. The formula for their preparation traditionally employed some version of al coccio—the braising of the rabbit in a terra-cotta pot. They might first brown it in olive oil with garlic, then cook it quietly with rosemary in white wine, perhaps enriching the dish with a dose of tomato conserve and finishing it with a handful of stoned olives. The peasants typically cooked rabbit in this mode, as it was a carne secca—a dry flesh— and hence deemed inappropriate for roasting. But in the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the brigade of serfs who cooked in the castles and villas of the nobility in the province of Pescara soon learned from their masters that all it took was a blanket of some sort—a quilt of buttery crust, a rasher or two of fat prosciutto or pancetta, even a few leaves of cabbage would do—to keep the scant juices of the little beast from becoming vapors in the heat of a wood oven.

These are Rome’s other artichokes. Softened rather than crisped in their oil bath, they are of an extravagant goodness.

Baccalà is of ancient Roman favor. The methodology of its preservation was one cultivated during their campaigns in the north, where they learned to embalm a catch of the great, fat cod under unpounded crystals of sea salt, reviving it for meals both festive and humble. Stoccafisso differs from baccalà in its fundamental cure, as it, having no encounter with salt, is simply hung out to dry in the winds moaning up from the North Sea. In either case, once plumped in its renaissance bath of cold water, the cod flesh is tender and, when cooked gently, its flesh takes on an almost creamy texture. The yield of a correctly reconstituted and properly cooked fish, well conserved in either way, is quite the same. This is an unexpectedly delicate dish, the raisins foiling any saltiness that might linger in the fish, while the Cognac softens the acidity of the tomatoes.

Roman ox butchers, known as i vaccinari, have been attributed authorship for this most characteristic dish of la cucina povera romana. Honored as savvy, inventive cooks, the butchers were and are wont to pot up the most particularly toothsome nuggets plundered from the great beasts. The tail of an ox, though it surrenders inconsiderable flesh, is of the tenderest texture and most delicate savor to be gleaned from the whole hulk of him.

A patently rustic treatment of the prawns that presses us to a dramatic sort of dance in front of the flame as we toss the fat, handsome things about in the hot oil, their briny perfumes dissolving up in great vapors around our heads. A bottle of fine Cognac perched on the kitchen shelf seems an occurrence as common in Rome as is the one filled with the simple white wine from the hills just outside its gates. Here, the bottle is used to a fine end, scenting the seething, sputtering flesh of the prawns inside their bronzed, vermilion shells.

Morels are to spring what tomatoes are to summer: they epitomize the season. Their spongy texture and funny pine-cone shape give these wild mushrooms unmistakable personality. In order not to mask their delicious earthy flavor, morels are best when prepared simply. In a French kitchen, morels are often cooked with cream. And as with so many traditional pairings, when you taste the combination you understand why it’s a classic. Here the morel ragoût is bound with a little cream, spooned over toasted slices of brioche, and topped with dollops of crème fraîche. The soft herbs are left whole; when you bite into them you get a big burst of flavor.

My mother’s version of this juicy pan-fried steak came from her grease-marked kitchen bible, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, by Julia Child. The classic bistro sauce is made by sautéing minced shallots in the same pan as the steak, adding a generous amount of red wine, and finishing it with butter and parsley. Although I love the smoky flavor of the grill, nothing gives the meat a better crust than a very hot cast-iron pan. And if you’re planning on making a pan sauce, those crispy bits left behind by the steak will give it a deep, meaty flavor. But remember to get the pan super-hot and smoking before cooking the steaks. You might have to disconnect your smoke alarm temporarily, but it’s worth it.

During my cooking stage at Pain, Adour et Fantaisie, a two-star restaurant in southwestern France, days off were few and far between for the commis (French for grunt line cooks). Whenever I got the chance, though, I’d round up my fellow workers for a road trip to the Basque country. We always knew when we crossed the border into Spain, because everything looked different—the Spanish hillsides were rugged and less pristine than the green countryside of southwestern France. We were cooks, so food was the first thing on our agenda. After plates of jamón and several bottles of red wine, we headed to the bakeries, where I was charmed by the simple, heartfelt sweets of the Basque bakers. A few years back, I was reminded of those quick forays into Spain by an excellent cook named Brian Edwards. His training in Spain had left him with fond memories he was eager to share. When he described his favorite Basque dessert, pastel vasco, I knew it was my kind of sweet. A simple pound cake made with rum and layered with fruit compote sounded like the perfect addition to our dessert list. My pastry chef at the time, Kimberly Sklar, did some research and perfected her own version of this rustic Spanish sweet. We put it on the menu, but for some reason it didn’t sell. One morning, I toasted a slice of leftover cake in a buttered cast-iron pan and ate it with warm berry compote. Unable to fathom how such deliciousness could be ignored, I put it back on the menu, embellishing the description just a little: “Pastel Vasco, toasted in the wood-burning oven with blackberries and poured cream.” The power of words is amazing. We sold out night after night.

This grilled pork confit evolved one night when I was making a staff meal at Lucques. I salvaged the leftover ends and trimmings from the day’s pork confit, crisped them in my favorite cast-iron pan, and ran to the walk-in to see what produce I could find to add to the dish. When I got back to the stove, I noticed half the meat was missing. Looking around, I saw that all the cooks had their heads down, suspiciously quiet. Half of my staff meal had disappeared, but I couldn’t be angry. Who can resist succulent pork, hot and crispy, out of the pan? Something so irresistible deserved to be shared with the outside world, so I put this staff meal on the menu!