Ice Cream Machine

There seems to be no agreement as to the origin of the word “butterscotch.” Some culinary scholars argue that its name is taken from “butter-scorched,” a theory worthy of consideration, since the process does indeed require cooking butter. Yet others academically assert that the term is derived from the word “butter scoring,” as in “cutting.” Not as in, “Dude, I scored some awesome Butterscotch Pecan Ice Cream from David!” S0 I’d like to offer my own theory, one that’s a bit simpler: It’s because buttery butterscotch always tastes better with a shot of scotch in it.

There’s something about the slightly smoky, potent, and fruity flavor of black currant tea that makes it the perfect complement to chocolate (see Perfect Pairings, below). But if black currants aren’t your cup of tea, substitute another aromatic infusion, such as Earl Grey, scented with bergamot, or smoky oolong instead.

Spicy cinnamon sticks give this ice cream a stronger, far more complex flavor than ground cinnamon does. Around the winter holidays, skip the bowl of whipped cream to accompany pumpkin pie or apple crisp and treat your lucky guests to cinnamon ice cream instead. It is also very good alongside any favorite chocolate dessert, such as devil’s food cake or perched atop a homemade Brownie (pages 220 and 221).

Green tea powder, called matcha, is found in tea shops and stores that sell Japanese products, which I’m always looking for an excuse to visit since they’re great places for poking around. Matcha has a slightly pungent yet powerful taste, but its color is the real showstopper. Frothing the tea turns the custard a vivid green color.

If you’ve never tasted anise and chocolate together, prepare yourself for an unexpected treat. I don’t even like anise, but for some improbable reason this is one of my favorite ice creams, especially when nestled alongside a slice of dense chocolate cake or used to fill profiteroles doused in warm chocolate sauce (see the Perfect Pairings at the end of the recipe).

When my father was in the army, he and his bunkmates would eagerly anticipate the care packages that would arrive from home, filled with cookies and cakes. But in lieu of homemade goodies, their Brazilian bunkmate would get sacks of aromatic coffee beans. He’d carefully prepare single, tiny cups of coffee by crushing a few of the highly prized beans between two metal spoons and then drizzling boiling water over them, creating perhaps the most labor-intensive cup of coffee ever. But I’m sure the effort was well worth it. Make sure the espresso you use for this recipe is excellent; your effort will be appreciated as well.

Sometimes I’m afraid to admit that I love white chocolate. Purists argue, “It’s not real chocolate.” Although that may technically be true, who cares? (French fries aren’t “real chocolate” either…yet they’re pretty darn good.) So I don’t compare it to dark chocolate, since it’s a whole other ballgame. White chocolate’s creamy-smooth, delicate cocoa butter flavor is perfect when melted and stirred into ice cream, and the result makes a truly outstanding dessert when topped with Sour Cherries in Syrup (page 185). And I’ve yet to come across any chocolate cake that couldn’t be improved by a scoop of white chocolate ice cream melting seductively alongside.

When I was a kid growing up in puritanical New England, dessert was a seldom-seen treat. When temptation raised its devilish head, a few scoops of unadulterated ice cream were allowed and served forth without much fanfare. Our reward was often coffee ice cream, curiously one of the few “adult” flavors that kids seem to like as much as grown-ups. And in case you’re feeling sorry for my dessert-deprived childhood, not to worry; I’m definitely making up for lost time nowadays.

Vietnamese food is perhaps my favorite of all the cuisines in the world, and I would eat it every single night if I could. At the start of every Vietnamese meal, I order a Vietnamese coffee. A glass with a sweet dose of condensed milk is brought to the table with a well-worn stainless-steel filter balanced on top, dripping steaming hot coffee into the thick, sweet milk. Once brewed, it all gets stirred up and ice is added. I thought the flavors would make an excellent ice cream, and I was right.

If you like the hearty taste of Guinness Stout, this is the ice cream for you. I was curious as to whether the beer flavor was too strong, so I asked my friend Heather, a knockout whose microscopic waistline belies the fact that the girl really knows her beer, to come by and taste. She gave this one a big thumbs up, so I sent her home with the whole container. The next day the phone rang. It was Heather, telling me that she offered some to her good-looking new neighbor, whom she’d been looking for an excuse to approach, and he was smitten enough to ask her out on a date between spoonfuls. While I can’t promise that sharing this ice cream will wind up being an icebreaker for you, I don’t see any reason not to give it a try.

Two great tastes—smooth, creamy peanut butter and pure unadulterated cocoa—merge together to make one terrific ice cream.

I finally understand the allure of milk chocolate. While writing a book exploring the world of chocolate, I became determined to get over my skepticism, and I taste-tested as many milk chocolates as I could. Yes, it was tough work, but I felt compelled to do it. I became a convert after sampling premium milk chocolates made with a high percentage of cocoa solids, and a whole new world opened up to me. Mixing in cocoa nibs adds a crunchy counterpoint to this milky-smooth ice cream. I like biting into the little bits of pure, unadulterated chocolate, but I’ve made them optional, since you may not have them readily available (you can substitute chocolate chips). But once you taste a few, you’ll find yourself adding them to chocolate desserts all the time, like I do. (See Resources, page 237, for online sources.)

If you’re one of those people who finds the combination of raspberries with dark chocolate the ultimate luxury, you’ll adore this ice cream. It’s the perfect indulgence: rich, dark chocolate with the bright flavor of tangy raspberries.

Unsweetened chocolate provides the maximum chocolate flavor in this non-custard-based chocolate ice cream. But bitter chocolate can be stubborn to melt, so whiz the mixture in a blender until it’s silky smooth.

The Aztecs were such trendsetters. Although it’s become fashionably chic, from Soho to South Beach, to spice up chocolate with a bit of chile pepper, in fact it’s a custom that goes back more than a thousand years. And I wonder if, even back then, there were paparazzi stalking luminaries in Central America, hoping to catch them in spicy situations. When your guests taste this decadent, zippy chocolate ice cream, you’ll understand what all the fuss is about—and perhaps develop a few overzealous followers yourself.

My search for the ultimate chocolate ice cream ended the day I opened my ice cream maker and took a taste of this version. And before I knew it, I’d licked the dasher as clean as the day I bought it! Intense cocoa powder blended with unctuous dark chocolate results in a perfect chocolate ice cream that’s so irresistible you won’t be able to wait to dig in either. I don’t know why, but homemade ice cream always tastes best scraped (or, if no one’s watching, licked) directly from the machine.

Philadelphia-style ice cream is made with no eggs, so it can be mixed together in a New York minute. It gets it name because at one time there was a proliferation of dairy farms around Philadelphia. I’ve made this vanilla ice cream successfully with all heavy cream as well as with a mixture of cream and milk, and I like it both ways.

Recipes aren’t written in stone, which is a good thing (literally speaking), because lifting a cookbook would be a Herculean chore, and because (figuratively speaking), I love to tinker with recipes and am always thinking of ways to improve them. Lemon has always been one of my favorite flavors of frozen yogurt, as I like things that are tart and tangy. But I often wondered how some commercial lemon ice creams and frozen yogurts got that extra zing that homemade batches lacked. The answer came to me when I was in an ethnic spice market and saw little bags of citric acid crystals. I brought some home and did a test, adding just a few granules to the frozen yogurt mix before churning. When I dug my spoon in, I realized with the first taste that I’d found exactly the flavor I was looking for.

Up until a few years ago, white peaches and nectarines were an oddity in America and finding them was nearly impossible. Happily, they’ve now become fairly common, and you can spot them in grocery stores and farmers’ markets across the land. Their flavor is not as intense as their yellow counterparts, but their delicacy is part of their appeal. Also appealing is how when white nectarines are cooked with their skins and then puréed, the finished mixture is an ivory hue with a faint touch of rosy pink. I came up with this dessert when I was the pastry chef at Monsoon, an Asian restaurant run by Bruce Cost, one of the best cooks I’ve ever met in my life. Unlike American dinners, most Asian meals don’t end with a full-on dessert. So my challenge was to create desserts that customers would find appealing enough to order after sharing spicy, authentic, and sometimes challenging fare—like the turtle soup served with raw turtle eggs floating on the surface, or the sea slugs that tasted (slightly) better than they looked. I had to make sure the desserts would bring people back from whatever culinary precipice we took them to. This fruit sorbet, resting in a five-spice cookie cup and served with berries steeped in sweet plum wine, was the perfect landing pad.

Many consider the area behind the Gare du Nord in Paris rather dubious. Yes, it’s home to the Paris headquarters for the Hell’s Angels. But lots of amazing ethnic foods can also be found there, for which I’m happy to brave the bikers and travel a bit out of the way. Of the various cultures that have opened restaurants and grocers in that part of Paris, Indian is the most prominent. At night, the blue neon–illuminated stands of the Indian épiceries feature all sorts of odd-looking produce that remain a mystery to me. But I do know mangoes. During their season in late spring, I head to that neighborhood and buy them by the case. I use them in everything, from tropical fruit salads to mango daiquiris (which I’m sure aren’t as popular with the Hell’s Angels as they are with my crowd). But a few invariably get churned up into a batch of this sorbet, along with a basket of strawberries from my local market and a dash of rum, which even the gruffest biker couldn’t resist.