Brandy

This recipe was found in a handwritten Swedish cookbook, dated about 1864, belonging to Countess Frida Af Trampe. This was said to be her favorite cookie. Ingrid Albertzon Parker, who is Swedish, took the time to translate this recipe into American measurements. I had the pleasure of having Ingrid come into my kitchen one afternoon to teach me the art of making these buttery little morsels. They are really very simple to make. The optional Cognac and shaved chocolate were added by Ingrid.

A gaznate is a crunchy cylinder filled with a very sweet and airy meringue. They were carefully stacked into a tower and commonly sold outside movie theaters. The meringue is either left white or tinted a fluorescent pink and is commonly flavored with pulque (a fermented alcoholic beverage made from the maguey plant), which many believe is essential. Pulque is practically impossible to get outside Mexico, so I made my version with mezcal. You will need noncorrosive metal tubes, which you can buy at many cooking stores or online, for wrapping the dough and frying it. Or follow the alternative method below if you can’t find the tubes.

Ratafias are cordials made from macerated infused fruits, herbs, flowers, or spices; they make a wonderful digestif. Be sure to keep in a dry place away from direct sunlight while the liqueur steeps.

In the antiques shop area Los Sapos, in the state of Puebla, there’s a charming little bar named for this drink, which is their specialty. The scene is a continuous movement of people enjoying the shot glasses of this raisin liqueur served with a toothpick studded with a cube of salty cheese and a raisin. Their recipe is secret, but this is very close to it.

It is believed that in the eighteenth century, egg whites were used as a sort of glue to bind sheets of golden and white gold. There were many leftover yolks that were then used to create various sweets and to thicken others, such as rompope. This eggnoglike beverage is wonderful served cold year-round. I like to put it in the tres leches mixture (page 142), use it to top ice cream, and make a gelatin with it (page 138). It is still sold in many convents around Mexico. Estela Romo de Vivar makes one of the tastiest almond versions I’ve had.

In the summer, I like nothing better than to stand in the shade of my big, old fig tree and pluck the ripe fruit to a humming chorus of bees and scavenging birds. Figs are so short-lived—in terms of both season and shelf life—that you have to act quickly to enjoy them at all, so I always feel like I’ve done well when I come away with a jar or two of jam. A nip or three of brandy gives this version a smoky, complex flavor.

A nice splash of brandy adds depth of flavor to this creamy pâté, which is just right served on crostini, toast points (see Know-how, page 19), or Cornbread Toasts (page 18) topped with Sweet Pickle Relish (page 299). For the best results, start with fresh livers from the butcher or farmer’s market that haven’t been frozen. Note that the chicken livers must soak in buttermilk for several hours prior to cooking.

A favorite from the land of the Jazz Brunch … Sometimes this is made with half-and-half, cream, or even ice cream to create a richer drink.

Herbsaint, the anise-flavored liqueur that we named the restaurant after, was made in New Orleans for many years. It served as an absinthe substitute, offering a similar licorice taste without the hallucinations. While researching old recipes using absinthe or Pernod, I noticed the liqueurs would frequently be combined with brandy, and this appealed to me, since it tempers the strong anise flavor. Just like a sip of Sazerac, anise is not for everyone. But it’s a sophisticated alternative to the classic vanilla version. If you don’t like anise, simply substitute another tablespoon of brandy or bourbon.

Here’s one I stole from my friend, mentor, and sometimes tormentor from Louis XVI Restaurant, Daniel Bonnot. He taught me how to make these about twenty-five years ago. Beignet is essentially just a fancy French word for a fritter. In New Orleans, people have been known to subsist on beignets and coffee alone. This is not advisable. Feel free to substitute chopped crayfish tails for the smoked salmon—both versions are dangerously addictive.

In my mom’s saigon kitchen, the food processor, a modern luxury appliance, was reserved for making giò, while the old-fashioned hand-crank meat grinder was used for delicious liver pâtés like this one. We regularly enjoyed it, tucked into bánh mì or simply smeared on a baguette slice. In the traditional Viet interpretation of French paté, pork or beef liver, pork meat, and fatback are seasoned with lots of garlic and sometimes Cognac and Chinese five-spice powder (a substitute for French quatre épices). Some cooks add tapioca starch or flour as a binder, and, when available, they line the mold with caul fat for encasing the meat mixture. The paté is then steamed, steamed and baked, or baked in a water bath, the method usually depending on whether or not the cook has an oven. When my mother came to the States and switched from pork to chicken for making giò, she began saving the left over livers for this light, elegant pâté. She also started making the pâté in a food processor. If you want a more intense liver flavor, use half pork and half chicken liver, or make an all-pork version, cutting the liver into 1-inch cubes before processing. Don’t skimp on fat, or the results will be dry and tough. Meat today tends to be lean, and this recipe needs the fat to achieve the right taste and texture. You will end up with a large pâté—the better to impress others with your efforts.

Making homemade lobster stock is relatively easy. If you don’t steam a lot of lobsters at home or have access to lobster shells in your area—or making seafood or fish stocks simply isn’t your thing—you can buy good-quality prepared fish/seafood stocks from your local fishmonger or online (see Sources).

A great do-ahead dessert for a large crowd. Although I make it most often with fresh peaches, the recipe works with just about any fruit-nut combo you can dream up, including fresh berries and hazelnuts, fresh pears and almonds, bananas and pecans, or even craisins or raisins and pecans.

Lightly sweet and refreshingly tart, white sangria marries beautifully with just about everything Tex-Mex. It goes together easily in advance, making it one of my top picks for parties of any size.

Imagine strolling home along the long dusty road after a hard day in the fields. At the crossroads you encounter a gaggle of tow-haired youngsters sitting at a card table. “Sidecar, mister?” they shout. The sidecar is a lemonade drink for grown-ups. A touch of salt opens up the entire experience, makes it restorative. Citrus playing tag with sugar, chilled juice teeter-tottering with warming alcohol, the entire drink alloyed with salt’s wisdom and captured beautifully in a glass of coppery liquid.

Whereas my second son was born without a volume control dial, my first son was born without an equalizer. The little one bellows and howls at the ceiling, pounds and slams on the floor. The big one rolls his eyes, giggles, and plays mind games, then lavishes you with smiles. Not surprisingly, their loves and fears and wants are nearly opposite, though not in the way you might expect. The big one, when he isn’t politicking, just wants to create elaborate dioramas of war and space travel. The little one, when he isn’t fighting, just wants to climb into your lap for a cuddle. The younger one loves to cook, the elder is a formidable epicurean. They are made from completely different machinery, as if one was crafted by a Swiss watchmaker, the other by a Tasmanian shaman. But they both love flambéed bananas with smoked salt. Cyprus hardwood smoked salt lends woody glints of bacon to the dish, while the salt’s unique massive crystals lend a perfect crunch. Either way, the dish has everything. Banana sugars caramelizing in hot butter, bourbon exploding into fire, and a globe of ice cream—the whole thing set into a smoky haze, like a carnival entering a battlefield.

This recipe was found in a handwritten Swedish cookbook, dated about 1864, belonging to Countess Frida Af Trampe. This was said to be her favorite cookie. Ingrid Albertzon Parker, who is Swedish, took the time to translate this recipe into American measurements. I had the pleasure of having Ingrid come into my kitchen one afternoon to teach me the art of making these buttery little morsels. They are really very simple to make. The optional Cognac and shaved chocolate were added by Ingrid.