Sorbet

Whenever I pass a bin of colorful limes at the market, I can’t resist running my hands over their glossy, knobby, emerald skins. I don’t know why, but I’m always hypnotized when I see big, overflowing bins of shiny limes, and I just love to touch them. Maybe it’s because fresh limes transport us to somewhere far away, suggesting blazing hot beaches full of sexy, half-dressed locals lounging in the sun. If that doesn’t give you the impetus to make this sorbet, I don’t know what will.

Grapes that are very robust, such as Concord or Muscat, make a fine, flavorful grape sorbet. These grapes are usually at their best in autumn. If you have access to wine grapes, they produce a wonderful sorbet as well. Don’t use seedless table grapes, such as Thompson and Red Flame; these make a great snack, but not a very tasty sorbet.

One of the few fruits native to North America is the cranberry. They are hollow, which is why you can bounce them (go ahead, try it) and also explains why they float, which turns out to be an advantage at harvest time. Farmers flood the areas where cranberries are cultivated with water, causing the berries to rise to the surface, where it’s a cinch to scoop ’em up. Predictably, the majority of cranberries are purchased just before Thanksgiving, but I stock up the day after, when they’re on sale, and freeze them to use during the rest of the year.

I wouldn’t dream of visiting the vast Central Market in Florence without my friend Judy Witts, known throughout town as the Divina Cucina. With Judy as my guide, butchers and cheese merchants greet us like given-up-for-lost family members, and everywhere we turn another oversized platter appears, heaped with Tuscan delights: sheep’s-milk pecorino, candied fruits spiced with mustard seeds, fresh raspberries dotted with syrupy balsamic vinegar, and, gulp, juicy tripe sandwiches (which I haven’t built up the courage to try). And because we’re in Italy, it all ends with shots of grappa taken straight from little glass vials, obbligatorio after all that sampling. This sorbetto is adapted from Judy’s recipe. One of her favorite parts is the little chocolate “seeds” it contains. Since watermelons have a lot of water, take the sorbetto out of the freezer long enough ahead of serving to make it scoopable, 5 to 10 minutes. To pass the time, serve shots of grappa, and if there’s any left by serving time, splash some over the sorbetto too.

My friend Susan Loomis says that finding a perfect melon is like finding love—you need to try many before you land just the right one. The best way to pick one (a melon, that is) is to find one that has lots of netting around the outside and a sweet and delicious smell. Follow those tips, and there’s no doubt that you’ll fall head over heels for this simple sorbet that makes excellent use of the fragrant melons that are available during the summer months.

I was toiling away years ago in a restaurant kitchen when one day a celebrity chef stopped by who had a reputation for being rather, um, obnoxious. I was minding my own business, caught in a Zen-like state while peeling a case of apples and, naturally, generating a huge pile of peels, which I tossed into the garbage as I went. He walked by, looked in the garbage, and reprimanded me: “Don’t you know you’re throwing away the best part?” My infamous sarcasm got the best of me, so I offered to wrap them up for him to take home. From the look on his face, I’m sure it was that moment that effectively killed my professional television cooking career. All kidding (and sarcasm) aside, the peelings do indeed have a lot of flavor, so I include the peels when infusing the apples in this sorbet. Hopefully, this recipe will make amends to the offended party and soon you’ll see me peeling away on prime time.

Use fragrant pears that are buttery ripe and slightly soft to the touch. You’ll be glad you did when you taste how good this simple sorbet is. Pears are one of the only fruits that ripen off the tree, so if your pears are rock hard when you buy them, chances are they’ll transform into soft, luscious, sorbet-worthy fruits in a few days. When just right, pears exude a strong, unmistakable sweet pear fragrance at the end opposite the stem. Bartlett, Comice, and French butter pears are varieties that I recommend.

One day while wasting the afternoon flipping through the television channels (what did we do before the remote control?), I stopped when I came across a not-very-well-choreographed procession of statuesque, exotically beautiful women parading across a stage. After a few minutes of riveted attention, I realized that I’d happened upon the Miss Martinique pageant. Once the glamorous gals had strutted their stuff wearing barely-there bikinis, teetering around precariously on steep high heels (it seemed the smaller the swimsuit, the higher the heels), the contest concluded with the host posing the all important question about why the pageant was so vital for promoting world peace and understanding. One of the contestants flashed her big, bright smile, looked right into the camera, and responded, “Because beauty is the key to communication.” With a thought-provoking answer like that, awarding the crown to anyone else would have been a crime. And sure enough, she won. But maybe she got mixed up and was talking about mangoes, the other beauties of the tropics. Their vibrant red exterior and succulent orange pulp do indeed communicate beauty and good taste that are not just skin deep.

Few folks are as opinionated about all things apple as Frank Browning, whom I’ve dubbed the Apple Autocrat. Frank grew up on an apple farm in Kentucky, which nurtured his headstrong, southern-style convictions regarding apples. He offered this recipe from An Apple Harvest, which he cowrote with Sharon Silva, but absolutely insisted that I make it only in the fall, when good-tasting, red-skinned apples are in abundance. So wait I did. Okay… I didn’t wait. But please don’t tell Frank. I made this during the spring using Jonagold apples, which worked great. And although Frank insisted I use Gewürztraminer, I made it with a dry Riesling instead (blame my rebellious Yankee spirit). So feel free to use any tasty, red-skinned apple, but don’t use bland Red Delicious ones, or you might get yourself a Kentucky-style comeuppance.

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.

One late summer weekend, I was visiting a friend who lives in the wilds of Northern California, and I noticed lots of wild blackberry bushes with berries that were so plump and ripe that they were practically falling off the branches. I can never resist free food, so I set out for an afternoon of heavy picking. When I came back, my basket loaded down with fresh berries, my friend casually asked, “Did you see the rattlesnakes?” “Um . . . no, I . . . I didn’t,” I replied. Actually, I was really glad to have missed them. That incident didn’t quite scare me away from picking other types of fruits and berries, but I’ll let others risk their lives for blackberries, which I’ve been happy to plunk down money for ever since that day.

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.

I was asked to do a frozen dessert demonstration on the Today show and figured it was going to be my big breakthrough. In my imagination, I would dazzle the media and viewers with my ability to make sorbet without an ice cream machine, catapulting my career into the culinary stratosphere. However, as soon as I pitted the first cherry, the host, Katie Couric, became fixated on my spring-loaded cherry pitter and challenged me to a cherry-pitting duel (I should have realized those who get to the top have a competitive streak). She insisted on using a paperclip, which I knew would put her at a disadvantage. Her method was slower than mine, but being a good guest, I let her win (which explains why I’m not at the top). And because of the nature of live morning television, we barely had time to get to the sorbet. In the end, she went on to make millions of dollars as a celebrity and I went home with my cherry pitter in my suitcase. I’ll leave it up to you to decide whether to use a cherry pitter or a paperclip to pit your cherries for this sorbet. But you definitely won’t need an ice cream machine—the food processor is the machine for this frozen dessert.

I know you’re going to be tempted to use seedless watermelon here, but don’t. I’ve never tasted one that I particularly liked. And because I have a penchant for making things harder than they should be, I don’t mind plucking out the seeds. For some reason, the harder something is to make, the better it tastes. (And I wonder why I spend a majority of my life in the kitchen.) Don’t worry about using a fancy sake—inexpensive brands work really well in this recipe. And unless you read Japanese, you’re not likely to be able to ascertain the difference trying to read the labels at the store.

Sitting in the sun, overlooking the beach, I could drink margaritas all day. Unfortunately, or maybe I should say, fortunately, I don’t live in a warm climate or anywhere near a beach. If I did, I’d never get anything done. Whenever I’m looking for a taste of the tropics at home in Paris, I’ll start squeezing limes in my kitchen and I’m immediately transported to paradise (albeit with bills piled up on the counter and the dishes in the sink). Practically obligatory to serve alongside margarita sorbet are salted peanut cookies. They were inspired by the disks of solid peanut paste sold in Mexican markets called mazapan or dulce de cacahuate, which I’ve been known to nibble on with a margarita, or two, south of the border. And above it, as well.

If you can’t decide whether to serve something chocolatey or fruity for dessert, this sorbet is for you (and your guests). It’s incredibly easy to make, and even people like me, who aren’t especially fond of chocolate and fruit combinations, will be won over.

The first time I split open a passion fruit and slurped down the dripping juices, the intense flavor knocked me for such a loop that I felt as if a tropical bomb had gone off in my head. From then on, I was hooked. Depending on where you live, fresh passion fruit may be hard to find, but they’re well worth tracking down. Don’t shy away from ones that are a tad wrinkled, as the creases indicate ripeness (they’re often marked down in price, too!). You can also buy frozen passion fruit purée (see Resources, page 270), which is inexpensive and convenient. It’s great to have on hand in the freezer: I’ll often lop off a chunk and add it to a pitcher of orange juice for a morning tropical blast.

I read an article in a magazine about the difference between being “frugal” and “cheap” and was relieved to find myself in the frugal category. I’m certainly not cheap when it comes to buying ingredients, but it does go against my frugal nature to throw anything away. Here, oranges do double duty: the insides supply the juice and the rinds become the serving dishes for the sorbet. Those who are extra thrifty can candy some of the leftover peels to go alongside (see Candied Orange Peel, page 254). Egg whites left over from another project can be used to make the fluffy meringue that hides the sorbet surprise underneath.

There were quite a few things I missed about the Bay Area when I packed up my bags and moved to France. Burritos, bean-to-bar chocolates, and “centered” people were some of them. Okay, I didn’t miss the centered people. But I was surprised at how much I missed Meyer lemons, which are sweeter and more perfumed than regular Eureka lemons. Their vibrant, deep yellow color makes other lemons pale in comparison. If you’re lucky enough to know someone with a Meyer lemon tree, you’re likely to be handed a large sack of them when the fruits are in season. Some greengrocers and specialty markets now carry them, too. Otherwise, you can use regular Eureka lemons in this recipe, but increase the sugar to 1 cup (200 g).

In the ’80s, sangria’s reputation took a nosedive when it came to be known as a syrupy-sweet wine sold in green bottles with a toreador deftly skirting a charging bull on the label. But if you go to Spain, you’ll quickly realize that real sangria isn’t a sugary liquid confection, but a fruity, icy cold drink that goes down easily, especially when the temperature outside is soaring. This simple-to-make sorbet turns sangria into a frozen dessert that’s even more refreshing than it is as a beverage. And that’s no bull.