American

This Southwest-inspired house barbecue sauce is used on its own or as the base of many sauces at Bar Americain. It is slightly sweet from the molasses, honey, and brown sugar and slightly earthy from the dried red chiles. It is the perfect sauce slathered on smoked ribs (page 149), or spiced up and spooned onto grilled oysters on the half shell (page 72). Adding bourbon transports this sauce from Sante Fe to Kentucky in a matter of minutes.

Once the Deep South’s secret, red velvet cake definitely has the nation’s attention. The cake’s distinctive color, the result of a chemical reaction between acidic vinegar and buttermilk and Dutch-processed cocoa, was originally much more subdued than that of its present incarnation. A dose of food coloring is called for to pump that reddish brown into the true red that distinguishes this cake from all the rest. The sweet and lightly chocolaty cake is layered and frosted with an indulgently rich vanilla buttercream. Made with vanilla bean seeds instead of extract, the creamy frosting sports the telltale brown flecks that signal the pure vanilla flavor to come. Some red velvet cakes I’ve tried have been a bit on the dry side, but not this one. It’s incredibly moist thanks to the buttermilk and a measure of canola oil.

This make-ahead dessert is a great choice for dinner parties—the individual servings take very little time to plate and garnish, so you can enjoy yourself while still wowing your dinner guests with an elegant, delicious finale. The recipe’s first step calls for infusing its liquid ingredients with chopped pistachios; though the nuts themselves are later strained and removed, their fresh, delicate sweetness flavors every creamy spoonful of the rich custard. Prepared pistachio paste (available online; see Sources) adds more nuttiness and body.

German’s Chocolate Cake is every bit as American as apple pie. German refers not to the country but rather to the last name of the originator of the type of chocolate used in the original recipe—Baker’s German’s Sweet Chocolate. I’ve kept the essentials of the classic recipe in place—chocolate cake layered with caramel, coconut, and pecans—but tweaked them just enough to proudly call this version my own. The cake itself is dark, moist, and truly chocolaty, and a glaze of chocolate ganache heightens the chocolate flavor without the overpowering sweetness of a traditional buttercream frosting. The real twist is found in the cake’s inner layers: my caramel of choice is cajeta, a liquid dulce de leche Mexican treat of sweetened goat’s milk cooked into a rich, syrupy caramel with smooth coconut milk. And forget a scoop of vanilla ice cream; fluffy coconut whipped cream is the last touch in this to-die-for dessert.

Sweet potato pie is as southern as desserts come. Though it is a favorite in the soul food repertoire, you do not often see it on tables north of the Mason–Dixon line and west of the Mississippi. A traditional ending to Thanksgiving dinner, this silken pie is due for a nationwide comeback as a delicious finale to any fall or winter meal. I love to see an ingredient cross the preconceived boundaries of savory and sweet, and the naturally high sugar content in the potatoes makes its shift from dinner to dessert a seamless one. Yes, you could serve it with store-bought vanilla ice cream, but time dedicated to making your own rich ice cream studded with buttery clusters of cinnamon-spiced graham cracker crumbles is time well spent. Everyone at your table—Thanksgiving or anytime—will be glad you did.

Though French by definition, these delicate and lemony crêpes are an American tribute, boasting a sweet filling of tart, silky lemon curd and a juicy blueberry compote. The black currant–flavored crème de cassis contributes a sophisticated undercurrent of berry flavor to the compote and enhances its deep purple-blue color. Just as a stack of blueberry pancakes is made that much better by a melting pat of butter, a drizzle of browned butter enhances this dish with its nutty richness.

The classic dessert bananas Foster was created in 1951 by Paul Blangé in New Orleans, Louisiana. It was named for Richard Foster, a friend of Owen Brennan’s who was then the city’s Crime Commission chairman. If you have been fortunate enough to visit New Orleans and eat at Brennan’s, then you know what an incredible dessert bananas Foster is. Sautéed in a buttery, cinnamony caramel sauce and flambéed with dark rum and banana liqueur, bananas are then poured over creamy, rich vanilla ice cream. On the brunch menu at Bar Americain, I take all those yummy components, replacing the ice cream with a slightly tangy crème fraîche whipped cream, and pair them with delicate crêpes. These crêpes are served as an entrée and not a dessert. I can’t think of a better way to start off my weekend.

Nothing says “ta-da!” quite like a soufflé, making it a fitting finale for the most special of meals. With its dramatic presentation (the soufflé is delivered intact, then broken into and sauced tableside), this deep violet soufflé is one of the restaurant’s most popular desserts. Colored and flavored with the essence of sweet and juicy blackberries, the texture of the delicate soufflé is light, airy—practically ethereal. The thick blackberry sauce, much like a crème anglaise, heightens the berry flavor and adds a wealth of richness to the dessert. Lemony whipped cream is the finishing touch.

It used to be that flapjacks were made from a cornbased batter, this being the major distinction between them and their close cousin pancakes, which were made from a wheat flour–based batter. Today the two terms are roughly synonymous, though I love the heartiness that the term flapjacks implies, and the three that we stack up per serving are more than enough to satisfy even the hungriest Bar Americain bruncher. That said, the buttermilk in the batter makes the flapjacks light and fluffy, as does taking care not to overmix the batter and giving it ample resting time before you start cooking. Instead of folding the tasty extras into the flapjack batter, I load warm maple syrup with the good stuff—crunchy pecans and sweet apricots. Apricot season is short, and finding really flavorful ones is not always easy, so I use dried apricots in the syrup, rehydrating them in simple syrup and then roasting them. The sugars are slightly caramelized in the process, and the fruit’s sweet, slightly tart flavor is magnified.

Nutty cracked wheat (okay, it’s technically bulgur) adds a welcome touch of texture to these waffles. Made with whole wheat flour, the waffles are a bit healthier and heartier than standard ones without being the least bit leaden. Spicy cinnamon and complex allspice lend their flavors to the creamy butter. A sweet blueberry syrup drizzled—or ladled—over the waffles makes the whole dish special. I wouldn’t recommend making the syrup with frozen berries as they are too wet to burst as the fresh berries do. If you have extra berries left over, sprinkle them on top before serving.

Chocolate cream pie has a place of honor in roadside diner pie cases across the country. This deconstructed version inverts the classic format because the gorgeous, silky, deeply chocolaty pudding is worth digging for. Break though a crunchy, buttery graham cracker crust and a smooth layer of whipped cream before making your way to the rich chocolate depths of this decadent “pie.” Chocolate lovers, rejoice.

This is an egg sandwich I could eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Tangy sourdough bread is grilled to crusty perfection and topped with a meaty slice of griddled country ham, blistered sweet tomatoes, and a perfectly fried egg. A lightly dressed mound of slightly bitter, feathery frisée crowns this fork-and-knife sandwich.

My beautiful wife, Stephanie, may live in New York, but when it comes time for breakfast, she is still a Texas girl through and through. She can put away a plate of biscuits, sausage, and cream gravy like nobody’s business. This dish was created in her honor. I highly recommend making your own sausage patties; it’s so easy to do, and it puts you in total control of what you are eating. Think fresh herbs and garlic as opposed to the nitrates and excessive sodium you’ll find in many supermarket sausages. A healthy dose of black pepper punches up the flavor of the silky cream gravy.

Served as part of the bread basket at Bar Amercain, these hot-from-the-oven corn sticks are one of the recipes requested most by diners.

Eggs Benedict is the quintessential dish of the New York Sunday brunch. I like to put a southern spin on the classic, starting with a fluffy buttermilk biscuit. A Cajun blend of seasonings gives a kick to the luscious hollandaise sauce, which is right at home with New Orleans’ beloved tasso ham. Tasso is cured and hotsmoked pork shoulder crusted with a spicy blend of flavorings such as garlic and cayenne pepper. (If you can’t find tasso, you can try substituting slices of Italian capicola, which is prepared similarly.) Griddled tomatoes are an addition to, not a substitution in, the original Benedict, but I like the slightly sweet, fresh balance they bring to the richness of the other components.

This corn bread has an unusual twist. In many ways, it is a very traditional recipe made with stone-ground yellow cornmeal, tangy buttermilk for moisture, and just a touch of sugar so that it is savory rather than sweet. Cooked in a cast-iron skillet, the inner crumb is tender and crumbly while the bottom crust is beautifully crisp. What elevates this corn bread beyond the norm is that mystery ingredient—tomato powder. I can’t imagine how many tomatoes it takes to make even a couple tablespoons of the powder, but the flavor and scent are unadulterated, concentrated tomato essence. The powder mixes evenly into the batter, and each bite is laced with its pure taste.

These are everything a good buttermilk biscuit should be: light, flaky, and exceedingly tender. They make appearances all over the menu at Bar Americain; they’re a fought-over item in our bread basket, the basis of Miss Stephanie’s Biscuits and Cream Gravy (page 223), and when I’m not feeling the waffles, the perfect accompaniment for fried chicken (page 131). A liberal dusting of black pepper gives the biscuits a subtle flush of heat that distinguishes them from the rest. The purists among you can leave out this last step if you prefer your biscuits free of adornment—they’re still melt-in-your-mouth good.

Both venison and blackberries are farmed these days, but they were once procured in the wild, by early American hunters and foragers. I like to think that this dish is one that would have been at home—in essence if not preparation—on the table of pioneers first settling the woods of northern Wisconsin and Michigan. Blackberries have a tart edge to their fruity flavor, which enlivens the richness of nutty brown butter. The sauce is hit with just a hint of sage, and its slightly woodsy flavor brings out the still-wild-at-heart nature of the berries. Sage is a potent herb, and you need to employ it in small doses. If you can’t find or aren’t a fan of venison, lamb or even pork chops would work in its place.