European

We usually turn to fish for omega-3 fatty acids and their brain-enhancing powers, but walnuts are a great vegetarian source of the nutrient.

Satisfy a hankering for high-fat Alfredo sauce with this light, no-dairy version. Oat milk and cashew butter stand in for heavy cream, keeping calories and saturated fat low.

Swedish pearl sugar stands in for coarse salt in this sweet take on the soft pretzel.

Think of this aioli as your secret sauce. Made by transforming egg yolks, garlic, and olive oil into a creamy dip, it's Provence's answer to mayonnaise. The secret is creating a tight emulsion of the yolk and oil. The technique, thankfully, is less scientific: "Add a thin drizzle of oil and whisk like crazy," says Suzanne Goin, chef at L.A.'s Lucques, Tavern, and A.O.C. Her version lets the egg shine by using half flavor-neutral grapeseed oil so the olive oil doesn't dominate. The result is a harmonious sauce with a supple texture (thanks to hand-whisking instead of using a blender) that begs to be spooned onto meat, bread, and fish. Goin serves it with salmon and poached spring vegetables, but no matter what you pair it with, this sauce is the star.

These golden, crunchy croissants that we permit ourselves to enjoy without the slightest remorse on Sunday mornings are not as French as you might think. These pastries, known in French as viennoiserie, indeed originated from seventeenth-century Vienna. In 1683, the inhabitants of the Austrian capital suffered an attack led by the forces of the Ottoman Grand Vizier Kara Mustafa. After months of a terrible siege, they were liberated by Charles V of Lorraine and Jan Sobieski, King of Poland. This victory enabled the Hapsburgs to recover their territories of Hungary and Croatia, and the bakers made a commemorative pastry in the form of a crescent moon, the symbol of the Ottoman Empire. Folk history even accords the bakers a crucial role in reversing the battle situation. As they worked during the night, they heard the sound of the Turkish soldiers preparing a new assault and sounded the alarm. Their version of the croissant was nevertheless closer to the brioche than the croissant that we know today. A century later, Marie-Antoinette is said to have brought this delicacy from her native city to introduce it to the French court. Giles MacDonogh, however, author of a biography of Brillat-Savarin, offers a version that corresponds more closely with the dates when the croissant appeared in France (around 1900). He mentions the arrival in Paris, in 1838, of an Austrian named Auguste Zang, who opened a Viennese bakery at 92 rue Richelieu, only a few numbers away from the Brillat-Savarin building. "The business took off slowly," he explains, but eventually his kipferl cookies began to sell, literally "like hot cakes." The croissant was born. All of his croissants came out of a brand-new steam oven, above which the inscription was written La main de l'homme n'y a pas touché. (No human hand has touched them.) In those days, industrial processes inspired trust! Nowadays, any croissant untouched by human hand is suspect. The dough needs to be kneaded gently, then vigorously, until it can be detached from marble, and pieces of it shaped into a ball. The surface of each ball is then dried with a sprinkling of flour and covered with a damp cloth. Then the waiting begins. The dough is mixed with worked butter, punched down, then folded, turned, and set to rise again. This craftsmanship is becoming rarer, and the challenge is to live up to the legend, to match the taste of these handmade croissants, with their melting, silky layers of pastry.

The King's Cake (galette des rois), in whatever form it took, with a "bean" baked into it, has been the king of desserts on Twelfth Night, also known as the Feast of Kings or Epiphany in France, since the Middle Ages. In those days, the French King's Cake took different forms depending on the region. It was a brioche topped with candied fruits in Provence, a flat galette with cream in the North, a dry cake in Lorraine, a puff pastry round with an almond flavored filling in Lyon. À Paris, it was a gorenflot, a sort of enriched bread raised with baker's yeast, something like a Polish brioche. The ritual of this shared cake is symbolic of the day of the Epiphany, commemorating the presentation of Jesus to the Magi on the sixth of January, but it is also redolent of other pagan traditions linked to the cult of fertility that was so popular with the Romans. The "bean" hidden inside the cake was originally an actual lima bean, a symbol of renewal and fecundity, before it was replaced by a tiny porcelain figure representing the Christ child, then by a host of trinkets. Today, the marzipan-filled, puff pastry round has gained supremacy almost everywhere. And for good reason—few pastries can give such extended pleasure. How delicious when, under its fine butter coating, the many-layered pastry (milles-feuilles), still warm, encounters the silky, fondant marzipan on the palate—a perfect combination of the puff pastry and grainy, ground almonds. No one knows exactly when this so-called "Parisian" cake was born. The invention of marzipan dates from the sixteenth century. The history should be treated with caution, but it is sufficiently delicious to have been inscribed indelibly in the memory of gourmets. In 1588, an Italian marquis named Murio Frangipani marketed gloves perfumed with almonds. There is nothing surprising about this because perfumers were originally glove makers. The essence of Italian frangipani, about which Catherine de' Medici was passionate, inspired the pastry cooks of the French court to create frangipane cream, an equal mixture of pastry cream and almond cream. King's Cake, whether flavored with fruits or almond cream, is a dessert with a history. Certain Epiphanies have been retained in the annals. For instance, on January 6, 1650, at the Louvre Palace, Anne of Austria and her son Louis XIV indulged in the cake, leaving on the table, as was the custom, a share for the poor, in this case the very part that contained the bean. The next morning, there was "no other king than that of the bean," the king having fled Paris to escape the uprising known as the Fronde. Is it because of this unpleasant memory that the tradition of naming the person who finds the bean as "king" for the day was outlawed during Louis XIV's reign, the custom being officially judged to be too pagan? In 1770, Diderot recounted this anecdote in his Encyclopédie, summarizing it with this amusing aphorism: "Signe Denis, sans terre ni château. Roi par the grâce du gâteau." (The sign of Denis [patron saint of Paris] without land or château, King by the grace of a gâteau.) The joy of eating the crown is all part of the pleasure of enjoying King's Cake once a year, and more....

This Mary Kettilby recipe produces a classic Potage St. Germain. The name comes from the Paris suburb of St.-Germain-en-Laye, where young peas, a rarity in the early eighteenth century, were sown in boxes for early-spring cultivation. The addition of onions and spinach provide a traditional French touch, making this soup a flavorsome beginning for spring menu. Calendulas, also known as pot marigolds, make a lovely garnish for this soup. They were used as both a flavoring and a medicinal herb. According to one source, calendulas could be added to dishes in place of saffron, an affordable alternative in the days before saffron was grown in England. Sprinkle the shredded blossoms over the soup just before serving it. Please note that the calendula/pot marigold should not be confused with the African marigold, which is used as an insect repellent in vegetable gardens.

Barigoule is typically a stew of artichokes. This version blends vegetables in a bit of vanilla-scented sauce.

Featuring paccheri rigati, a ribbed, tube-shaped pasta, this over-the-top casserole cooks in a 9"-diameter springform pan. But feel free to use rigatoni and a 9x9x2" baking dish instead.

Pork and beans never had it so good. This Spanish riff on French cassoulet pairs large, meaty beans with fresh sausages under a breadcrumb crust. Save time by quick-soaking the beans.

In this recipe, a creamy parsnip purée stands in for a traditional béchamel.

I love these cheesy, salty, crispy wafers not only because they are so yummy, but because they are so versatile. I put them in bread baskets, add them to soups, and serve them topped with scoops of salad.

Every cook should have a good marinara sauce in his or her repertoire, and I think this one is just about perfect. Though not as quick to throw together as some of the other tomato sauces I depend on (see page 164 for a really quick, basic sugo), the time you invest in making it will be repaid with a full-flavored, robust sauce that can be used in dozens of different ways. The sauce freezes very well, so why not make a double batch to freeze (after cooling completely) in 2-cup portions? Frozen sauce may be stored for up to 3 months.

My grandfather would occasionally make this for us as a special breakfast treat when I was young; now I serve it as an unusual first course for a fancy dinner or even, occasionally, for dessert. It’s very unexpected—and very delicious. Serve it in small portions, as it is quite rich.

For a richer yet more delicate flavor, nothing beats freshly made pasta. It takes a bit of time—and a pasta-rolling machine—but the results are worth the effort. It is certainly possible to buy good-quality fresh pasta, either in sheets or cut into noodles. But like making your own bread, making fresh pasta is a very satisfying way to spend a Sunday afternoon. I especially enjoy preparing fresh pasta at the holidays or when I have family over and everyone can get involved.

Creamed corn has never been so sophisticated! This delicate, creamy filling deserves the equally subtle flavor of good, fresh pasta, so make this sometime when you are inspired to make your own pasta, or if you find a source for really fresh, homemade pasta sheets.

This is a decadent dish that is very popular with my family at Christmas-time, when pasta with seafood is a holiday tradition for Italians. For others, though, it’s a reminder of summers on the Cape or in the Hamptons. Whatever memories it may conjure for you, we can all probably agree that it is a rich, sophisticated dish that puts a smile on the face of anyone who tastes it.

If you’re cooking for someone special, you won’t find many dishes more romantic than this one. It looks sophisticated, tastes rich, and makes a real statement. It’s one of my standbys when I want to make a cozy dinner for me and my husband.

This might be the Italian answer to Seafood Newberg: chunks of crab and clams in a rich cream sauce tossed with wide noodles. If you really like clams, it’s worth checking to see if you can buy fresh chopped cooked clams at your fish market; the pieces tend to be a little bigger and meatier, with a more subtle, briny flavor than those in cans. The cream sauce is tinted a pretty pink from the tomatoes.