Herbs & Spices

If I have a jar of candied ginger within arm’s reach, there’s an excellent chance that you’ll find my hand reaching into it. Yes, you can buy candied ginger, but it’s not at all difficult to make your own. From one good-size knob of fresh ginger, you can make enough so that even if you are caught with your hand in the ginger jar as much as I am, you’ll have some left to toss with fruit dessert, such as the Nectarine-Berry Cobbler with Fluffy Biscuits (page 104) or to add to a batch of Nonfat Gingersnaps (page 200). Take time to cut the ginger across the grain into thin slices no thicker than a coin because you want to make sure that any fibers in the ginger are minimized. If you can find young ginger in the spring, you should definitely use it.

I’ve seen fights break out among pastry chefs over what constitutes crème anglaise, so I’ll stick with the classic. This versatile custard sauce isn’t so rich that it overwhelms, but it is smooth enough to provide a creamy, luxurious component to desserts such as cakes and cobblers. Although not traditional, try a pour of crème anglaise in a bowl of fruit sorbet—the silken richness is a spot-on counterpoint to the icy scoop.

If there’s an easier candy out there, I haven’t found it. When I worked as a pastry chef, I think I made a batch of these every day. And since they’re so easy, why not? (Actually, I pretty much had to since I discovered all the other cooks in the kitchen couldn’t resist dipping into the container when I wasn’t looking.) Great nibbled on their own, these nuts are also good used in place of the toasted nuts in Chocolate Chip Cookies (page 188) and Robert’s Absolute Best Brownies (page 196), or in place of the almonds in Pistachio, Almond, and Cherry Bark (page 223). They can be chopped and folded into just-churned ice cream, or sprinkled on top of scoops of ice cream that are sauced with a ladleful of warm Rich Caramel Sauce (page 241).

My first experience making Swiss cookies was less than optimal. A friend had given me his mother’s recipe for Basler leckerle, a spiced almond cookie swathed with a kirsch glaze. They’re meant to be kept in a tin for 6 months before eating, during which time they supposedly soften up and become toothsome delights. To make a six-month story short, I was skeptical when I plucked one of the cookies out of the tin. Then I bit down and almost lost a tooth they were so hard. Since then, I’ve avoided Swiss cookies. But, some time later, at Stohrer bakery on the rue Montorgeuil in Paris, I tasted the lovely zimtsterne, star-shaped cinnamon-almond cookies of Swiss origin that are made only around the holidays, and fell in love. I was prompted to come up with a recipe that I could have year-round—as well as one that wouldn’t require a trip to the dentist. I couldn’t find a cookie cutter in the traditional zimtsterne shape of a six-point star in France where I live, so a friend brought me one from New York, which I guess makes this Swiss cookie a star of international proportions.

This is the classic gingersnap: thin, crisp, with a spicy bite. For the best flavor, use very fresh spices. I grind my own cinnamon and cloves for these, and never, ever use preground black pepper. If you don’t have a pepper mill, shame on you. Go get one. Although not a pantry staple, coarse-crystal sugar—such as Demerara or turbinado—is wonderful embedded in the surface of each snappy cookie. I find it pretty indispensable for these cookies and use it for sprinkling onto many different baked goods before they go into the oven, so I always keep a tub of it in my kitchen cabinet.

The name may lead you to think these are crisp cookies, but they’re not. They are snappy in another way—there are plenty of spices in the batter, plus a generous helping of candied ginger, making them deserving of the snap moniker. They’re good on their own, but with such a soft, chewy texture, I had a hunch that they would make dynamite ice cream sandwiches, so I filled a few with Tangy Lemon Frozen Yogurt (page 174) and popped them in the freezer. The next day, when I pulled a sandwich out of the freezer and took a bite, I stopped dead in my tracks because I was so stunned: it was the best ice cream sandwich I’ve ever had.

I almost started an international incident when I put some pictures of my black and white cookies on my blog. People went ballistic because I didn’t include a recipe. The problem was that I didn’t know who to credit since my recipe is culled from a variety of sources. Like New York City, the spiritual home to these cookies, my sources and inspiration for them are the ultimate melting pot: a Seinfeld episode, an email from food maven Arthur Schwartz, a recipe from the legendary Zabar’s, and George Greenstein’s comprehensive tome, Secrets of a Jewish Baker.

It seems during the last decade or so, America has gone completely crazy for coffee drinks. All sorts of overpriced caffeinated concoctions are foisted on the public under the guise of coffee. But there’s nothing you can buy that can beat this simple coffee dessert. Blanco y negro is the Spanish variation of affogato, an Italian creation consisting of an innocent bowl of ice cream drowned in hot espresso; affogato comes from the Italian verb affogare, meaning “to drown.” I’m not fond of dessert names that reference morbid things like drowning and death (as in “death by chocolate”), so I opt for the kinder, gentler Spanish interpretation that refers to snowy, white (blanco) sherbet mingling agreeably with the black (negro) espresso that’s poured over the top. They come together in an unexpected, but very winning, way.

Anise is used liberally in Mediterranean and Middle Eastern desserts, but it is an underused spice in the American pastry repertoire. I find it adds an exotic touch, at once familiar yet a tad elusive. It seems especially intriguing to people who aren’t used to it paired with orange or chocolate, or both, as it is in this twist on classic ice cream puffs.

Somewhere along the way, mint sherbet got a bad rap. Perhaps too many catered wedding receptions began with a pallid artificially green scoop melting away in the middle of a melon half, the sherbet chosen because it matched the bridesmaids’ dresses rather than for its taste. Thankfully, any color you’ll find in this mint sherbet comes naturally from a big handful of fragrant, zesty fresh mint. Unlike ice cream, sherbet is usually made with milk, and no cream or eggs, so I never feel guilty about indulging in a couple of scoops. Nor do I feel deprived if I’m craving something a tad creamy. Light yet creamy—it’s a recipe for a perfect marriage.

Some folks tell me they don’t like white chocolate. “It’s not chocolate!” they’ll say with a bit of smug certitude. True, but that’s like saying “I don’t like Champagne because it’s not white wine.” Both have merits and to say you don’t like one because it isn’t the other isn’t very logical. I fall into the camp of white chocolate lovers. To convince people of how good white chocolate can be, I often make ice cream with it and add fresh ginger for spicy contrast. And if that’s not enough, I stir in shiny, dark chocolate–covered roasted peanuts to give it nice crunch. If anyone still has any resistance to white chocolate, I call it their loss and am happy to eat the ice cream all by myself.

This is the vanilla ice cream recipe that I’ve been using for over three decades, and I’ve not found one better. Some ask why I choose to use both vanilla extract and a bean. While I love the taste that the bean infuses into the custard, I find that a little extract boosts and brightens the vanilla flavor tremendously, so I use both. You can use any kind of vanilla you prefer: Bourbon is the strongest, Tahitian is more floral, or real Mexican (not the cheap stuff), which is a revelation if you haven’t had it.

I feel sorry for people who tell me that their mother’s cooking was terrible: I can’t imagine eighteen years of eating bad food. Fortunately, my esteemed lineage included a mom who was a fantastic cook. Unfortunately, though, she was lacking the baking gene, so cookies and cakes were few and far between. She did, however, make wonderful tapioca pudding, which she served warm in a bright-red ’60s-style glass bowl. She always added an entire capful of aromatic vanilla extract to the pudding, stirred in at the last minute. Being hopelessly nostalgic (especially when it comes to desserts), I can still smell it to this day. Of course, back then there wasn’t much fusion cooking going on, but nowadays Thai coconut milk is readily available, and I use it in my version of tapioca pudding. In addition to vanilla extract, I include a vanilla bean for good measure. I don’t have any children, but if I did, I would hope this pudding would be just as memorable for them as my mom’s is for me.

Panna cotta quickly became a popular restaurant dessert for many of the same reasons that make it an ideal dessert to serve at home: it can be prepared well in advance and it tastes good. It’s a win-win dessert if there ever was one. I used to refer to this as “ranch panna cotta” because it was inspired by a tangy buttermilk-based drink that I had at a south-of-the-border spa. But because people said that moniker brought to mind ranch salad dressing, I decided to keep the name simple and straightforward—just like the dessert.

When I worked as a pastry chef, I became known as “the crème brûlée bully” because I decided one night that I had had enough of crème brûlée and stopped serving it altogether. The reason? It was all that was ever ordered, and everything else on my menu went ignored. I realize now that I should have been flattered that guests liked my crème brûlée so much, and I apologize to anyone who left the restaurant feeling denied their favorite dessert. As reparation, I offer this recipe for lemon-ginger crème brûlée, the most popular flavor of the many that I’ve made, and hope I’m forgiven.

Many countries have a version of caramelized custard turned out of its mold for serving—from Mexico’s flan to France’s crème renversée. No border seems to be a barrier to the migration of this universally popular dessert. Cardamom is rather an exotic spice, but it is sometimes used in classic American coffee cakes and other familiar baked goods. Do not buy preground cardamom because its flavor dissipates quickly and you’ll miss the wonderful aroma released by cracking the seeds yourself. Oftentimes, cardamom seeds are sold still in their papery husks or pods, which should be peeled away to reveal the seeds within.

There are a lot of rather timid recipes for baked apples out there, but this one, packed with spicy ginger and sweet dates, is a twist on the usual homey fare. It’s a dessert that pleads to be topped with a scoop of ice cream that will melt from the warmth of the fruit. These apples also make an eye-opening breakfast when you’re weary of the same old eggs-and-toast routine. If you’re anything like me, you’re not at your peak in the morning, so bake them the night before, then rewarm them while the coffee is brewing. At breakfast, ice cream is optional.

I tried to explain to some French pals what a “treehugger” is, a term that we Americans jokingly use to refer to a person who participates in well-intentioned earth-saving activities. Judging from my friends’ baffled expressions, the meaning got lost in translation. There are now a few French people wandering around scratching their heads, puzzled about nutty Americans with a penchant for wrapping their arms around tree trunks. I’m guilty of hugging a few trees myself. I read that using Brazil nuts is something positive that we can do to help sustain the rain forests, so I came up with this tart, which is packed full of them. I can’t say you’ll feel better about saving the planet if you make it, but anyone who doesn’t give it a try is, in my opinion, definitely nuts.

Cornmeal is often thought of as purely an American ingredient, probably because of our infatuation with cornbread, but Italians love cornmeal as much as we do. It’s not unusual in Italian bakeries to see rows of golden cakes and baskets of crumbly cookies made with polenta and sometimes flavored with a pour of olive oil, just in case you forget you’re in Italy. A bit of minced fresh rosemary infuses this cake with a familiar, yet elusive flavor. I wouldn’t dream of leaving the rosemary out. Polenta gives the cake a rustic feel; you can use stone-ground cornmeal instead to make a cake with a more refined texture that retains that agreeable crunch. As for the olive oil, use one that’s strong and fruity; its flavor is more important than its provenance.

American cheesecake is to Italian cheesecake what slouching around the house in a sweatshirt and jeans is to stepping out on the town in a tailored Armani suit. When I stopped comparing Italian cheesecake to its comfy American cousin, I was finally won over. Made with ricotta cheese instead of pounds of cream cheese and sour cream, it’s lighter and leaner, and perfectly accompanied by fresh fruit compotes or colorful sauces. For best results, use whole-milk ricotta cheese. Or even better, seek out fresh ricotta from a local producer. And be sure to watch it carefully during baking, taking it out when it is just barely set.