Simple Cooking

This recipe is in honor of Hadley Fruit Orchards, a legendary stop on the way to Palm Springs where “ice cold date shakes” have been soothing weary and overheated drivers on Route 10 for years.

Local farmer Bill Coleman specializes in all sorts of exotic herbs and greens, such as curry leaf, epazote, purslane, and fenugreek. When he can, Bill travels to faraway places to source unusual herbs and spices and little-known fruits and vegetables. He carries home the precious seeds and plants them at his farm near Santa Barbara, providing a wonderful source of inspiration for us lucky local chefs. It’s always exciting to see what he will, literally, unearth next. A few years back, Treviso, a beautiful elongated relative of radicchio from the north of Italy, was his plant of the moment. Bill Coleman’s Treviso practically dared me to come up with a dish that would show off its striking magenta leaves and complex, slightly bitter flavor. I paired the Treviso with pungent Gorgonzola and drizzled both with sweet saba, a syrup made by reducing grape must with sugar. This salad-meets-cheese course is the perfect beginning (or ending) to an autumn meal.

I like this baked ricotta warm and slightly underbaked to a soft, creamy consistency. Avoid the grainy, flavorless, commercial ricottas from the supermarket, and seek out a fresh, artisanal version. Bake the cheese in a Spanish-style cazuela or small attractive casserole and serve it at the table so your guests can help themselves.

During my cooking stage at Pain, Adour et Fantaisie, a two-star restaurant in southwestern France, days off were few and far between for the commis (French for grunt line cooks). Whenever I got the chance, though, I’d round up my fellow workers for a road trip to the Basque country. We always knew when we crossed the border into Spain, because everything looked different—the Spanish hillsides were rugged and less pristine than the green countryside of southwestern France. We were cooks, so food was the first thing on our agenda. After plates of jamón and several bottles of red wine, we headed to the bakeries, where I was charmed by the simple, heartfelt sweets of the Basque bakers. A few years back, I was reminded of those quick forays into Spain by an excellent cook named Brian Edwards. His training in Spain had left him with fond memories he was eager to share. When he described his favorite Basque dessert, pastel vasco, I knew it was my kind of sweet. A simple pound cake made with rum and layered with fruit compote sounded like the perfect addition to our dessert list. My pastry chef at the time, Kimberly Sklar, did some research and perfected her own version of this rustic Spanish sweet. We put it on the menu, but for some reason it didn’t sell. One morning, I toasted a slice of leftover cake in a buttered cast-iron pan and ate it with warm berry compote. Unable to fathom how such deliciousness could be ignored, I put it back on the menu, embellishing the description just a little: “Pastel Vasco, toasted in the wood-burning oven with blackberries and poured cream.” The power of words is amazing. We sold out night after night.

Dates were always part of the December onslaught of gifts for my father from his patients. Packages of dried fruit would arrive with bottles of booze, crates of Hickory Farms smoked meats and cheeses, and boxes of C. C. Brown’s pecan turtles. Once my sister and I had made our way through all the other edible gifts, our sugar-dazed eyes would turn toward that untouched wicker tray of shrink-wrapped dried fruit. After one bite of those rock-hard dates covered in shredded coconut, we were convinced that dates were inedible. It wasn’t until my late twenties, when I moved back to Los Angeles, that I gave dates another chance. It didn’t seem right that something so prominent in the local landscape was absent from my culinary landscape. With date farmers at every turn, I broke down and tried a date. Soft, chewy, and rich, this was definitely not the date of my childhood. I embraced my newfound love with a vengeance, sampling all the different varieties. Now I can’t imagine life without dates. For this tart I like Deglet Noors, which have a pleasing chewiness without the cloying sweetness of some other varieties. If you can’t find Deglet Noors, you can use another variety; just make sure the dates are plump and supple. (See Sources for my favorite date farmers who ship across the country.)

Figs and almonds—a classic pairing. For this tart, I cut the figs into quarters and sauté them with sugar, butter, and vanilla for a jammy texture. Then I pour the super-easy custard base into a baked pâte sucrée crust with the caramelized figs, and bake until the top is slightly browned. Be sure to bake the crust completely before filling it, to ensure it stays crisp. Although this tart is so very French, it reminds me just a little bit of all-American Fig Newtons.

This dish was inspired by one of my favorite Italian meals, bistecca fiorentina, a huge, rare grilled steak dressed simply with salt and lemon juice. Instead of the traditional T-bone steak served in a Tuscan ristorante, I opted for tri-tip, a less expensive but super-flavorful cut from the triangular end of the sirloin, popular in the central coast region of California.

This dish was inspired by an old Julia Child recipe that my mom used to make when I was a kid. Lots of stewed onions are bound with a tiny bit of Arborio rice, like a very loose risotto in which the onion, rather than the rice, is the key player. Finished with Gruyère and a touch of cream, it’s great with grilled lamb, rabbit, and even braised beef.

I like to use a variety of shell beans for this dish. Because of their different sizes and shapes, cook each type of bean separately, dividing the other ingredients as necessary. You may need a little more oil if you have many varieties of beans. The starchy liquid from cooking the beans is delicious in the ragoût.

This grilled pork confit evolved one night when I was making a staff meal at Lucques. I salvaged the leftover ends and trimmings from the day’s pork confit, crisped them in my favorite cast-iron pan, and ran to the walk-in to see what produce I could find to add to the dish. When I got back to the stove, I noticed half the meat was missing. Looking around, I saw that all the cooks had their heads down, suspiciously quiet. Half of my staff meal had disappeared, but I couldn’t be angry. Who can resist succulent pork, hot and crispy, out of the pan? Something so irresistible deserved to be shared with the outside world, so I put this staff meal on the menu!

This was one of our first Sunday suppers at Lucques. It’s a variation on the classic osso buco, which is traditionally made with veal shanks. I use the same technique, but for this lighter summer version I braise the lamb shanks in white wine and a combination of veal and chicken stock (as opposed to straight veal stock). The tender shanks are a rich counterpoint to the freshness of the shell beans and crunch of the haricots verts. Ask your butcher for lamb osso buco, but if you can’t find it you can use lamb shanks.

This dish takes me back to Pantelleria, a tiny volcanic island in the Mediterranean, situated between North Africa and Sicily. Undeveloped and relatively untouched by the modern world, the island is famous for two things: the caper bushes that dominate the dry, brush-covered hillsides of the rocky coast, and resident Giorgio Armani. My husband and I spent a magical week in that salt-drenched haven, eating grilled, freshly caught tuna; bowls of couscous; and salads of tomatoes, potatoes, and capers. The grilled tuna and the combination of tomatoes and potatoes in this dish are a tribute to those leisurely days on Pantelleria. And though rouille isn’t part of their Moorish-meets-Italian culinary lexicon, I’m sure the Pantellerians would love this saffron-tinted, spicy pepper mayonnaise.

This is the dish to make in the middle of the summer when heirloom tomatoes are everywhere. I can think of few more satisfying things to eat. Bottarga, considered the caviar of Sicily, is a delicacy made by drying tuna or mullet roe in the sun until it forms a dense, rust-colored block. Here, it’s shaved and tossed into the pasta, adding a deep oceany essence and salty-savory contrast to the sweet summer tomatoes.