Vanilla Bean

When unmolded onto a large platter garnished with fresh fruit, such as grapes, lady apples, tiny pears, and some greenery, this gelatin can serve as the centerpiece on a holiday buffet table. It is a stunning presentation and tastes so good, too. If you are not a fan of alcohol, you can replace the wine with any cranberry juice mix.

It will be completely un-shocking that my visit to Japan was more cake-centric, less fish-focused. I ate the flooffiest pumpkin doughnuts, elegant apple shortbread cookie sandwiches, silky coffee caramel flan and cheesecake. At the tiny pastry shop Equal Pastryshop, I ate a strawberry shortcake whose perfection made me want to hang up my apron, because if such baking beauty already exists in this world, then my efforts are futile. 

The Japanese shortcake is their refined version of the American shortcake and is layers of dairy-rich sponge, cream and strawberries. Eating it feels like hugging a puppy, the first day of t-shirt weather in spring and knowing you are loved all at once.

A proper tart shell should be golden brown, uniformly thin, crispy, and have smooth, clean edges. When you bite into it, it should melt in your mouth as you chew. I’m practical when it comes to tart shells. To me, a tart shell must serve a purpose: it should carry as much fresh fruit as possible. During the summer in France, this means a punnet of ripe woodland strawberries—they taste so sweet, they could be candy—arranged on top of a layer of whipped vanilla ganache. I add as many as I can, so there’s not a sliver of ganache visible. A little strawberry jam piped on top deepens the tart’s flavor. 

This recipe is old-fashioned in the sense that it doesn't involve any canned milk, powders, or artificial flavorings. It results in a flan that is not too eggy thanks to the use half-and-half instead of milk to help thicken it.

Unlike most pie lovers, if I’m given a choice between a fruit- or custard-filled one, I always reach for the custard one first. The rich, custardy smoothness draws me in every time. This pie is no exception; the added brûléed sugar top gives the ensemble a slight crunch and added dimension in flavor.

Making mostarda is an art and a process. It requires poaching fruit—either whole, large pieces, or sliced—in syrup over the course of several days, until it is saturated and beautifully translucent. Once this candying process is completed, mustard essence is stirred in drop by drop until the mostarda is sufficiently spicy—spicy enough to make your eyes water! The type of fruit depends on what’s in season, but quince, pears, apples, melon, and figs are all good candidates. Of all those, I prefer pears, which take beautifully to the candying process without (by some miracle) turning mushy at all. Although traditional mostarda is made with small whole or halved fruits, I cut the pears into thin slices, as I find the large pieces unwieldy.

From the court of the Bentivoglio family in Bologna during the 1600s comes this recipe for hot chocolate. Their cook, Giuseppe Lamma, was responding to the fashion of the day in writing a recipe for processing the cocoa bean along with his own rendition of the drink, chocolate (the candy was still far off). Some historians claim Italians taught the art of chocolate making to the French and English in the 1700s. Another logical explanation is all the Spanish connections with those countries through diplomacy, noble marriages and alliances. After all, it was the Spanish who brought chocolate to Europe from the Americas, and they adopted chocolate drinking with great enthusiasm.

Blurring the lines between ice cream and mousse, simplicity and finesse, nostalgia and novelty, this is the kind of dessert that’s hard to categorize but easy to love.