Electric Mixer

In this recipe, I prepare the zuppa inglese almost as you would a layer cake. Although the method is fairly easy, you may want to try the following more traditional and even easier way the first time you make it. Prepare all the components as described below, but assemble them thus: Line a 13 × 7–inch ceramic or glass serving dish with one layer of sponge cake, cut side up. Brush and fill the layers as described below, finishing with a layer of whipped cream over the top layer of cake. Chill and decorate as described below. To serve, spoon the zuppa inglese from the dish, passing any remaining whipped cream and pastry-cream sauce separately.

“To truly mousse or not to mousse?” That was the question. At first I thought I’d find a great low-fat packaged mousse mix and turn the flavors up by adding some interesting ingredients. I tried it...and decided you deserved better. This is as close as I could get to a real chocolate mousse, made with egg whites and chocolate and very little fat.

When you think about adding flavor to foods in the most healthful way possible, you think about the most intense flavor vehicles you can find. That’s why this recipe calls for vanilla bean. The tiny seeds inside pack a wallop of this most delicate and beloved taste. If you can’t find good strawberries, try whole raspberries or small slices of ripe peach.

This recipe takes a little planning, as it needs to chill before cutting. It comes together in a snap, however, and is truly yummy—just like the Creamsicles you had as a kid!

We love the indulgence of individual soufflés straight out of the oven. These are the perfect winter dessert; the spicy gingerbread flavors permeate every delicate bite. You can top them with a small scoop of vanilla ice cream and enjoy the play of hot and cold, spicy and sweet. Or you can pour on a little hard sauce or crème anglaise or even eat them plain. If you love gingerbread, you will be very happy with these light, airy soufflés.

The tang of these doughnuts provides an excellent counterpoint to the cinnamon sugar that coats them. Beware; these doughnuts tend to disappear quickly, especially if there are people in the kitchen when they emerge from the fryer. The doughnuts can also be dipped in warm ganache made with equal parts chocolate and cream. We’ve even been known to turn these into bomboloni by filling them with vanilla pastry cream and serving them with chocolate dipping sauce. Lemon curd or good jelly, perhaps lightened with a little whipped cream, are also nice fillings. A little caramel sauce is never an unwelcome accompaniment, whether the doughnuts are stuffed or plain. But really, the cinnamon sugar does pretty well all by itself. Warm doughnuts are one of life’s special pleasures, and once you experience them, you’ll want to make these again and again.

Before I get into this recipe I want to be very clear about something. While this is my fail-safe bread dough recipe, I don’t guarantee that it will be a fail-safe recipe for everyone, although your probability for success is very high. I can make this bread in my sleep and fashion it into almost every flavor under the sun with a tweak here or a twist there. Substitutions for ingredients are provided in parentheses. Try it once the way it is written to get the hang of things and then have fun with the possibilities. Any leftover rice or cooked grains can be added to the dry ingredients before mixing the dough. They will provide flavor and moisture to the finished product. A raw chopped onion mellows beautifully in the finished loaf. Chunks of cured meats, cheeses, olives, or herbs can be added when forming the loaves. Just flatten the dough into long rectangles. Sprinkle your chunks onto the middle three-quarters of the dough, leaving a space at the top and bottom. Roll up the dough, lengthwise. Make sure the seam is on the bottom of your sheet tray. Let proof and continue as the recipe indicates. Use your imagination here because the dough is very forgiving and will accept most additions with grace.

Visiting eighty-five-year-old Aimée Beressi and ninety-one-year-old Lydia Farahat is like crawling into a cozy casbah. Friends since they left Egypt in the late 1950s, they get together once a week at Lydia’s apartment on Rue Dragon, right near Saint-Germain-des-Prés. For more than forty years, the two have been discussing recipes, current events, and the Egypt of their childhood. When Aimée was growing up in Cairo, there was no school on Thursday, so she helped her mother and aunt make the cakes and cookies for the Sabbath. The word rosquettes, which comes from the Spanish rosquillas, refers to round cookies with a hole. Aimée still bakes a batch each week to bring to her friend of so many years.

When the writter Marcel Proust was a little boy, he played a game with Jeanne Weil, his mother. She would read one line from her favorite play, Esther by Racine, and Marcel would read the next. In the play, the Jewess Esther marries Ahasuerus, the good king of Persia. Proust’s mother also married a non-Jew, a Catholic doctor named Achille Proust. Madame Proust’s love of Esther may have extended beyond the text— a favorite sweet was these doughnuts from her childhood, eaten by Jews at Purim, which celebrates Queen Esther. The doughnuts are the same as the beignets de Carnaval eaten by Catholics around the same time of year, just before Lent. These doughnuts and Butterkuchen (see page 351) probably evoked more memories for Proust than did the madeleine dunked in tea in the fictional Swann’s Way. Curiously enough, in an early version of the opening pages of the manuscript, the madeleines were biscottes (dry toast, zwieback, or rusks). The change to madeleines was made later by Proust.

In Jewish homes in France and all around the world, recipes for macaroons have been handed down from mother to daughter for centuries. Jewish macaroons are descended from the Ladino marunchinos and almendredas, both terms for almond cookies. In fact, during the Inquisition, historian David Gitlitz told me, crypto-Jews were accused of having bought almond cookies from the Jewish quarter in Barbastro, in Aragón. The modern Jewish macaroon is specifically associated with Boulay, a town about twenty-five miles north of Nancy. It seems that a Jewish wine salesman named Bines Lazard opened in 1854 Maison Lazard, along with his wife, Françoise, and their son Léopold, where they sold macaroons, matzo, and wholesale wine. In 1898, the folklorist Auricoste de Lazarque tasted their macaroons, and proclaimed them the best in France, making the company enormously successful. During World War I, the Lazard family sold the wine business, and in 1932, they abandoned the matzo trade. Some thirty years later, the business, which included its secret recipe for macaroons, was sold to Jean Alexandre, who opened a shop in Boulay where macarons de Boulay are baked and sold to this day. Made from the traditional mixture of almonds, sugar, and egg whites, they are slightly robust, a departure from the flat and shiny French macaroons that are so popular today. Although the Alexandres would not give me their secret recipe, Yves Alexandre (no relation), from Strasbourg, had me taste his, which are very similar but made by hand, rather than machine.

I have always felt that cooking is the time to tell stories. In the sixties, when I learned to make this Passover carrot torte from Ruth Moos in Annecy, we talked about lots of things, but never about World War II. When I cook this torte now, after her death, I tell the story of how brave she was during the occupation. Not only did she help so many Jews trying to flee, but she had a narrow escape herself once. When the Annecy police warned the Mooses that the Gestapo was looking for her husband, Rudi, he went underground, hiding between the pork sausages and hams in a butcher’s smokehouse. Looking for him, the Gestapo went to the hotel where the Mooses had been hiding in nearby Talloires. Ruth, walking outside for a quick breath of fresh air while her tiny daughter was sleeping upstairs, turned around to see the Gestapo agents entering the lobby. In order to sneak past the guards, she grabbed some sheets from a chambermaid and, posing as a maid herself, climbed the stairs, passing the Gestapo. Terrified, she snatched her baby and fled to safety.

When I was a student in Paris, I became hooked on intensely tart yet sweet French lemon tarts, and sampled them at every pastry shop I could find. I still love them, especially when they are bitingly tart.

Baba is the yeast pastry that became familiar in Lorraine in the early nineteenth century and is eaten, as described above, by the Jews of Alsace for Purim breakfast; it was sometimes confused with Kugelhopf. The French gilded the lily, dousing the dry baba with rum—a novelty from America. Today babas are baked and served two ways, in either a large or a tiny bulbous mold. I adore baba soaked in rum and order it whenever I can. After tasting an especially light baba in a tiny sixteen-seat restaurant called Les Arômes in Aubagne, I asked the chef, Yanick Besset, if he would give me his recipe, and here it is. As you can see, a good baba dough itself contains very little sugar, the sweetness coming from the sugar-rum bath spooned on after baking.

The original Soufflé Rothschild, created for James Rothschild by Antonin Carême, was a baked soufflé embellished with gold leaf. Since then, there have been all kinds of “Rothschild” soufflés, salads, and other dishes— the name is used to denote extravagance or richness. This frozen soufflé Rothschild was conceived by the famous pastry chef Gaston Le Nôtre, for a grand dinner at the home of one of the Rothschilds. It was served to me at a dinner party in Paris, and is one of the most delicious desserts I have ever tasted. Neither an ice cream nor a sorbet, it is technically a bavaroise glacée, a frozen parfait based on eggs and cream. The best part of this recipe is that it is quite quick to make. Just watch— your guests will sneak back for seconds and thirds!

Kugelhopf, seen in every bakery in Alsace, is the regional special-occasion cake par excellence. The marvelous nineteenth-century illustration by Alphonse Lévy shows how this tea cake, which he calls baba, was also revered by the Jews of Alsace. Kugel means “ball” in German, and hopf means “cake” in Alsatian. This cake is found all over Germany, Austria, Hungary, and parts of Poland. According to food historians Philip and Mary Hyman, a Kugelhopf is first mentioned in German texts in the 1730s, where it is described as a cake baked in a mold shaped like a turban. I suspect that this cake went back and forth throughout the Austro-Hungarian Empire with travelers and cooks, and possibly came back to Lorraine as baba, also a turbaned cake in its original form. Sometimes kugelhopf is raised with yeast; some later versions use baking powder. It may contain raisins, or a combination of raisins and almonds. Kugelhopf molds are as varied as the myriad recipes. You can easily find kugelhopf molds at fine kitchen-supply stores, or you can use a small-capacity Bundt pan. Be careful to watch the cake as it cooks, since baking time will vary depending on the size and material of your pan, and you do not want to let the cake dry out.