Leafy Greens

Please try this recipe if you’re a lima bean hater. I used to be one, too. I detested those dried-out, mealy, frozen beans from childhood. They fell into the “dreaded vegetables” category, along with beets and Brussels sprouts. But oddly enough those very vegetables are the ones I have grown to love the most. Fresh lima beans are a revelation, and especially delicious in this purée.

There’s a moment in late May when something in the air shifts. Fava beans and other spring treats are still plentiful and the evenings are still cool, but change is coming. The air at the farmers’ market is suddenly humid with the scent of basil. Small piles of cherry tomatoes, summer squash, and fresh beans show up on the folding tables beside mounds of fresh corn. It’s as if summer is testing the waters, seeing if we’re ready, because it can hardly hold back any longer. Before changing my spring menu to summer, I sample a few beans, checking for crunch. I peel back a cornhusk, bite into the cob—is the corn sweet yet? And finally, I pop a cherry tomato in my mouth to gauge its sugar. If they all pass the test, it’s time to make this First-of-the-Season Succotash Salad, dressed with a simple lemon vinaigrette. After waiting all year, what a joy it is to taste all these sunny flavors on one plate.

One of my favorite dinners growing up was my mother’s veal piccata. Her recipe came from an old cookbook called The Pleasures of Italian Cooking, by Romeo Salta, a gift to her from my father. My father had been a devoted fan of Romeo Salta when he was the chef at Chianti in Los Angeles in the fifties. Back then, it was a swinging Italian joint with red-checkered tablecloths, opera 78s blasting, and red wine flowing into the late hours. My mother’s (and Romeo’s) veal was pounded thin, sautéed, and drenched in a lemony caper-butter sauce. There’s nothing wrong with that classic rendition, but, to add another layer of flavor, I brown the butter and finish it with salsa verde, a pungent purée of capers, anchovies, garlic, oregano, and tons of parsley. To get the finest, crispy crust on the veal, I dredge it in Wondra, a finely milled flour sold at most supermarkets. This dish is home-style Italian comfort food at its best.

André Soltner is one of my culinary heroes. I admire his interpretations of regional dishes from his Alsatian homeland, which are refined enough to serve in one of New York City’s fanciest French restaurants yet still true to their humble origins. Only a great chef can strike that balance. I discovered his recipe for salmon sautéed in a bacon-and-egg “batter” and served with a brown butter sauce in the middle of summer, so I added corn to the sautéed cabbage for a sweet seasonal touch. The tart brown butter–vinegar sauce beautifully balances the smoky bacon and rich salmon.

I love dishes with catchy retro names. The Green Goddess salad was invented in the 1920s by the chef of the Palace Hotel in San Francisco, who made it in honor of British actor George Arliss. The actor was a guest at the hotel while starring in a local production of William Archer’s The Green Goddess. The basic components of this classic California dressing are anchovies, mayonnaise, garlic, tarragon, parsley, and chives. I add watercress to the puréed herbs, which turns the dressing a deep emerald green and adds a clean, peppery flavor. Thick and rich, the dressing coats the romaine leaves the same way a Caesar salad dressing does. Once you have this dressing in your repertoire, you’ll find yourself using it for all sorts of things. Try a dollop over grilled fish, or spread it on bread instead of mayonnaise when making a sandwich.

Inspired by main-course salads found in the bistros of France, this dish comprises some of my favorite ingredients—beets, mustard, dandelion, and soft boiled egg. The salmon is covered in minced herbs, seasoned with fleur de sel, and then slow-roasted in a humid oven until it’s moist and custardlike at the center.

Since both my parents worked full-time, when I was 2 weeks old they hired a seemingly proper English lady to take care of me. But Ammie was not the mild mannered woman she appeared to be. In fact, she turned out to be the quirkiest third parent you could ever imagine. She fed us forbidden chocolate (despite her belief that chocolate actually “made your blood boil”), and she let us watch TV when my parents were out of town (very illegal). Ammie was nothing if not opinionated. She displayed the nationalist zeal of an expatriate and was completely obsessed with the royal family. She was so pro-British and anti-Irish that every March 17 she would thumb her nose at her enemy by sending my sister and me off to school dressed completely in orange, in honor of the British monarchy. Needless to say, corned beef and cabbage was not a food ritual in our household. I didn’t discover it until I moved back east to college, where I sampled it at the homes of many of my Irish-American friends. The Lucques version is an updated rendition of that classic one-pot Irish meal. Traditionally, the vegetables are cooked alongside the meat for hours, producing dull, mushy carrots and sad, gray turnips. To keep the vegetables bright, I cook them separately in the beef broth. The parsley-mustard sauce (great for sandwiches the next day) cuts the richness of the corned beef and perks up the entire dish.

This dish proves my quirky theory that green and orange foods go together. Think about it: peas and carrots, oranges and asparagus, winter squash and arugula. Saffron, a beautiful rusty orange, pairs perfectly with spring’s green bounty. Saffron has been used as a flavoring and coloring agent (even as hair dye!) since ancient Egyptian times. The saffron thread is actually the stigma (part of the female reproductive organ) of the saffron crocus. Each one must be handpicked from the flower, which accounts for saffron’s outrageous price. Fortunately, a little goes a long way. Use it with a light hand, as too much saffron can easily overwhelm a dish. Buy whole threads, not powder, and store them in a cool, dark place. Buy only a little saffron at a time, so you’ll be able to use all of it while it’s still fresh.

The first incarnation of this dish did not include rice. Tasting it over and over again, I knew it needed a final element that would bring its flavors into harmony: nutty farro, meaty bass, pungent green garlic, sweet pea shoots, tart tangerines. I racked my brain for just the right thing, then remembered a sample of black rice I had stashed in my desk drawer weeks before. I had little experience with black rice—varieties of rice whose kernels are covered by extremely dark bran. The black rice I found was grown in the salt marshes of the Veneto, so I cooked it in an Italian style. As I would for risotto, I sautéed the rice in olive oil to seal the outer layer and toast it slightly. Then I deglazed with white wine, added water, and let it simmer away. When the rice was done, I found it solved my problem perfectly. The rice’s marshy origins gave it a subtle oceany taste, complementing the fresh fish and giving the entire dish a springtime-by-the sea coherence. What’s more, there was a visual bonus: the black rice was gorgeous to behold, coated in its own deep purple sauce.

One year while researching ideas for our St. Patrick’s Sunday supper, I discovered that the Irish obsession with potatoes is not a myth. Page after page of old Irish “cookery books” reveal numerous formulas for the tuber, with whimsical names for each. I fell for champ, an Irish version of mashed potatoes flavored with a handful of finely sliced scallions. Since it was spring, I skipped the scallions and used lots of sliced green garlic instead. But the Irish don’t live on potatoes alone; seafood is actually the backbone of their diet. So I decided to celebrate their patron saint with something from the sea. I found lots of recipes for fish as well as tiny clams known as cockles. Trying to bring these Irish specialties together, I steamed the cockles with white wine and butter and then spooned them over the creamy green garlic champ. And what more Irish way to sop up those briny juices than with a savory brown scone?

Super-green watercress makes the perfect starter to a St. Patrick’s Day dinner. One St. Patrick’s Day at Lucques, in order not to lose the bright, vivid green color and fresh lively taste of the watercress, I decided to make the soup to order. Rather than cooking the watercress, I planned to wilt it with hot vegetable stock and then purée it with tarragon, parsley, chives, and a touch of cream. As that night approached, the restaurant was booked solid, and I began to worry about my made-to-order soup scheme, but Daniel Mattern, my equally obsessive sous-chef, insisted we go for it in spite of the anticipated 180 reservations. He recruited the waitstaff to bring their blenders from home, and organized his new found equipment into a lean, mean soup station as if it were business as usual. That night, all 180 bowls of soup were made to order and managed to arrive at the tables pipinghot. Dan must have had the luck of the Irish because he pulled it off without a hitch. Served with an anchovy toast, this “à la minute” soup is great any day of the year.

Look in any Sicilian cookbook and you’ll find a recipe for the popular side dish, or contorno, of cooked greens with currants and pine nuts. I make Swiss chard the main attraction of this dish, layering it onto a savory tart with rich and tangy goat cheese, then topping it with sweet currants and toasted pine nuts. Use a crumbly, slightly aged goat cheese, such as Bûcheron, Rodin Affiné, or the domestically produced Laura chanel aged chèvre. Feel free to substitute any other tender greens, such as the tops of beets or turnips, or a bunch of young mustard greens for the Swiss chard.

Certain foods taste better when you eat them with your hands, like barbecued ribs and corn on the cob. This salad is the perfect way to indulge that primal urge. Use the endive leaves as scoops to gather up some olive shards, a fava bean or two, and a slice of lemon. The crisp spears explode with flavor, and before you’ve finished the first your hand will be reaching for another. Hand out forks if you must, and make sure to tell your friends that the Meyer lemon slices are for eating. They’re sweet and delicious, peel and all. Slice the olives thinly, so their intense taste doesn’t overwhelm the other ingredients. As for the dressing, gently stir (don’t whisk) in the cream to incorporate it without whipping it.

One of my first lessons as an apprentice, both in my mom’s kitchen and in my first restaurant position, was how to perfect an omelet. It should be fluffy, with runny eggs, and never browned. Back then, we used steel pans. We now have the advantage of nonstick pans, which make the technique more foolproof and the omelet every bit as delicious. Although the chiles are optional, they’re my favorite part of this dish. They add a bright note to accent the wilted spinach and creamy goat cheese melted into the eggs.

As a rule, I season my greens in direct proportion to their degree of bitterness. To mellow the edge of mustard greens without overwhelming them with seasoning, I use this technique of cooking them in salty boiling water with butter melted into it. It infuses the greens with tons of flavor, but keeps their natural edge intact. If you love that hot, mustardy bite, be sure to add the mustard oil at the end.

My grandmother passed this recipe down to my mom and she then passed it on to me. It’s a casserole of pure comfort. First, bitter endive is simmered until sweet, then wrapped in savory ham and smothered with a creamy nutmeg béchamel. Gruyère tops it off before it’s baked until bubbly and golden.

Served under Soy-Syrup Roasted Duck (page 142), this super-tender cabbage perfectly balances the richness of the meat. But I love it so much, I eat it on its own, too. As always with fresh cabbage, I add the juniper berries at the end to lightly perfume the dish.

Swiss chard isn’t exactly a bitter green, but it’s not candy either. To bring out its fresh, mild, spinach-like flavor, I braise it with earthy mushrooms and thyme.