Grilling

Tagliata refers to Italian-style steaks that are cut thin and quickly cooked—all appealing to a 30-minute girl.

We created this ice cream on a whim one day. We were debating what to do with a batch of grilled potatoes that were striking for their sweet, smoky flavor. Aki tasted and joked that they would make an amazing ice cream, and Alex took the idea and ran with it. We were both surprised by how good the resulting ice cream tasted, and it has since become a staple in our repertoire. Ice creams with a savory slant are becoming more common, especially in warm weather. We like to serve this with caviar, steak tartare, and as a garnish for chilled potato leek soup.

Packages of cold-smoked shellfish are often found on grocery shelves. It’s not a new method of preserving the ocean’s bounty. We decided to change things up and hot smoke our mussels instead. We use the grill instead of the smoker because we prefer the higher heat for cooking mollusks. The subtle smoke flavor is the perfect accent to bring out the sweet flavor of the mussels. As an added benefit you can pull any extra mussels from their shells and chill them in the leftover broth as a base for an amazing cold soup. You can use this technique with clams and even gild the lily by adding aromatics, like garlic, herbs, or curry, to the pan. We recommend that you try them straight up at least once to truly appreciate the flavors that blossom. We served these with a loaf of good bread, sweet butter, chilled white wine, and good company. Nothing more was needed.

Eggplant came to Europe from India sometime around the eighth century, possibly with seeds carried by Jewish merchants. Often called the Jew’s apple, the eggplant has played an important role in Jewish cooking since early times. The old recipes found in the Vaucluse, such as the Ladino almodrote de berenjenas, are present today throughout the Sephardic world in the Mediterranean. Although the eggplant is sometimes sautéed in this dish, I prefer roasting it over a fire to bring out the smoky flavor, and then chopping it into chunks with two knives, a technique I learned from Sephardic French cooks. You can also roast the eggplant in an oven then pulse it in the food processor. With the increasing number of vegetarians even in France, this dish is becoming very popular, “modernized” with pesto, crème fraîche, or anchovies, or covered with tomato sauce. A purist, I like to serve it the old way—simply, with a salad.

Little Tunis and the multicultural and bustling Belleville market in Paris are populated with French farmers and merchants from North Africa. In the restaurants and stores bordering the market, you feel as if you are in North Africa, as Tunisians and others congregate at kosher and halal restaurants, bars, and bakeries. You also feel the influence of the Italian tenure in Tunisia: Italian bread, beignets shaped like the Italian manicotti, and canned tuna in olive oil. An everyday snack that Jews and Muslims make from the ingredients found in this market is a large brik filled with parsley, tuna, and a raw egg, then quickly deep-fried and served with a salad called mechouia. The word mechouia, which means “grilled” in Arabic, can be applied to grilling an entire lamb or just the vegetables that go with it. Some sprinkle salt on the grill to keep away the evil eye. The trick to making a good mechouia is grilling more tomatoes than peppers. To retain the flavor of both vegetables, sprinkle them with salt after they are grilled and peeled, and let them drain overnight, to help the water seep out. In the market, Tunisians use corne-de-boeuf peppers, the ones they grew up with in Tunisia, but you can substitute Anaheim peppers, which are very similar, or others.

This is one of the salads that I make frequently. For some reason, although people always ask me how I make it, I have never put the recipe in any of my cookbooks. Grilling the peppers softens the pulp and brings out the natural sweetness. Sometimes the peppers are mixed with eggplants and tomatoes in North African salads, such as the salade juive (recipe follows) or the tchoukchouka (see page 94). Sometimes they are served alone. For Rosh Hashanah and dinner parties, I love to serve the colorful combination of red peppers, carrot salad (see page 112), and roasted beet salad (see page 108).

When I embark on a cookbook, it’s like going on a scavenger hunt. One clue leads to another. Sometimes they lead to unexpected findings, such as this wonderful cooked salad of Jewish origins. Someone in Washington had told me that Élisabeth Bourgeois, the chef and owner of Le Mas Tourteron, a restaurant just outside of Gordes, in the Lubéron, was Jewish. One Sunday afternoon, a friend and I drove two hours from Saint-Rémy-de-Provence to the charming stone house with old wooden beams and antique furniture that is her restaurant. Although I had no idea what mas tourteron meant, an atmosphere of bonhomie filled this farmhouse (mas) of lovebirds (tourterons) as soon as Élisabeth and her husband greeted us. When I explained my quest to Élisabeth, asking her if she was Jewish, she replied, “Pas du tout” (“Not at all”). I thought our journey would be for naught, but since we arrived at lunchtime, we sat down to eat. And what a meal we had! Our first course was a trio of tiny late-summer vegetables served in individual cups on a long glass platter: a cucumber salad with crème fraîche and lots of chives and mint; a cold zucchini cream soup; and a luscious ratatouille-like tomato salad, the third member of the trio. When I asked Élisabeth for the recipe for this last dish, she said without hesitation, “Ça, c’est la salade juive!” (“That is the Jewish salad!”) She explained that the recipe came from a Moroccan Jewish woman who had worked in her kitchen for about thirty years. Now it is part of her summer cooking repertoire and mine. This recipe calls for coriandre, a word that the French use for both the fresh leaves and the seeds of the coriander or cilantro plant. This dish uses both. I serve it either as a salad or as a cold pasta sauce, and make it during every season, even with canned tomatoes in winter. It is always a hit.

The French call this appetizer caviar d’aubergine because the feel of the eggplant seeds on your tongue is similar in texture to that of fish eggs. A delicious and easy-to-prepare dish, it has been in the French Jewish repertoire since at least the turn of the last century, when Romanian immigrants introduced the French to their ways of grilling the eggplant with its dark skin intact, a technique learned in the Middle East via the Caucasus. At about the same time, Russian and Romanian immigrants also brought this so-called poor man’s caviar with them to France. Whereas earlier generations used a hand chopper to make this dish, often blending in either lemon juice and olive oil or tomatoes and green peppers, today most cooks pulse it in a food processor. Although it is easier to roast the eggplants in the oven, oven- roasting will not give you the smoky flavor that comes from grilling over an open flame. This is a recipe to play with. Add diced onion, cilantro, or paprika, if you wish, or a few tablespoons of grapefruit juice or even mayonnaise. I have tasted all kinds of eggplant caviar. The last was at a very upscale French Bat Mitzvah, where the eggplant, laced with pesto, spiced with cumin, and decorated with tiny pansies, was served in an eggshell at the Kiddush after the service.

Walking along the corniche or waterfront in Alexandria, one is irresistibly lured by the smell of corn grilled over charcoal. Vendors sit behind little braziers filled with glowing coals, fanning the flames furiously, or letting the sea breeze do it for them.

Meats grilled on skewers have become the best-known Middle Eastern foods as the standard fare of Lebanese, Turkish, and Iranian restaurants abroad. They are a symbol, in particular, of Turkish food. Turks say that this way of cooking meat was created during the conquering era of the Ottoman Empire, when Turkish soldiers, forced to camp out in tents for months on end, discovered the pleasures of eating meat grilled out of doors on wood fires. Twenty years ago, on a gastronomic visit to Turkey, I went with an interpreter on an arranged tour of kebab houses in Istanbul. At every stop I was invited to eat. It became a grand marathon—une grande bouffe. At the fifth establishment they opened the refrigerated room and showed me all the prize cuts, which were later presented to me straight from the fire on a gigantic plate. As well as the kebabs and ground-meat kofta kebab on skewers, there were small lamb chops, kidneys, slices of calf’s liver, beef steaks, sucuk (spicy beef sausages), and pieces of chicken. It was a gourmand’s dream, but for a woman already satiated from eating elsewhere and afraid of giving offense, it was a nightmare. In Greece and Turkey, alternating pieces of onion, tomato, and bell pepper are threaded onto the skewers in between the cubes of meat. This looks good, but it is not a good idea, as the meat and vegetables take different times to cook and the meat becomes wet and does not get properly seared. So, if you must have roasted vegetables, have them on another skewer, or straight on the grill. In some countries, lumps of fat are pressed between pieces of meat to keep them from drying out as the fat melts.