Cake

A gastronomic heirloom of the coast, this is a humble recipe made from the bits and pieces of what was at hand, sometimes eaten as a principal dish or a contorno, a side dish, other times as a sweet. It is still presented— though in dramatically different versions—in cherished places such as Da Gemma in Amalfi. This take, however, is lighter, less vegetal than most of those with which we’ve been presented, the trick being the absolute thinness of the eggplant slices. This enables them to blend better with the other components, all of them then settling down together into a nicely married sort of flavor and texture. More eccentric than it is bizarre, this version of the ancestral dish turns out to be quite luscious.

Il Pane della Ninna Nanna (Lullaby Bread). Neither very sweet nor pizzalike in the flat, savory pie sort of way, this is a gold-fleshed, orange-perfumed cakelike bread that, if baked with care, will be tall and elegant, its crumb coarse yet light and full of the consoling scents of yeast and butter. Fabriziana is one of the several “middle” names of the Roman countess with whom I learned to bake the confection in the cavernous old kitchen of her villa that looks to the gardens of the Borghese. Ours were clandestine appointments, with our yeast and our candied orange peels and the tattered recipe book of her mother’s cook. You see, Fabriziana had never cooked or baked in her life, had never made anything from a pile of flour and a few crumbles of yeast. Forbidden in the kitchen as a girl, her adulthood has been always too fraught with obligations to permit interludes in front of the flames. But in the years we have been friends, she has always demonstrated more than a kind interest in my cooking, sitting once in a while, rapt as a fox, on an old wrought-iron chair in my kitchen as I dance about. And one day when I told her I was searching for a formula for an ancient, orange-perfumed Roman bread, she knew precisely where to find the recipe. Trailing off in some Proustian dream, she said she hadn’t thought of the bread in too many years, it having been her favorite sweet at Christmas and Easter. Once she even requested that it—rather than some grand, creamy torta—be her birthday cake. She told of poaching slices of it from a silver tray during parties and receptions, stuffing them deep into the pockets of her silk dresses to eat later in bed, after her sister was safely asleep, so she might share them only with her puppy. So it was that we decided to make the bread together. Wishing to avoid the chiding of her family and, most of all, her cook, we chose to do the deed on mornings when the house would be safe from them. It was wonderful to see Fabriziana at play. Flour and butter were forced under her long, mother-of-pearled nails, and her blond-streaked coif, mounted to resist tempests, soon fell into girlish ringlets over her noble brow. With a few mornings’ worth of trial, we baked Fabriziana’s lullaby bread, the bread of her memories. And once, on a birthday of mine, the countess came fairly racing through my doorway proffering a curiously wrapped parcel that gave up the telltale perfumes of our bread. The countess had learned to bake indeed.

This cake was a collaboration of sorts between my husband and my pastry chef Roxana Jullapat (don’t ask!). I love this cake so much that, when it came time to think about my wedding cake, I wasn’t concerned with the flowers on top or the color of the icing; all I knew was that I wanted to serve this incredible hazelnut–brown butter cake. A simple recipe of ground hazelnuts, egg whites, and sugar combined with brown butter results in a moist, rich cake with a delicate, slightly chewy crust. Little did I know, it would take 25 pounds of hazelnuts, 25 pounds of brown butter, and 150 eggs to make a cake big enough to feed our 140 friends and family.

The first time I had gâteau basque, I was living in the southwest of France and trying, in my little spare time, to sample as many of the local treats as possible. Gâteau basque, a very moist, buttery cake with a certain je ne sais quoi, was by far my favorite. Despite its name, it’s not really a gâteau, or cake, but rather two layers of buttery, crumbly crust filled with pastry cream. As it bakes, the crust and filling meld into one delicious whole. This rural dessert has many interpretations, with fillings that vary from almonds to raisins to fruit jams. For this version our first pastry chef, Sara Lauren, came up with a pastry cream spiked with an unusual combination of Armagnac, rum, orange-flower water, and almond extract. The cake doesn’t taste like any one of those flavorings, but together they somehow evoke that unforgettable flavor of the Basque country.

Sometimes, in the middle of fall, usually just before Thanksgiving, it hits me: A desperate craving for pumpkin pie. One year, after a few days of my whining and hinting, pastry chef Roxana Jullapat came up with this delicious cake to shut me up. As comforting as that classic American pie but even better, Roxana’s pumpkin cake was super moist and infused with the spicy flavors of fall. And, knowing my love of all things crunchy, nutty, and salty, Roxana topped the cake with a generous layer of crispy pecan streusel. Though pumpkins have an esteemed place in our childhood memories, they actually aren’t very good to cook with—they’re often watery and usually lacking in flavor and sweetness—so we make our “pumpkin” cake with Kabocha or butternut squash instead. “Winter squash cake” just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

I have a well-deserved reputation as an olive oil junkie. I use olive oil in most dishes, and not with a light hand. When my regular customers saw this dessert on the menu, they thought I’d gone too far—until they tasted it. The oil takes the place of butter and makes for an incredibly moist crumb. It’s delicious with candied oranges and whipped cream, or by itself in the afternoon with a cup of tea. Or if you’re a chocolate lover, try a slice drizzled with the chocolate sauce from the ,meringues recipe on pages 159–160.

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.

While living in France, I took some time off from the savory kitchen to explore the sweet side of Paris at Pâtisserie Christian Pottier. Although I was fascinated by the fancy layered creations there, I preferred simpler, homier pastries, like buttery madeleines, crisp millefeuilles, and of course the very French financiers. Invented in a pastry shop near the Paris Stock Exchange, these one-bite cakes provided a quick sweet fix for bankers on the run. They were originally made in small rectangular molds to resemble gold bricks, but financiers can now be found in myriad shapes and sizes all over France. The easy-to-make batter has ground nuts, egg whites, sugar, and vanilla brown butter. At Lucques, we sometimes bake our financiers into round cakes and serve the slices with sugared summer fruit and whipped cream. Try a slice crisped in the toaster the next morning for breakfast.

Every Mother’s Day, I like to put something on the menu in honor of my own mother. Since my mother’s busy career left little time for baking, coming up with a dessert that represents her is sometimes challenging. One Mother’s Day, in need of help, I turned to Caroline, my business partner, and pastry chef Kimberly Sklar for inspiration. They both began to reminisce about a moist chocolate-chip Bundt cake their mothers used to make when they were little. As they compared notes other staff joined in, starting a passionate debate about whether it was best made with mayonnaise or sour cream. Soon they had all worked themselves into a Bundt cake frenzy. With all this emotional attachment to a cake, you’d think that someone out of the group would have a recipe. Alas, no one did, and we were forced to start from scratch. After lots of trial and error with sunken cakes, soggy cakes, and just plain bad cakes, Kim and I managed to re-create a stellar version of the dessert, using only the very best chocolate and substituting rich crème fraîche for sour cream. Even if this decadent dessert wasn’t part of your childhood, once you taste it, it could become a favorite, maybe even something worthy of being passed down to your own children.

Only on St. Patrick’s Day is it imperative that both your ice cream and your cake contain beer. Not your typical chocolate cake, and definitely not as intensely rich as the 1970s Moms’ Double-Chocolate Bundt Cake (page 112), this chocolate-stout cake has an unexpected kick to it. The addition of molasses, cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg steers it into the spice cake category, with chocolate undertones and an indefinable depth from the dark, full-bodied stout. For me, the biggest surprise of this dessert is the Guinness ice cream. I’m a vanilla girl all the way, and when chefs use weird ingredients just for the sake of being different, I usually pass. But here the dark beer flavor really works in the ice cream to complement the cake. A touch spicy, it might just cure a hangover.

One saturday, Greg Brainin, my director of creative development, threw this together for his daughters. When he made it for me the following Monday, I knew it would become a regular weekend treat for my family, too. It’s as comforting as a classic buttery coffee cake, but the crunch of raw sugar and sea salt in the topping makes it taste refreshingly new.

No, This is not my famous molten chocolate cake. While I’m glad the molten cake is as popular as it is, this simple cake is the dessert of choice in my home. It’s Chloe’s favorite, and mine, too. My mom used to make this for me as an after-school treat. Very, very moist, it’s like a brownie and tastes even better after it sits for a day.

I love a good coffee cake to serve as a snack or for breakfast, and when I needed a vegan version, this recipe is the one I turned to. My friend Leslie Cerier is an organic caterer and the author of Going Wild in the Kitchen.

This has long been a family favorite as an everyday kind of cake. A version of it is in my first book, Vegetariana, but here I’ve updated it—no more margarine, milk, or eggs, but the result is still a moist, rich, super-easy treat. I often make it when I’m asked to bring dessert to a gathering, and when I do, I double the recipe so I can leave one of the cakes at home!