Cake

I don’t have an Austrian bone in my body, but there was just something about the beloved linzertorte, Austria’s cross between a tart and a cake, that seemed ripe for an all-American adaptation. Traditionally, the crust is made with almonds and the filling is raspberry jam. But mine is made with peanuts and is filled with peanuts’ natural partner: grape jelly. Delicious on its own, linzertorte needs no accompaniment.

I had a cake crisis at Club Med in the Bahamas. A round yellow tin was waiting in my room when I arrived, and when I pried off the lid, inside was a small rum cake. Curious, I sliced off a small wedge, and then another, and then another. It took every bit of willpower in me not the finish the entire cake right then and there. But I thought that I should I save half to share with my partner who’d gone for a swim. We went to lunch, and when we returned to the room, the other half of the cake was missing, apparently the work of an overzealous housekeeper, or one who liked the cake as much as I did. When I got home from that trip, I set to work recreating that lovely golden cake with island flavor courtesy of a little dose of coconut milk and a lot of dark rum. I added a tasty coconut-rum glaze for good measure, although you can skip it if swimsuit season is around the corner. If you make this cake, be sure to keep an eye on any leftovers.

For some reason, whenever I’m interviewed, the question always arises: “What would be your last meal?” Or, sometimes it’s: “If you were stranded on a deserted island . . .” I find both to be rather morbid questions—who wants to think about their last meal or being stranded on a deserted island?—and I never quite know how to respond. But if I had to list the things that I couldn’t live without, I’d say chocolate and fried chicken. The third food in my holy trinity is passion fruit. If you haven’t tasted passion fruit, this pound cake is the perfect introduction. If I’m ever stranded on a deserted tropical island, I might get lucky and find a few vines of passion fruit and perhaps some cocoa pods, but I won’t hold out much hope for getting any fried chicken.

This is one big, tall, scrumptious dessert: layers of moist banana cake topped with a mocha ganachelike frosting, and crowned with handfuls of salted candied peanuts. Speaking of tall and scrumptious, I made this cake for a friend who’s a showgirl at the Lido in Paris as a thank you for allowing me a behind-the-scenes visit. She shared it with her colleagues between high kicks on stage and she assured me that even though those women are leggy and lean, their cake-eating capacity knew no limits. The next morning, I read an email, sent at 3 A.M., undoubtedly just after the last curtain call, giving the cake quite a few thumbs up. Or, should I say, a few legs up?

I hate to admit this, but when I was a kid, my all-time favorite snack was those coconut-coated cake-and-cream filled marshmallow snowballs packaged in sticky pairs. Their neon-pink color was so fluorescent and I ate so many that I’m sure my insides are still glowing. Now I’m all grown up and presumably know better, but from time-to-time I still like a coconut-and-cake fix. This recipe is the remedy. The cake should be assembled at least a few hours before you plan to serve it so the flavors have time to meld. I guarantee that the most memorable thing about this cream-filled coconut cake concoction will be how great it tasted, not its shocking color.

Cornmeal is often thought of as purely an American ingredient, probably because of our infatuation with cornbread, but Italians love cornmeal as much as we do. It’s not unusual in Italian bakeries to see rows of golden cakes and baskets of crumbly cookies made with polenta and sometimes flavored with a pour of olive oil, just in case you forget you’re in Italy. A bit of minced fresh rosemary infuses this cake with a familiar, yet elusive flavor. I wouldn’t dream of leaving the rosemary out. Polenta gives the cake a rustic feel; you can use stone-ground cornmeal instead to make a cake with a more refined texture that retains that agreeable crunch. As for the olive oil, use one that’s strong and fruity; its flavor is more important than its provenance.

I’ve been unable to master Arabic, so I have no idea if there’s a translation for the phrase “snack cake.” My mother, who was half Syrian (and never mastered Arabic either), often made this cake for me when I was a kid. As an adult, I frequently find myself craving a piece for a snack. Or whatever a between-meal nibble is called. When I got the recipe from her, I read it through and noticed there wasn’t any butter in the cake. I figured it was probably a mistake, but when I baked it up, I found that no butter was necessary—the cake simply didn’t need it. It does benefit from a very generous dusting of powdered sugar, which can be a little messy, but part of the fun of Middle Eastern desserts is licking your sugary fingers after you’ve polished off the last bite.

At one time, everything I knew about Indian cooking could fit on one bindi dot. It wasn’t until Niloufer Ichaporia King came to work with us at Chez Panisse, where each year she guided us through the preparation of a traditional Parsi New Year’s feast, that I tasted authentic and wonderfully aromatic Indian food. My favorite dish was a cake enrobed in a sheet of gold leaf, a stunning touch that lent the dessert the splendor worthy of a Bollywood musical. This is my version of that cake, but I left out the gold, since it’s not something you’re likely to have on hand. I did, however, brighten up the batter with vibrant green pistachios, which should be more easily found in grocery stores than sheets of gold leaf.

This recipe uses canned pumpkin rather than home-cooked fresh pumpkin simply because the moisture content is consistent and no one wants to take any chances with a cheesecake after spending all that money on cream cheese. This is a fantastic holiday recipe, and as with regular cheesecakes, the secret to great results is to begin with all the ingredients at room temperature and to not overbeat the filling.

American cheesecake is to Italian cheesecake what slouching around the house in a sweatshirt and jeans is to stepping out on the town in a tailored Armani suit. When I stopped comparing Italian cheesecake to its comfy American cousin, I was finally won over. Made with ricotta cheese instead of pounds of cream cheese and sour cream, it’s lighter and leaner, and perfectly accompanied by fresh fruit compotes or colorful sauces. For best results, use whole-milk ricotta cheese. Or even better, seek out fresh ricotta from a local producer. And be sure to watch it carefully during baking, taking it out when it is just barely set.

There seems to be an irksome theme in dessert books suggesting that a particular cake or pastry be served “with tea, in the afternoon.” I don’t know who has time to sit around and sip tea in the middle of the day, but I know at least one person who can usually be found foraging in his kitchen in the late afternoon, on the prowl for something to snack on. This cake combines everything I crave: tangy plums, toffee with a bit of salt, and buttery cake. If you do take tea in the afternoon, I’m sure it’d be a fine accompaniment. But I’m happy to enjoy it all by itself, whenever I can.

The Basque region is an area that spans the border between Spain and France, where a strong sense of nationalism has fueled a desire for independence among some of the Basque people. (I recommend not bringing up the topic if you go for a visit.) But one thing that all sides can agree on is that gâteau Basque is one of the region’s tastiest achievements and a great source of pride. I’m an impartial observer, but I am partial to this dessert, which is a cross between a cake and big cookie. But being Basque, it’s naturally subject to controversy: some versions have pastry cream sandwiched between the layers and others are filled with cherry jam. While happily tasting my way through various examples in the region, I’ve enjoyed versions of both, which is a pretty good way to keep the peace. Don’t be too concerned if the dough falls apart as you roll it; it can be pinched together and will still bake up perfectly.

This cake always reminds me of my trips to Brittany, an exceptionally beautiful region in western France that borders the Atlantic Ocean. The often-blustery weather is the only thing that stands in the way of Brittany becoming a major tourist destination. Aside from the chilly climate, the region is famous for its hand-harvested sea salt and salted butter caramel, both of which I would travel to the ends of the earth for. And no matter where you go in the region, you’ll find buckwheat being served in various guises, from griddled galettes to kig ha farz, a local curiosity made by poaching a pasty buckwheat batter in the sleeve of a linen shirt until it’s firm. Then it’s rolled on the counter until it breaks into tiny bits, like buckwheat couscous. They say it’s something that you need to be Breton to enjoy, so I must have some Breton in me since I loved it since the first time I tried it. I’m happy to have this cake in my repertoire because I enjoy the hearty taste of buckwheat in my desserts, too.

As everyone knows, the best part of an upside-down cake is the caramelized bits of topping and batter that get stuck in the bottom of the pan after the cake is unmolded. Instead of eating these bits, the right thing to do is to scrape them out and smear them back onto the warm cake. If you can do that, you’re a better person than I.

Of all the desserts I’ve ever made, this cake is the one that is most renowned, drawing acclaim for its incredibly moist texture and its spicy zing from an overload of fresh ginger. Many people have told me this is their all-time favorite dessert. And whenever I make it and take a bite, I’m in agreement: it’s one of my favorites as well.

This is the classic upside-down cake that takes advantage of the summer season, when plums and berries are in full swing. I love how the flavor of tart plums contrasts with the toffeelike brown sugar topping. But feel free to swap out other favorite fruits of summer; I offer a few of suggestions in Variations, below.

One of the pitfalls of having a blog is that you leave yourself open to all sorts of questions. The most common are from folks who want to substitute ingredients. I always want to reach through my computer screen, grab hold of their shoulders, and say, “But I worked so hard to develop this recipe. Please make it just as it is!” When I was working on these cupcakes, I began with the simple idea of individually filled chocolate cakes, similar to the kind I had as a kid, but with an adult sensibility. So I added a pour of Irish cream liqueur to the filling and spiked the ganache icing with a tipple of whiskey, which effectively wiped out the possibility of making these kid-friendly. So please don’t ask if you can make them without either, because the bad news is that you can’t. But the good news is that you can have them all for yourself and you don’t have to share them with the kids.

Of all the cakes in the flourless genre, this Gâteau Victoire has the most marvelously creamy texture. Once baked, it’s so velvety moist that I recommend you cut it with a length of dental floss instead of a knife—even at the risk of getting some funny looks from your dinner guests who might think that you’re preparing to brush your teeth and call it a night.

I made a fool of myself when I met Claudia Fleming, who was for many years a noted pastry chef in New York City. But I couldn’t help myself—I flipped out whenever I tasted her desserts. Her multiflavored combinations managed to perfectly balance familiar, everyday ingredients with sophisticated presentations. Every time I ran into her, I’d gush about how wonderful her desserts were as I watched her slowly backing away from this clearly unbalanced fan. I was always intrigued by her combination of gingerbread with rich, malty stout and was inspired to create a cupcake using the same blend of flavors. I add a bright-tasting lime frosting which complements the spicy cake. If you make these, you’re likely to have a few deranged fans, too. Consider yourself warned.

An Italian acquaintance once pleaded, “Please—tell your American friends not to bring us any more maple syrup. Basta!” At first, I didn’t quite understand. I mean, who doesn’t love maple syrup? But then I remembered that while we Americans love to douse everything we can with the sticky stuff, Italians take their infamous 30-second breakfast by downing a quick espresso at their corner caffè and never belly up to a stack of pancakes or plate of waffles in the morning. Since I’m not Italian, any gifts of maple syrup are encouraged. And I promise not to save it just for breakfast.