Custard

I love custards—when they are properly baked, that is, so each spoonful feels like velvet and truly melts on the tongue, releasing all its flavors. This is one of the most basic pleasures of eating, one that my family enjoys and that I want to share with you. Here is a custard that has everything: lots of the flavor of fresh mushrooms, dried porcini, sage, garlic, and leeks, all concentrated and deepened in the skillet, and a creamy custard that holds all these flavors in suspension. When a spoonful of this melts on your tongue, you’ll understand why I love custards. Serve it as a first course at a special dinner, or as the centerpiece of a holiday brunch. This recipe is for eight small custards and is easily multiplied to make more. The recipe details the important steps in making any custard, so, if you haven’t made one particularly successfully before, pay special attention. For uniform baking, I recommend that you use identical molds to bake up a batch, if possible. If you don’t have any, I encourage you to buy a set of inexpensive 1/2-cup ceramic molds—get eight or a dozen; either a small shallow soufflé shape or the taller traditional custard cup is fine. You’ll use them forever, I hope.

The “cream” in this popular dish is actually a simple stovetop custard that is firm enough, when chilled, to cut into small blocks, coat with bread crumbs, and fry. Crispy on the outside, creamy on the inside, it is served in many regions of Italy. In some places, crema fritta is considered a savory, as in Emilia, where it is part of the fritto misto. But in Naples, I had crema fritta as a dolce, and I hope you enjoy this wonderful sweet.

This custard is a very tasty dessert and is often served with fruit, cookies, or pound cake. Although it is called a sauce, the natilla takes center stage rather than the other way around. Many convents serve it in a large bowl and dust freshly ground canela over a stencil to create a religious symbol or figure on top. I particularly like it with fruit such as mango, guava, or berries.

I hesitated about including this recipe in the book because these sweet, cheeselike curds are quite unattractive and you might get scared away if this is the first recipe you try. There is no way around it, and even the most experienced photographer couldn’t beautify them. Once you get past their appearance, however, their wonderful, sweet cinnamony flavor comes through, and you will realize that the taste makes up for what they lack in the beauty department. They were originally created in the city of Zamora in Michoacán, but this recipe is derived from one prepared by the Esperanza clan at Dulcería Esperanza, a family-run candy business in another part of the same state that cooks more than 30 gallons of milk a day in huge rectangular copper pots to make them.

This dessert, also called chocoflan, gets its name from a magical thing that occurs in the oven. You cover the mold with some cajeta, pour in the chocolate cake batter, pour a layer of flan on top, and cover it lightly. It goes into the oven in a bigger dish with some hot water, and when you check whether it’s done a little while later, you find that the flan is hidden somewhere and all you see is chocolate cake! You wait for it to cool, unmold it, and there is the flan! This is a sticky, rich, sweet dessert that is not for the faint of heart. Although you can make it in individual ramekins, there is something quite exciting about slicing a full-size one. It never ceases to amaze me.

During my research, I visited some friends in Chihuahua. We made a family recipe for flan that required raw milk, took ten hours to bake, and sat in the fridge for two days before unmolding! It was, I have to say, the best flan I’ve ever tasted, but for practicality, I chose a recipe that doesn’t require three days of preparation—not to mention living or traveling to a state where raw milk is legal. The types of flans that exist are endless, and choosing one basic one was no easy task. I could write a whole book on flans (hey, there’s an idea!), but, inspired by the gentle patience required by the one in Chihuahua, I chose to do an old-fashioned one. Old-fashioned in the sense that I didn’t want to use any canned milk, powders, or artificial flavorings. I also wanted to make a flan that was not too eggy because that is a common complaint with these kinds of flans, so I used half-and-half instead of milk to help thicken it.

When I visited Guadalajara, I spent two whole days asking around and traveling to find the best jericallas possible. I came across a lot of misguided information and dead ends, but eventually, persistence and curiosity paid off. I found a little shop with an eggshell-colored metal wall and a tiny opening that allowed you to peek at the rectangular black oven and endless trays of individual glasses, small and large, filled with the yellowish custard. The owner didn’t share the recipe; however, she did say that although cornstarch is often used to stabilize it (and she admitted to using it when the price of eggs goes up), the best ones are made without it. Jericalla is one of my favorite desserts. It’s most commonly found in the state of Jalisco, and some say the name derives from the Valencian city of Jérica, where the recipe was brought by Spanish settlers in the eighteenth century. It is similar to flan but lighter (it can’t be unmolded), is flavored with canela, has a dark toasty sheet on top, and is eaten directly from the cooking vessel. This recipe does not refrigerate well because the topping becomes very unappealing, so it should be eaten the day you make it and at room temperature or briefly chilled.

Although this is not one of the most traditional recipes, I have seen it in different areas of the country, probably because it combines two of our favorite things: corn and flan. Most of the corn flans I have tasted are made with condensed milk, so I’ve tried to recreate that flavor and texture. Make this with white corn at the peak of the season to ensure that the flavor really comes through.

Although the original recipe calls for making your own chestnut purée, I like to use the chestnut purée from Spain or France to make this custard because it has a wonderful nutty flavor and silkiness. I met a nun in Puebla who told me they coated the mold with a bit of butter and sugar and topped the flan with apricot jam. I took this idea and made an apricot caramel to cover the bottom of the pan, and it turned out to be an unexpectedly pleasant combination that showcased flan in a whole new way.

This is an Italian classic, with a twist. Traditionally made with Marsala, I like to vary it by using Viognier, or even prosecco, as we do here. The wine adds a dimension to the custard and marries well with the sweet berries. If you don’t have a kitchen torch, skip the step where you sprinkle on the sugar and simply serve the custard spooned over the berries. If you use the broiler instead of a torch, the custard will get too soft.

My Aunt June used to make this boiled vanilla custard almost constantly from Thanksgiving to Christmas so as to keep a steady supply on hand. Ever the ready hostess, June kept the custard stored not in the refrigerator, as you might expect, but in a Tupperware container in the trunk of her car. This ensured that she was never without party supplies, whether she was entertaining at home or calling on friends. We were always glad to see Aunt June coming at that time of year, not least because we knew her famous custard was sure to follow.

I learned this recipe when I spent the summer in the kitchen of the Hotel Sofitel in Paris, some twenty-five years ago. Roland Durand, the chef, graciously accepted me as a stagiare, or apprentice, and I was able to work in all sections of the kitchen, including the butcher shop and bake shop. I love this cake for its texture, which is moist and rich-looking but very light, and for its versatility. It goes with so many different things, but it’s also delicious all by itself. I like to dress it up with a Pistachio Crème Anglaise and some raspberries or tart cherries.

Herbsaint, the anise-flavored liqueur that we named the restaurant after, was made in New Orleans for many years. It served as an absinthe substitute, offering a similar licorice taste without the hallucinations. While researching old recipes using absinthe or Pernod, I noticed the liqueurs would frequently be combined with brandy, and this appealed to me, since it tempers the strong anise flavor. Just like a sip of Sazerac, anise is not for everyone. But it’s a sophisticated alternative to the classic vanilla version. If you don’t like anise, simply substitute another tablespoon of brandy or bourbon.

This is a scrumptious home-style Greek dessert that you won’t find in many restaurants. Galaktaboureko, which might be easier to prepare than pronounce, is made by baking semolina custard in a crispy phyllo package and then drizzling it with sweet syrup. The syrup is traditionally made with sugar and water, but I couldn’t resist the urge to infuse it with a little lemon and cinnamon.

We do love our coffee in New Orleans, and we love it strong! Coffee ice cream may be my very favorite dessert, but this runs a close second. It is rich and not too sweet, easy to make, and, because the pôts de crème cook at such a low heat in a water bath, you can make them in pretty, decorative coffee cups and serve them on a saucer.

This make-ahead dessert is a great choice for dinner parties—the individual servings take very little time to plate and garnish, so you can enjoy yourself while still wowing your dinner guests with an elegant, delicious finale. The recipe’s first step calls for infusing its liquid ingredients with chopped pistachios; though the nuts themselves are later strained and removed, their fresh, delicate sweetness flavors every creamy spoonful of the rich custard. Prepared pistachio paste (available online; see Sources) adds more nuttiness and body.