Savory Pie and Tart

This is the perfect tart to celebrate summer. It showcases the ripest heirloom tomatoes, fresh corn, and basil. You can use any tomatoes, but I like to use a mixture of colors. The corn kernels add crunch and a burst of flavor. The tang of the goat cheese pulls all the tastes together.

This colorful tart uses leftover cooked risotto for the crust, in this case risotto milanese, the classic that is infused with saffron. Any leftover risotto you have can be frozen and saved for this purpose. You can cube pancetta and roast in the oven until rendered of fat and slightly crisp, then add that to the filling of the tart. Smoked poultry such as chicken or duck is great as well.

This tart has a crunchy cornmeal crust filled with an earthy combination of wood-roasted mushrooms and chard paired with caramelized fennel and nutty cheese. If chanterelles or oyster mushrooms aren’t available, use all cremini mushrooms. The tart will still be sensational.

A pissaladière is a crisp, flaky pizza-like pastry popular in the south of France. This version is made with prepared puff pastry, then topped with the traditional olives and anchovies. Here it is made as one rectangular tart, though you can make individual ones as well. The onions are roasted in the oven until soft, jammy, and a bit smoky. If you don’t have oven-roasted tomatoes in your pantry, sun-dried tomatoes packed in olive oil can be substituted. My favorite element is the grated dried goat cheese at the end.

Tart crusts can be made from other ingredients, including cooked spaghetti, polenta, and rice, or in this case, thinly sliced potatoes. The goal is to make a crisp, shallow vessel that will contain the filling without leaking. This is especially important when a custard filling is used. The baby artichokes in this recipe can be replaced by thinly sliced artichoke hearts.

This is a simple yet elegant tart from Fran Gage. The roasted garlic custard makes a wonderful savory flan on its own, and the crust is perfect for other savory tarts (the recipe makes enough dough for 2 tarts; freeze the extra dough to use later). For even more complex flavor, roast the mushrooms as well as the garlic in the wood-fired oven.

This tart with a lattice top is a real showstopper. Your guests’ eyes will light up when it’s brought to the table. Known as a torta rustica in Italy, versions are served around Easter in celebration of the season. The filling is traditionally spinach, though I’ve incorporated other greens for more contrast in flavors. Other versions can have sausage, eggplant, and peppers as the filling.

In the Sard dialect, the town of Villagrande is called Biddamanna. There, a vast parcel of Sard earth is su cumonale—owned by everyone of the community. Shepherds can pasture their sheep, townsfolk can collect wood for their fires, a family can cultivate a small orchard, a garden of vegetables. The Biddamannesi can walk kilometer after kilometer through forests, into the mountains, onto the moors, hunting, foraging, gathering, as they have done forever in this town with no walls, no fences. And, too, they cook for each other over great fires laid in the piazza near the village hall on feast days. Cauldrons of thick soups, mutton poached with wild grasses, and beautiful handmade pastas are offered with baskets of pane carasau and barrels of rough, purply cannonau. Though all Sards seem passionate about making packets of their food, these Biddamannesi seem more devoted, even, to the pursuit. They urge rough doughs into pouches and pillows plumped with all manner of savories and sweets, the bundles tumbled into gurgling oil or baked over wood embers or gently poached. Culingionis are raviolo-like pasta typically stuffed with bitter greens and an acidy, fresh ewe’s milk cheese or a paste of potatoes, nutmeg, cloves, wild mint, and pecorino. Though these are luscious, it is a half day’s ceremony to make them. Hence, I sometimes wrap the good potato paste in a crisp quilting of cheese pastry, a quickly done deed that gives up all the savor of the culingionis plus the prize of a gorgeous scent as the crostata bakes to crispness.

Historically the Napoletani have been able and brilliant friggitori—fryers of food. Until only a few years past and sometimes, still, in the quarters of the poor, the very air was thick with the scents of food being crisped to a light gold in boiling oil. The humble kiosks of the friggitori, traditionally wagons fitted with cauldrons, were wheeled about the dank alleyways, the friggitori wailing out the worth of their salty wares, promising them to be “nuvole ricoperte d’un manto dorato”—“clouds mantled in gold.” Sometimes, the offering was a nugget of simple bread dough stretched out and fried, then dusted in sea salt and anointed with oil, other times there might be little croquettes of rice and cheese or fritters of broccoli or artichokes. Often, though, the friggitori brought forth lusciously crunchy half-moons of dough plumped with mozzarella and known as panzarotti. Our favorite kiosk sits, still, in front of the Pizzeria Bellini, just down the street from the Accademia delle Belli Arti in Via Costantinopoli, a tiny quiver of space where one can stand, at nine in the morning, even, to bite at hot, too hot, savories while listening to two violins, a viola, a violoncello, and a Baroque guitar working through Boccherini. Here follows a version of panzarotti made from course dough rolled thin, laid with mozzarella, pecorino, and bits of salty meat or tomato or anchovy, folded over and cast into whorls of bubbling oil.

When Napoleon lifted up his brother-in-law Joachim Murat to the throne of Napoli in the early nineteenth century, he wittingly rubbed the gastronomic culture of the city to a high French polish. As the governor of Paris, Murat fixed for himself a popular reputation as gourmand, having conducted the business of his offices more often than not midst the ever-sumptuous, sometimes not-meant-to-be-eaten bas-relief of his banqueting tables. And trailing Murat to Napoli marched legions of French chefs. The great toques were an outlandish platoon, striding about the city’s marketplaces and food shops like so many swells among the rabble and answering only to the title monsieur. The irreverent Napoletani soon punished the word into monzù. But even without the genuflection of the masses, the French masters left rich, culinary impress. In the embrace of their hyperbole, there was nothing too spangled, their dishes mostly unredeemed paroxysms of the baroque in both component and construction. And one of their glory dishes was the timballo—the drum—recalling the high-sided round or oval forms in which the chefs built great, towering pies, as much for table architecture as for their eventual service as dinner. One version of the timballo asked for a deep mold upholstered in sweet short pastry, layered with pasta stuffed with veal sweetbreads, layered with the livers of game and whole fat, musky truffles, all of it robed in a salsa besciamella—béchamel—spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves. The timballo was roofed then in more pastry, painted with egg wash and baked golden as amber. Here follows a version less awkward to make, less fantastic, perhaps, but no less sublime for its relative restraint. When preparing any one of the cinque brasati di carne con pomodori (page 67), increase the amount so that some might be saved, then used to flavor the timballo.

Give me almost any combination of toppings, and I’ll turn them into a delicious savory tart. The formula is always the same: the crispy, buttery puff pastry crust; a creamy base of ricotta and crème fraîche; a layer of oozing, usually pungent cheese; and then, of course, the topping. In this case, I sauté an array of winter wild mushrooms until they’re tender, chewy, and still a little crisp. Since they seem to make everything taste better, I can’t resist tossing in a few handfuls of sweet young onions with their spicy green tops. As they all bake together, their flavors unite into this decadent and sophisticated “pizza.”

Lucques had been open only a few months when we were asked to host an Alsatian wine dinner. Working on the menu reminded me of a road trip I had taken many years before through that northeastern region of France. With a corkscrew in the glove compartment and a stinky wheel of Muenster tucked away in the backseat, my boyfriend and I tooled around the picturesque Alsatian countryside. We lived for a few days on tall glasses of Hefeweizen—golden, unfiltered wheat beer always served with a slice of lemon—and on wedges of Flammeküche, warm, cheesy bacon-onion tarts. I made this version of that traditional tart for our wine dinner.

This tart has all the boisterous Mediterranean flavors of pasta puttanesca: tomatoes, anchovies, capers, and olives layered on puff pastry and caramelized onions. Make a tapestry of red, yellow, and orange by layering different-colored heirloom tomato slices over the onions. Though I usually want to put cheese on everything, this tart doesn’t need it. The tomatoes are the stars, so let them shine.

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.

For four generations, the Vongerichten family has been turning out this tart, which is like a quiche but creamier.

Traditionally served at an Easter brunch or dinner, this pie is also a great brunch option on any day of the year. There’s no doubt that this pie is a full-size meal, with its combination of a creamy ricotta base and all the meat your heart desires. There are as many variations of this recipe as there are Italian families; the following is my favorite combination. Feel free to mix and match meats and cheeses according to your preferences.

No Italian Easter is complete without a ricotta pie. This light, citrus-tinged pie, with its creamy ricotta filling and sweet crust, sings of spring. Although this savory pie is traditionally served as a meal, it can also satisfy a sweet tooth. There are many different varieties of Sweet Ricotta Pie (pizza dolce) out there, but we stick to a very basic pie that will please all palates. If you’re feeling adventurous, try adding candied orange peels, grated lemon zest, miniature chocolate chips, or nuts to the filling.