Melissa Clark - Food Writer

A GOOD APPETITE; Tradition Remade for New Year

By MELISSA CLARK 

Published: September 24, 2008 

SOME dishes are so iconic that it would never occur to me to tinker with them. When I want leg of lamb, I picture it roasted with garlic and rosemary. Brisket? I braise it Jewish style, the way my mother does. When veal shanks with molten hearts of marrow pop into my mind, I dream of osso buco nestled in a saffron-tinged risotto. 

Veal shanks were what I was thinking about recently when planning what to make for Rosh Hashana dinner. My first inclination was the brisket, swathed in wine and onions. But the doldrums of many decades immediately set in. It was time for something new. Not to say osso buco is new. But as a centerpiece for a meal usually built around sweet things like apples and honey (to welcome in a sweet new year), the choice of a tangy, tomato-based braise seemed potentially radical. The perfect compromise would be to sweeten the osso buco a little, and to skip the Parmesan-filled risotto. So what if I added dried apricots and maybe some orange to the meat, and replaced risotto with kasha, a staple from my Ashkenazic upbringing? Would that meld into something marvelous, or be a disastrous experiment wrought on $100 worth of protein? 

I called Marco Canora, the chef of Hearth and Insieme, to see if he had any words of wisdom. Although he was polite, I sensed that he was cringing. The subtext behind ''interesting'' was: ''Why would a nice cook like you want to ruin a perfectly good, traditional dish like osso buco?'' Nonetheless, he gave me some pointers: If I wasn't adding demi-glace, I should simmer down the liquid I was using to help thicken the sauce. Even if I wasn't going to use tomatoes, I should stir in some tomato paste for body. He cleared my plan to use a roasting pan instead of a Dutch oven so I could brown in one step enough shanks to feed 12. 

Thus mentally armed, I proceeded to my parents' house to cook. (My own kitchen is being renovated.) As a bonus, my parents have enough freezer space to store the dish until the holiday. As I chopped up fennel bulbs, a last-minute addition that I hoped would lend a sweet complexity to the onions and carrots, I told my mother about Mr. Canora's tepid response. ''Why call it osso buco at all, she asked, ''when you're really coming up with a whole new dish?'' She was right. There was nothing wrong with braising veal shanks in wine, orange juice, apricots and fennel. The problem was that the Italian designation gave the dish an identity crisis. Was it Jewish? Or Italian? Or some Brooklyn melange? When it emerged from the oven, fragrant with citrus, browned meat and caramelized fennel, I knew it didn't matter whether it was served on Rosh Hashana or Columbus Day. It was, by itself, a good enough reason to celebrate sweet times.

Recipe: Braised Veal Shanks with Apricot, Orange and Fennel 

Time: 45 minutes plus 2 hours' braising 

12 veal shanks (osso buco), about 1 1/2 inches thick 

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper 

4 to 5 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil 

4 large red onions, diced 

4 carrots, diced 

3 ribs celery, diced 

3 garlic cloves, minced 

1 fennel bulb, diced, fronds chopped 

2 tablespoons tomato paste 

1 cup dry white wine 

1 quart chicken broth 

1/2 cup freshly squeezed orange juice 

6 anchovy fillets (optional) 

2 tablespoons chopped fresh sage 

1 tablespoon thyme leaves 

1 bay leaf 

2/3 cup dried apricots, sliced 

Kasha pilaf, for serving (optional). 

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. Pat shanks dry with paper towels and season very liberally with salt and pepper. 

2. Place a large, heavy roasting pan across two stove-top burners over high heat. Add 4 tablespoons of oil and heat for 30 seconds. Add veal and sear until well browned on both sides, about 15 minutes. Transfer veal to a platter. If pan looks dry, add another tablespoon oil, and onion, carrots, celery, garlic, diced fennel bulb, 1/2 teaspoon salt and a generous pinch of pepper. Saute over medium heat until onions are translucent and tender, 7 minutes. Add tomato paste and continue to saute for 2 minutes longer. 

3. Pour in wine and bring to a boil, scraping up browned bits. Let simmer for 2 minutes, then add broth and simmer until liquid is reduced by a third, about 5 minutes. Stir in orange juice, anchovies (if using), sage, thyme, bay leaf, half the apricots and 2 tablespoons fennel fronds. Nestle meat into vegetable mixture and pour in any meat juices from platter. Cover pan with foil, leaving a corner turned up so some steam can escape, and braise in oven for about 2 hours, turning shanks two or three times as they cook. 

4. When meat is quite tender, transfer it to a platter (on top of hot kasha if desired). Cover with foil to keep warm. Remove bay leaf from pan. Using a slotted spoon, transfer about a third of the vegetables to a blender or food processor and puree. 

5. Add puree back to pan juices. Add remaining apricots and bring to a simmer for 3 minutes. Taste and correct seasonings. Spoon sauce over meat, and serve garnished with more fennel fronds. 

Yield: 12 servings. 

Note: You can make shanks up to 4 days ahead. Store in refrigerator and skim fat that rises to surface before reheating in a 300 degree F oven. 

Kasha Pilaf 

Time: 20 minutes 

3 cups kasha 

2 tablespoons olive or vegetable oil 

1 large onion, chopped 

6 cups chicken broth or water 

1 teaspoon kosher salt 

1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper. 

1. In a large saucepan, toast kasha over medium high heat, stirring constantly, until it darkens and starts to smell nutty, about 2 to 3 minutes. 

2. Add oil, heat for a few seconds, then add onion and saute about 3 minutes, stirring. Pour in broth or water, add salt and pepper, and bring to a simmer. Cover pot, turn heat to low, and cook until kasha is tender, about 10 to 12 minutes. Fluff with a fork before serving. 

 Yield: 10 to 12 servings.

A GOOD APPETITE; Well-Planned Wackiness

By MELISSA CLARK 

Published: February 18, 2009 

THERE was a time before I was married when I cooked grand, if slightly offbeat, dinners just for me. I'd throw together whatever ingredients I had around, ending up with ad-hoc salads filled with pickles and scrambled eggs; roasted vegetables slathered with mayonnaise; bowls of rice topped with bacon and tahini. Cooking for two brought out a less frenetic inner cook. I now think about what I'm going to make before I turn on the stove, and have even been known to scribble a shopping list on occasion. 

On the rare night I'm cooking just for one, though, some of my old inclinations return. But they're tempered with my newer, more organized habits. In other words, the wackier combinations persist, but I plan them. And this is how I came to invent what's been affectionately called my cheesy cauliflower chutney mess. 

I started with the idea of cauliflower and peas coated in a cheddar-rich bechamel, a little like macaroni and cheese but with vegetables instead of pasta. When I pictured the dish, I saw a brain-like cauliflower on a platter coated in gooey sauce and dotted with peas. But cooking up a whole cauliflower for just one didn't make sense. So I cut the head into florets so I could save some for another night. Normally, when you see recipes for cheesy cauliflower, the vegetable is boiled. I wanted a deeper flavor, so I roasted the cauliflower, adding the peas to the pan during the last few minutes of cooking. While it was all in the oven, I worked on the bechamel. 

When I first made the dish, I planned to season the cheese sauce with chutney. After all, cheesy cauliflower seemed like the essence of British nursery food. And British food always makes me think of Indian cuisine. A dollop of mango chutney would add complexity and sweetness, and, I hoped, would mesh well with the cheese flavor in the sauce -- a little like the flavors on a fruit and cheese plate but runnier. 

I would have sworn up and down I had a jar of Major Grey's in the fridge, but no amount of searching could unearth it. I did spot some Indian lime pickle, so I stirred it into the pot. Instead of being fruity and mellow, the sauce was pungent, bright and dusky tasting, giving a jolt to the mild cauliflower. Not what I had pictured, but terrific in its own intense, funky way, and definitely not nursery food. Still, I had the mango-spiked version of the dish stuck in my head, and a few months later, I had the chance to try it. This time, I made a shopping list and remembered the chutney. I stirred some into the cheese sauce, then spooned it over my platter of caramelized cauliflower and green peas. The dish was sweet and tangy from the chutney, but comforting and creamy from the soft vegetables and cheese sauce. And although it could have easily served two, I got to eat it all by myself. 

Roasted Cauliflower and Peas With Chutney Cheese Sauce 

Time: 35 minutes 

 For the cauliflower: 

1 1/2 pound head cauliflower, cut into bite-size florets 

3 tablespoons olive oil 

3/4 teaspoon kosher salt 

1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 

1 cup frozen peas 

For the sauce: 

1/4 cup unsalted butter ( 1/2 stick) 

1/4 cup flour 

3 cups whole milk 

1 pound aged white cheddar cheese, grated 

1/3 cup mango chutney 

1/4 teaspoon dry mustard powder 

1/4 teaspoon kosher salt 

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 

Cooked white rice, for serving 

Chopped fresh cilantro, for serving. 

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Toss cauliflower with oil, salt and pepper. Arrange in a single layer on a baking sheet. Roast until almost tender and browning around the edges, about 30 minutes. Add peas to pan and stir to combine. Roast until peas are heated through, about 5 minutes more. 

2. About halfway through cauliflower cooking time, prepare cheese sauce: Melt butter in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add flour and cook, stirring, until mixture is pale golden, about 1 minute. Whisking constantly, slowly add milk until fully incorporated. Bring to a boil and cook until thickened, about 3 minutes. Whisk in cheese, a little at a time (adding too much at once can cause sauce to break and become grainy), until smooth. Stir in chutney, dry mustard, salt and pepper. 

3. Serve vegetables and sauce over rice; garnish with cilantro. 

Yield: 4 servings. 

Lime-Pickle Variation: For a spicy, tangy cheese sauce, substitute 1 tablespoon finely chopped lime pickle for the chutney; omit dry mustard. Lime pickle can be found in Middle Eastern and Asian markets.

A GOOD APPETITE; Luxury on Sale: The Lobster Glut

By MELISSA CLARK 

Published: December 10, 2008 

I'M a sucker for a sale, the kind of shopper who tallies the amount ''saved'' rather than spent. My arithmetic goes like this: It makes more sense to buy the $125 cashmere sweater marked down to $95 than to pay full price for the $80 one. Following this logic, when I heard on the radio that lobster prices were the cheapest they had been in 25 years, I decided that the sensible thing to do was to run over to the fish store and buy a couple for dinner. So what if I spent nearly $30 on lobster for two on a weeknight when we weren't celebrating anything? It cost a third less than it would have last year. 

While fantasizing about ways to cook my bargain crustaceans, I asked Lewis Spada, the manager of Fish Tales in Brooklyn, why prices were so low. ''The economy,'' he said. ''People just aren't buying, but in Maine their stocks are loaded. It's all about supply and demand.'' At his shop, lobsters go for $10.99 a pound, about $3 less than last year -- a trend seen all over town. Balducci's is selling them for $14.99 to $16.99 a pound, $4 less than last year, and at Wild Edibles they are $2 to $3 less, or $13.99 to $15.99 a pound. The Lobster Place, with locations in Chelsea Market and Greenwich Village, is the cheapest of the markets I surveyed, at $7.95 a pound. 

Act quickly, because, according to Trevor Corson, the author of ''The Secret Life of Lobsters'' (HarperCollins, 2004), this situation is probably not going to last much longer. ''The lobster fishermen are victims of their own success,'' he said, explaining that because they have managed to make lobster fisheries so sustainable, they have recently had record catches. Until now, the excess catch was funneled to Canadian processing plants, which sold them frozen to chain restaurants. But the bad economy hit the Canadian plants hard enough to shut down operations. That means cheaper lobsters for you and me -- at least temporarily. ''It's gotten to the point where for the fishermen, it's not worth their while to catch lobsters, so the supply will decrease,'' Mr. Corson said. 

My timing on my little lobster splurge was even better than I'd realized. Generally, when serving lobster, I stick to the tried and true: steaming them, then serving with melted butter. I've been afraid to experiment; who wants to gamble with ruining such a pricey purchase? With fire-sale-priced lobsters, I had no such inhibitions. 

Visions of more opulent lobster dishes swam across my mind. I saw rich bits of pink lobster meat coated in creamy sauce over soft egg pasta. I remembered how marvelous broiled lobster, mottled with charred bits, tasted when dipped in garlicky olive oil. And finally, I thought back to a sauté of lobster with lobster mushrooms I had at a friend's house, the dense, meaty texture of the mushrooms echoing that of the shellfish. But before I could cook my lobsters, I needed to end their watery lives as quickly and humanely as possible. In the past, I would always drop them into a pot of boiling water and clamp the lid on tight. 

Trevor Corson had another suggestion. ''The best way to kill them, according to animal welfare agencies, is to put them in the freezer first for 15 minutes,'' he said. ''It slows their metabolism.'' After that, Mr. Corson suggested, put the lobster on its back and slice lengthwise through its soft underbelly. ''Lobsters have a decentralized nervous system,'' he said. ''The tail may still twitch, but the claws will go limp so you'll know it's dead.'' Killing a lobster this way before boiling. steaming or broiling it, he added, makes for less rubbery meat. So I tried it. 

After freezing and slicing up my lobsters, I ran them under the broiler. My plan was to serve them with garlic oil. But their scarlet hue reminded me of blackened redfish. Making a vibrant, spicy Cajun butter to souse the lobster seemed like a good idea. As Mr. Corson promised, the lobster meat cooked up tender yet firm, and the spicy butter gave it a fiery kick without diminishing its sweetness. 

The mushroom sauté was my next foray. My local market didn't have lobster mushrooms, but it did have oyster mushrooms, which were at least thematically the same, and maitakes. Seasoned with sesame oil, ginger root and soy sauce, this lobster variation was bright and boldly flavored, with the mushrooms adding a woodsy earthiness to what's now my favorite version of surf and turf. 

Last, I indulged in a luscious lobster pasta topped with a savory sherry sabayon. It was slightly more labor-intensive than the usual cream sauce, but more ethereal, too. As an extravagant, final touch, I crowned the pasta with glowing beads of salmon caviar. True, this wasn't on sale. But I couldn't resist celebrating how much money I saved on the lobster. 

Boiled Lobster 

Time: 15 minutes 

Salt 2 live lobsters, 1 1/4 to 1 1/2 pounds each. 

1. Fill a large lobster pot or stockpot halfway with water; season generously with salt. Bring water to a boil. Drop lobsters into pot headfirst and boil, covered, 10 to 12 minutes, until bright red all over. Remove with tongs to a cutting board or sink to drain. 

2. Once they are cool enough to handle, remove lobster meat from tails, claws and knuckles. If lobsters are female, remove and reserve any red coral (the strip of roe that runs along the body just behind the head) and serve as garnish on any lobster dish. 

Yield: 1 1/2 to 2 cups lobster meat. 

Alternative method for killing lobster: 

Place live lobster in a bag in freezer for 15 minutes to slow its metabolism. Then put lobster on its back. Use a sharp knife and quick movement to cut the body in half lengthwise from the base of the tail through the head (leave tail intact). The back shell need not be cut through. Boil as directed above. 

Broiled Lobster With Cajun Butter 

Time: 25 minutes 

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, melted 

1 tablespoon kosher salt 

1 1/2 teaspoons cayenne pepper 

1 1/2 teaspoons paprika 

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 

3/4 teaspoon onion powder 

3/4 teaspoon dried thyme 

1/2 teaspoon garlic powder 

1/2 teaspoon dried oregano 

1/8 teaspoon mustard powder 

4 live lobsters, about 1 1/2 pounds each 

1. Preheat broiler. Arrange an oven rack 4 inches from heat source. To make Cajun butter, stir together all ingredients except lobsters in a small bowl. 

2. Place lobsters in bag in freezer for 15 minutes to slow their metabolism. Place a lobster on its back. Using a sharp knife and quick movement, slice lobster in half lengthwise from head to tip of tail. Grab both sides of shell and split open body, cracking through its hard back. Scoop out its gray-green innards. Use back of a heavy knife to crack open both claws. Repeat with remaining lobsters. (You can have a fishmonger do this for you as long lobster meat is cooked within an hour.) 

3. Arrange lobsters in a single layer in a large roasting pan (or use 4 large gratin dishes). Coat body and claw meat generously with Cajun butter. Broil, basting once halfway through with pan juices, until lobster meat is cooked through and slightly charred, about 12 minutes. Remove lobsters from oven. Spoon pan juices over lobsters and serve. 

Yield: 4 servings. 

Lobster With Herbed Egg Noodles, Sherry and Salmon Caviar 

Time: 40 minutes 

For the sherry sauce: 

4 egg yolks 

1/3 cup dry (fino) sherry 

1 teaspoon chopped garlic 

1/2 teaspoon salt 

Freshly ground black pepper, to taste 

For the lobster: 

6 tablespoons unsalted butter 

2 tablespoons dry (fino) sherry 

3 1 1/4- to 1 1/2-pound boiled or steamed lobsters, meat removed and cut into bite-size pieces 

1/2 pound fresh egg pasta, cooked and drained (or cooked spaetzle) 

2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme leaves 

2 tablespoons chopped fresh tarragon 

2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley 

1 tablespoon chopped fresh chives 

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt 

Freshly ground black pepper 

Salmon caviar, for garnish (optional)  

1. To make sauce, in a heatproof bowl, beat together yolks, 1/3 cup sherry, garlic, salt and pepper. Place bowl over a pot of simmering water. Do not allow water to come to a boil or eggs may curdle. Whisk constantly until light, frothy and thickened, about 3 minutes. Remove from heat. 

2. Melt butter in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Cook until butter turns nut brown (do not let it burn), about 4 minutes. Immediately add 2 tablespoons sherry and stir. Add remaining ingredients, except caviar. Toss well and cook until heated through, about 2 minutes. Gently toss in sherry sauce. 

3. Divide among plates and serve, topped with salmon caviar, if desired. 

Yield: 4 to 6 servings 

Sautéed Lobster With Oyster Mushrooms and Ginger 

Time: 20 minutes 

3 tablespoons peanut or safflower oil 

2 inches ginger, peeled and finely chopped 

1 fat garlic clove, finely chopped 

6 ounces oyster mushrooms, sliced 

2 ounces maitake or shiitake mushrooms, sliced 

1/3 cup sliced scallions, white and light green parts only 

2 1 1/4- to 1 1/2-pound boiled or steamed lobsters, meat removed and cut into bite-size pieces 

1/3 cup chicken stock 

1 tablespoon soy sauce, more to taste 

2 teaspoons rice wine vinegar, more to taste 

1 1/2 teaspoons sesame oil 

1/4 cup chopped fresh cilantro 

Cooked rice, for serving (optional) 

1. Heat oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add ginger and garlic and cook, stirring, until fragrant, about 1 minute. Stir in mushrooms and scallions and cook, tossing occasionally, until soft and golden, about 4 minutes. 

2. Stir in lobster, stock, soy sauce, vinegar and sesame oil. Cook until most of liquid has evaporated, 2 to 3 minutes. Taste and adjust seasonings. Stir in cilantro and serve immediately, over rice if you like. 

Yield: 4 servings.

A GOOD APPETITE; Secrets of the Cake Stand

By MELISSA CLARK 

Published: March 18, 2009 

ONE of my favorite wedding gifts is a whimsical, undulating porcelain cake stand with a domed glass cover. Presiding over the counter like an elegant dowager, its presence whispers: ''Isn't it time to make some lovely cake?'' For a cake enthusiast like me, the answer is always ''yes,'' and I've been building up a small repertory of quick, easy cakes that I can whip up without turning on (and later cleaning) the food processor or electric mixer. The key is using liquid fat (oil or melted butter) that doesn't require creaming, and chemical leavening (baking powder or soda or both) to eliminate the vigorous beating of eggs. 

Usually, I rely on melted butter for the fat. Although the cakes aren't as light-textured as oil-based ones, I like the butter's richer, more complex flavor. These sweets have kept my cake stand occupied for the better part of my marriage. But now that baby makes three, there's been a hitch. Our infant's diagnosis of gastroesophageal reflux disease led to the suggestion that I, her breastfeeding mama, give up cow's milk dairy. And this meant butter. Of course, I could have just put my cake baking on hold for the month of my abstinence. But that empty cake stand just made me sad. Besides, I could still eat sugar and eggs and flour, so as long as I substituted oil for butter, my confectionery intake need not be affected. 

As I read through recipes calling for vegetable oil, it occurred to me that my favorite oil is olive. So why not use that? Unlike the blander oils, good olive oil has character. I've had olive oil cakes and liked their pronounced flavor. I even baked one once, though it required beating yolks and whites separately with an electric mixer, which disqualified it from the quick category. Could I bake a similar cake without all the egg-beating? I turned to the Internet to find a recipe. 

A few clicks brought me to Dorie Greenspan's extra virgin olive oil cake, which seemed like a cinch. The only catch was that she called for yogurt. But a quick substitution of sheep's milk yogurt fixed that. Her recipe called for lime zest, which I didn't have. But I did have some blood oranges, and grated their peels instead. That left me with two denuded oranges, which, I feared, would fossilize before I had a chance to eat them. A small wave of anticipatory guilt that I'd have to throw out fruit that cost $1.50 apiece made me decide to use them immediately. I juiced one and chopped up segments from the other, adding it all to the cake batter and reducing the yogurt to compensate for the extra liquid. 

While it was baking, every corner of the house pulsed with the scents of citrus and olive. I could barely wait for my cake to cool before cutting a sliver. It was every bit as good as my more buttery confections, but with a distinct herbal flavor and juicy bits of orange strewn throughout the very fine crumb. Although the recipe also works perfectly with regular oranges, the cut loaf, dappled with ruby dots of blood orange, is much prettier. And looks better on the cake stand, too. 

Blood Orange Olive Oil Cake 

Time: 1 hour 20 minutes plus cooling 

Butter for greasing pan 

3 blood oranges 

1 cup sugar 

Buttermilk or plain yogurt 

3 large eggs 

1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour 

1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder 

1/4 teaspoon baking soda 

1/4 teaspoon salt 

2/3 cup extra virgin olive oil 

Honey-blood orange compote, for serving, optional (see note) 

Whipped cream, for serving, optional 

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease a 9-by-5-inch loaf pan. Grate zest from 2 oranges and place in a bowl with sugar. Using your fingers, rub ingredients together until orange zest is evenly distributed in sugar. 

2. Supreme an orange: Cut off bottom and top so fruit is exposed and orange can stand upright on a cutting board. Cut away peel and pith, following curve of fruit with your knife. Cut orange segments out of their connective membranes and let them fall into a bowl. Repeat with another orange. Break up segments with your fingers to about 1/4-inch pieces. 

3. Halve remaining orange and squeeze juice into a measuring cup. You will have about 1/4 cup or so. Add buttermilk or yogurt to juice until you have 2/3 cup liquid altogether. Pour mixture into bowl with sugar and whisk well. Whisk in eggs. 

4. In another bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Gently whisk dry ingredients into wet ones. Switch to a spatula and fold in oil a little at a time. Fold in pieces of orange segments. Scrape batter into pan and smooth top. 

5. Bake cake for about 55 minutes, or until it is golden and a knife inserted into center comes out clean. Cool on a rack for 5 minutes, then unmold and cool to room temperature right-side up. Serve with whipped cream and honey-blood orange compote, if desired. 

 Yield: 8 to 10 servings 

Note: To make a honey-blood orange compote, supreme 3 more blood oranges according to directions in Step 2. Drizzle in 1 to 2 teaspoons honey. Let sit for 5 minutes, then stir gently.

A GOOD APPETITE; A Tart That's Sweet, Yet Savory

By MELISSA CLARK 

Published: September 17, 2008 

THE flow of ideas and ingredients between the savory and sweet sides of a professional kitchen is usually a one-way street. Pastry chefs liberally borrow herbs, spices, fancy salt, vinegars, even bacon and ham from the mis en place. But when a line cook lifts the likes of white chocolate and macaroons, it's more often in service to a sweet tooth than a dinner dish. Granted, with restaurants like Tailor and Falai, this is changing. But nine years ago, when I was working on a cookbook with Claudia Fleming, who was the pastry chef at Gramercy Tavern, I was surprised to see a line cook amble over to where we were piping meringue and reach for puff pastry and sugar. ''It's for the tomato tarte Tatin,'' Ms. Fleming said. ''We serve it with lamb.'' 

Tarte Tatin is usually made with caramelized apples or other sweet fruit. Gramercy's dish was the first savory tarte Tatin I had seen. I made sure to wait around until they emerged from the ovens, steaming, glistening and fragrant with onions, herbs and caramelized sugar. Although it was September and the tomatoes were as sugary as candy and nestled in caramel, the tarts were tangy and meaty. The secret, Ms. Fleming told me, was a splash of vinegar and a sprinkling of briny olives. 

I vowed to make the dish at home, but it took a few years to get around to it. When I did, I followed the recipe in Tom Colicchio's book ''Think Like a Chef'' (Clarkson Potter, 2000), and the tarts came out as richly flavored and buttery as I remember them. But the process of making eight tarts in ramekins is time-consuming when you don't have Gramercy Tavern's kitchen staff tucked away in the pantry. I saved them for very special occasions. This summer, every time I passed the Greenmarket's resplendent array of heirloom tomatoes, I fantasized about the juicy and intensely flavored tomato tarte Tatin. But instead of fussy little tarts, I decided I would make one big one. 

I gathered up ripe Striped Germans, Black Krims and red Jersey tomatoes at the Greenmarket. When I got home I cooked the caramel in an oven-safe skillet, then tucked olives, thyme and caramelized onions amid the chunks of tomatoes. I covered it with a good all-butter store-bought puff pastry sheet and stuck it in the oven. What emerged looked as golden and puffed as Gramercy's individual tarts. 

I was primed for jammy tomato taste and crisp pastry as I cut into a wedge. What I got was a mouthful of soggy pastry and sloppy, runny tomatoes that hadn't condensed as they had in the individual tarts; they had released so much juice that they flooded the crust. Converting the small tarts into one big one was more complicated than I had thought. It seemed to me that with smaller pans, more heat was able to reach the tomatoes, which helped the juices bubble and thicken. I still had pastry and tomatoes left, so making another tart was possible. I could have played it safe and baked the individual tarts. But I was determined to try my experiment again. 

The second time around I raised the oven temperature to encourage evaporation and cut more steam vents in the pastry. I also used fleshier cherry and grape tomatoes rather than full-size ones, because that's what I had and because I hoped their smaller size would help them cook more completely. Thirty minutes later I had my answer. Flipped over onto a serving dish, the tart was a stunning mosaic of red, orange and yellow orbs so shiny and candied that the tart really did look like dessert. But this tarte Tatin, piquant and hearty, was safely on the savory side, which, despite puff pastry and caramel, was exactly where it belonged. 

Caramelized Tomato Tarte Tatin 

Time: 1 hour 15 minutes 

1 14-ounce package all-butter puff pastry 

2 tablespoons unsalted butter 

3 red onions, halved and thinly sliced 

1/4 cup plus a pinch of sugar 

1/2 teaspoon sherry vinegar 

1/4 cup chopped pitted Kalamata olives 

1 1/2 pints (about 1 pound) cherry or grape tomatoes; a mix of colors is nice 

1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme leaves 

Kosher salt, to taste 

Freshly ground black pepper, to taste 

1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees F. Unfold puff pastry sheet and cut into a 10-inch round; chill, covered, until ready to use. 

2. Melt butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Add onions and a pinch of sugar and cook, stirring, until onions are golden and caramelized, 15 to 20 minutes. Add 2 tablespoons water and let cook off, scraping brown bits from bottom of pan. Transfer onions to a bowl. 

3. In a clean, ovenproof 9-inch skillet, combine 1/4 cup sugar and 3 tablespoons water. Cook over medium heat, swirling pan gently (do not stir) until sugar melts and turns amber, 5 to 10 minutes. Add vinegar and swirl gently. 

4. Sprinkle olives over caramel. Scatter tomatoes over olives, then sprinkle onions on. Season with thyme leaves, salt and pepper. Top with puff pastry round, tucking edges into pan. Cut several long vents in top of pastry. 

5. Bake tart until crust is puffed and golden, about 30 minutes. Let stand for 5 minutes, then run a knife around pastry to loosen it from pan, and flip tart out onto a serving platter. Cut into wedges and serve immediately. 

 Yield: 4 to 6 servings.

A GOOD APPETITE; A Garlic Festival Without a Single Clove

By MELISSA CLARK 

Published: June 18, 2008 

''I'D rather have an ounce of garlic than a pound of truffles,'' my father often said, setting the tone for garlic worship in our family. When I was growing up, no meal was complete without several of the odoriferous cloves: from the omelets at breakfast to the garlic butter popcorn as a snack before bedtime. And if my dad never did get around to making garlic ice cream, it was only because he was perfecting his garlic-laced gazpacho sorbet. 

Given this history, it was no surprise that the first time I came upon a cascading pile of vivid green, curling garlic scapes at the farmers' market, I had to buy some, even though I had no idea of what do with them. Their graceful form gives few clues about their function. Garlic scapes are pencil thin and exuberantly loopy, and emanate a clean and mildly garlicky scent. At the top of each is a tightly closed but bulging bud. I contemplated sticking them in a vase with the peonies, but ultimately realized I'd rather eat them. 

Since my cookbook indexes came up empty in a search for scapes, I called my dad for advice. ''Garlic scapes?'' he said. ''Do you mean green garlic?'' He was referring to the tender crop of garlic that also appears in the market in spring, bulbs still attached to their green floppy tops. Having become addicted to their juiciness and musky sweetness, I always make a point to buy plenty when I see them. But no, I told him, scapes look like curlicue tulip stems. 

At the time he didn't know how to cook them either, so I decided to wing it. Since the scapes reminded me of extra-long green beans, I treated them as such, cutting them into two-inch lengths, blanching them and tossing them with a lemony vinaigrette. They had a gently spicy undertone and an exquisitely fresh green, mellow taste. Unlike regular garlic, which needs some kind of vehicle to carry its intense flavor to the mouth, scapes are self-sufficient; vegetable and aromatic all in one. 

Ever since that first batch, I gleefully buy scapes whenever I can, using them in salads, soups and pesto. I use green garlic in dressings, dips and sautes. Even a breakfast of toasted baguette with butter is infinitely improved by a topping of thinly sliced raw green garlic sprinkled with crunchy sea salt and fresh thyme leaves. Much milder and more succulent than regular garlic, green garlic won't cause your fellow subway riders to inch away from you. Another bonus of green garlic: Because it's uncured (not dried), there's no papery skin. After trimming the roots and tops, all you need to do is peel off the outermost layer of the bulb. 

It occurred to me, as I reveled in my alliums one evening last June, that this crop deserved a celebration, a party where I could serve a vampire-repelling repast showcasing garlic in its many incarnations. So a few weeks later I trotted back to the farmers' market to stock up. But I was too late. ''All gone,'' a farmer told me. ''Come back next year.'' Next spring, I promised myself, I'd throw one garlic-palooza of a party. 

Meanwhile, I had loads of time for planning and research. Scapes, I learned, are the flower shoots of the garlic bulb. Farmers cut them off to encourage the bulbs to grow plumper. When the garlic is harvested before individual cloves are formed, it is called green garlic. By May my appetite was primed. I started bothering the farmers at the Greenmarket, asking when the harvest would be in. 

My urgency amused Bill Maxwell, of Maxwell Farms in Changewater, N.J., who, after telling me to cool my heels until mid-June, offered a pearl of scapes insight. Although they've been gaining a following over the last few years, he said, scapes came to market ''when someone figured out they could make money from something they were cutting off the garlic plant and getting rid of.'' Peter Hoffman, the chef at Savoy, added, ''At some point someone realized the scapes were tender and delicious.'' He suggested that I saute them with other vegetables or soft-shell crabs, or even grill them whole to show off their curves. 

Finally, the market bloomed with baskets of scapes that looked like twisted garden snakes and bunches of green garlic with their leek-like stems still attached. As I scooped armloads into my bag, I daydreamed about my party. I came up with a menu to showcase the alliums in several manifestations: raw, quickly sauteed and slowly confited. It was not an occasion for the faint of heart. I planned to ease my guests into the piquant depths slowly with a docile creamy soup of green garlic and scapes sautéed in butter, then pureed. 

But while it bubbled away on the stove, and green garlic bulbs, slick with oil, roasted in the oven, I realized everyone would need a snack. So I decided to whip up a dip. 

The pantry offered canned white beans and chickpeas. I considered hummus but decided to go for the paler legume to flaunt the scapes' verdant hue. I ground beans and scapes in the food processor with a little lemon, and less olive oil than I would have used behind closed doors. The dip was billowing and fluffy, with the color of sugar snap peas. It had a velvety texture that wrapped itself around an assertive, racy wallop so intense that I worried I'd scare even my garlic-loving parents out of the house. 

Instead, my guests closed in on the bowl like house cats to cream cheese. The soup, more delicate and earthy than the dip, met a similar fate. And so did a puffy souffle filled with chopped green garlic, chives and plenty of Gruyere cheese. This dish really threw my guests off guard. ''You think of souffle as being all airy and light and a little bland,'' a friend said, ''then wham! The garlic smacks you in the face -- you know, in a good way.'' 

For the next course I yielded to garlic's subtler state, which it takes on while slowly confiting. To balance the sweetness, I sauteed the caramelized garlic with salty pancetta, fiery chili flakes, a squeeze of lemon for brightness and some chopped peppery arugula, then tossed it with penne. It was bracing and honeyed, with the lemon and chili preventing the garlic from being too cloying. 

I pressed on to one more course, grilled chai-spiced chicken wings with green garlic aioli. The inspiration came from a baroque-sounding recipe on the Gilroy Garlic Festival Web site that included a marinade of green tea, lemon grass and curry paste. I decided to pare it down, seasoning the chicken with whole chai spices and making an aioli with just egg and oil -- and loads of garlic. The aioli was the most potent dish of the night, and everyone quadruple-dipped their wings into the bowl. 

When the last of it was licked clean, I mentioned dessert. My father leaned forward, perhaps thrilled that I might fulfill his garlic ice cream fantasy. But no, he was just reaching for the wine, and was visibly relieved when I brought out fresh strawberries. ''You know why I never made garlic ice cream?'' he asked. ''Because it's a terrible idea?'' I answered. ''Exactly.'' 

Reinvented Garlic Bread 

Time: 5 minutes 

1/2 fat bulb green garlic, root and green parts trimmed, outer layer removed 

1 6-inch-long piece of baguette, halved lengthwise 

2 tablespoons good-quality butter, softened 

Coarse sea salt like Maldon 

Thyme leaves, for garnish, optional 

1. Cut garlic in half. Toast bread, then rub cut sides of garlic all over toasted surface. Slice garlic as thinly as possible. 

2. Spread bread with butter and sprinkle with salt. Top with sliced garlic. Garnish with thyme, if desired. 

Yield: 1 to 2 servings

Double Garlic Soup 

Time: 45 minutes 

 3 fat bulbs green garlic, root and green parts trimmed, outer layer removed 

3 tablespoons unsalted butter 

3 cups sliced garlic scapes (about 3/4 pound) 

1 1/2 teaspoons fresh thyme leaves, more for garnish 

3/4 teaspoon kosher salt, more to taste 

Ground black pepper to taste 

1 large Yukon Gold potato, peeled and diced 

1 quart chicken or vegetable broth 

1 cup half-and-half or whole milk 

2 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice, or to taste 

Freshly grated nutmeg 

1. Chop green garlic. In a soup pot, melt butter over medium-high heat. Add green garlic and saute until translucent, about 3 minutes. Add scapes, thyme, salt and pepper, and saute for 5 minutes. 

2. Stir in potato and broth, reduce heat to medium, and simmer until scapes and potatoes are tender, about 20 minutes. Add half-and-half, and puree soup with an immersion blender or pour into a regular blender. Stir in the lemon juice and season with more salt and pepper. Garnish with nutmeg and thyme leaves, and serve hot. 

Yield: 4 servings 

Chai-Spiced Chicken Wings With Green Garlic Aioli 

Time: 30 minutes, plus 6 hours' marinating 

For the chicken: 

1/2 fat bulb green garlic, root and green parts trimmed, outer layer removed, or 4 regular garlic cloves, peeled 

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil 

2 tablespoons soy sauce 

1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice 

1 teaspoon ground ginger 

1 teaspoon cardamom pods (about 16) 

1 teaspoon finely grated orange zest 

1 star anise 

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon 

1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 

1 pinch ground cloves 

2 1/2 pounds chicken wings 

For the aioli: 

1/2 fat bulb green garlic, green parts trimmed, outer layer removed 

1/2 teaspoon coarse sea salt 

1 egg yolk 

1 cup extra virgin olive oil 

Freshly squeezed lemon juice, to taste 

1. Coarsely chop garlic and place in blender with olive oil, soy sauce, lemon juice, ginger, cardamom, orange zest, star anise, cinnamon, pepper and cloves. Blend mixture to a rough puree. In a bowl, toss marinade with chicken wings and cover. Refrigerate for at least 6 hours or, preferably, overnight. 

2. Preheat broiler to high. Use a paper towel to brush off most solids from marinade clinging to chicken, then arrange wings on a baking sheet. Broil until wings are golden brown and cooked through, about 5 minutes a side. 

3. To prepare aioli, finely chop garlic. Using a mortar and pestle, pound green garlic with salt until a paste forms. Add egg yolk and continue to pound paste until incorporated, then add oil drop by drop until a thick, shiny aioli is achieved. Stir in a few drops of lemon juice. Aioli can be prepared a day ahead; store it in refrigerator. Serve wings with aioli for dipping. 

Yield: 2 to 4 servings

White Bean and Garlic Scapes Dip 

Time: 15 minutes 

1/3 cup sliced garlic scapes (3 to 4) 

1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice, more to taste 

1/2 teaspoon coarse sea salt, more to taste 

Ground black pepper to taste 

1 can (15 ounces) cannellini beans, rinsed and drained 

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil, more for drizzling

1. In a food processor, process garlic scapes with lemon juice, salt and pepper until finely chopped. Add cannellini beans and process to a rough puree. 

2. With motor running, slowly drizzle olive oil through feed tube and process until fairly smooth. Pulse in 2 or 3 tablespoons water, or more, until mixture is the consistency of a dip. Add more salt, pepper and/or lemon juice, if desired. 

3. Spread out dip on a plate, drizzle with olive oil, and sprinkle with more salt. 

Yield: 1 1/2 cups

Penne With Roasted Garlic, Pancetta and Arugula 

Time: 2 hours 

6 fat bulbs green garlic or 4 heads regular garlic 

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, more for drizzling 

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper 

1 pound penne rigate 

1/2 pound pancetta, chopped 

1 large pinch crushed red pepper flakes 

1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice, or to taste 

2 large bunches arugula, roughly chopped (about 5 cups) 

Grated Parmesan cheese, for serving 

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Trim hairy root and green stem from green garlic, or trim 1/4-inch off top of regular garlic, making sure to expose all cloves. Place garlic in a small, shallow baking dish, root side down, and drizzle each with a little olive oil. Cover dish with foil. Roast until cloves or bulbs are golden brown, about 40 minutes to 1 hour (green garlic will cook faster than regular garlic). If bottom of dish starts to burn before garlic is roasted, add one tablespoon water. Transfer to a rack to cool. Garlic can be roasted up to one day ahead; wrap well and store in refrigerator. 

2. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add pasta and cook according to package directions until al dente. 

3. While pasta cooks, heat 3 tablespoons olive oil in a large skillet on medium-high heat. Add pancetta and red pepper flakes. Sauté until pancetta is golden and crisp around edges, about 5 minutes. 

4. Peel outside layer of green garlic, or if using regular garlic, squeeze cloves from their papery skins. Chop roasted garlic, and add to skillet with lemon juice and a large pinch of salt and pepper. Saute for 2 minutes. 

5. Drain pasta, reserving 1/2 cup cooking water. Add drained pasta and arugula to skillet, place over low heat, and toss until arugula wilts. Add just enough cooking water to scrape up brown bits in pan (do this 1 tablespoon at a time). Taste and adjust seasoning, then serve with Parmesan. 

Yield: 4 servings

Green Garlic and Chive Soufflé With Gruyère 

Time: 50 minutes 

5 tablespoons butter, more for pan 

1 tablespoon grated Parmesan 

2 fat bulbs green garlic, root and green parts trimmed, outer layer removed 

1/4 cup flour 

2 cups milk 

2 sprigs thyme 

3/4 teaspoon kosher salt plus a pinch 

1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper 

1/8 teaspoon grated nutmeg 

4 egg yolks and 6 egg whites 

2/3 cup grated Gruyere cheese 

1/4 cup chopped chives 

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Butter a 2-quart gratin dish and sprinkle bottom and sides with Parmesan. Using a sharp knife or food processor, mince garlic. 

2. Melt butter in a saucepan and let cook for 1 minute. Add flour and cook, whisking, until mixture is pale golden, about 5 minutes. Whisk in the milk and thyme sprigs, and continue to cook, whisking constantly, until mixture is thick and smooth, about 2 minutes longer. 

3. Turn off heat and whisk in salt, pepper and nutmeg. Transfer to a large bowl and whisk in egg yolks, one at a time. Whisk in minced garlic, cheese and chives. 

4. In a mixer, whip egg whites with a pinch of salt until they hold soft peaks. Using a spatula, fold a third of the whites into yolk mixture to lighten it, then fold in remaining whites, taking care not to overmix. As you fold, pluck out and discard thyme sprigs. 

5. Spread mixture in prepared pan and smooth top. Bake until golden brown and puffed, 20 to 25 minutes. 

Yield: 6 servings.

A GOOD APPETITE; An Apple and Barley Get-Together

By MELISSA CLARK 

Published: November 5, 2008 

BARLEY has always been the one-trick pony of my pantry. I'd trot it out whenever the urge for mushroom-barley soup struck, then neglect it for months. Sometimes, I'd contemplate barley risotto or barley salad as I dusted off the package, vowing to make more frequent use of it. But when all the soup was gone, I'd forget about barley, choosing sexier fare like arborio rice and farro. Recently, though, memories of my grandmother's kosher cooking and a dearth of ''exotic'' mushrooms at the farmers' market made me branch out. 

My current recipe for mushroom-barley soup is loaded with unusual mushrooms, like oysters and maitakes, which gives it a meatier, richer flavor than the white button mushroom-barley soup of my childhood. But when I arrived at the market, the mushroom man was packing up his stand, not even a tiny enoki left. Without fancy mushrooms, my soup-making urge dwindled to zero, even though I'd already unearthed the barley from the back of the cupboard. It was exactly the kick-start I needed to try something new. 

I thought back to the first mushroom-barley soup I ever had, at a dairy restaurant in Brooklyn with my grandmother Ella. It was as thick as oatmeal and filled with plump nuggets of salty barley as slippery as tapioca; I loved the starchy texture even more than the flavor. If I wanted to experience that mouth-feel, then making a crunchy barley salad was out of the question. So was barley risotto, with its al dente core. But a moist pilaf would fill the bill. And what, other than barley, should I put in it? 

With Grandma Ella still on my mind, I wandered the produce stands, looking for inspiration. Grandma wasn't the most adventuresome of cooks, preferring to stick to the greatest hits of Jewish cuisine. She could simmer up a tender matzo ball and some succulent pot roast, but I doubt she ever met a barley pilaf, let alone thought of making one herself. 

It was her baked apple recipe that I kept thinking about as I passed endless varieties of apples piled high in their bins. Ostensibly a dessert, Grandma's baked apples, tangy and slicked with the barest gloss of jam, would have been better served as a side dish to the meal. (We usually ended up eating the leftovers cold for breakfast the next morning, bathed in cream.) So what about making a batch of savory baked apples? And what if I topped them with barley pilaf? 

Back at home, I made a very simple pilaf seasoned with onions and hazelnuts, which would have met with Grandma's approval, and sprinkled with spicy chorizo, which would not. Then I piled it on firm, crisp apples, and, as per Grandma's recipe, moistened the bottom of the pan with water to help steam and soften the fruit. When it emerged from the oven, the barley was as fat and melting as that first taste of mushroom-barley soup, but with an intense porky flavor from the chorizo that more than made up for the lack of snazzy mushrooms. The tart apples cut the richness of the grain and added a lovely, autumnal, fruity flavor. Swap out sausage for mushrooms and my grandmother would have applauded my recipe. But with or without the pork, it beats the heck out of soup. 

Baked Apples With Barley-Chorizo Pilaf 

Time: About 1 1/2 hours 

1 tablespoon olive oil 

3/4 pound chorizo, diced 

1/2 yellow onion, finely chopped 

3/4 cup barley 

1 2/3 cups chicken broth, more as needed 

Pinch kosher salt 

3/4 cup shelled, chopped and toasted hazelnuts 

4 tart, crisp apples, like Granny Smiths 

1. In a medium pot, heat oil over medium heat. Add chorizo and onion and cook, stirring, until onion is translucent, about 5 minutes. Add barley and stir to coat with oil. Cook, stirring, until barley smells nutty, about 2 minutes. Stir in broth and salt. Bring to a boil; reduce to a simmer and cook until barley is tender and most of the liquid has evaporated, 40 to 50 minutes. Stir in hazelnuts. 

2. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Prick apples with fork in several places (this will prevent them from bursting while baking). Halve apples lengthwise and cut out core with a paring knife or grapefruit spoon. 

3. Place apples, cut side up, in an 11-by 7-inch baking dish. Pour 1/4 inch water in bottom of pan. Mound barley mixture on apples. Cover with foil and transfer to oven to bake until apples are fork tender, about 45 minutes.  

Yield: 4 to 8 servings.

A GOOD APPETITE; Snail Butter, Please Hold the Snails

By MELISSA CLARK 

Published: July 16, 2008 

WHEN I was growing up, my parents were so obsessed with eating snails à la bourguignonne that one summer while vacationing in Burgundy, they paid my sister and me 5 centimes a snail to collect them from the garden of the little house we were staying in. We placed them in a bucket and secured them with a screen top. The grown-ups then starved and purged the gastropods before cooking them a few days later -- drowned in garlic parsley snail butter, of course. As much as my sister and I hated the idea of the poor critters starving to death on our patio, we did relish dipping nuggets of crusty baguette into the molten, garlicky, green-flecked snail butter, which we vastly preferred to the chewy snail bodies themselves. 

Years later, I feel the same, and am convinced that the only reason to order snails à la bourguignonne is to sop up the butter surrounding them, then unload the snails on your tablemates, selling them as delicacies. After years of doing just this, it occurred to me that maybe I should give up ordering snails entirely and just make the butter at home. 

It comprises butter, garlic, parsley and shallots, and it's a simple matter to mash everything up in the food processor and then slather it over anything that stands still. I've smeared snail butter on bread; radishes; grilled steak, where it dribbles delectably down the sides; sautéed shrimp; broiled mushrooms; even crispy fried tofu, which sounds odd until you taste it. Given this predilection, it's no surprise that recently, after picking up squid at the fish store, I decided to buy ingredients for snail butter, too. After all, with a chewy-tender texture and relatively bland flavor, squid remind me of the snails of the sea, but with a saline rather than earthy taste. 

Although I could have sautéed the squid directly in the butter as I do with shrimp, the weather was balmy and I was in the mood to grill. While the grill heated, I made the snail butter, combining garlic, shallot, lots of parsley and butter in the food processor. But because I hadn't softened the butter enough, the mixture remained in chunks instead of melding. Remembering that many recipes also call for a few drops of liquid, like white wine, both for flavor and to help everything emulsify, I decided to dribble in some Pernod from the bottle that lives on our counter in summer, waiting for the aperitif hour. It added a full, licorice note that was perfect with the green flavor of the parsley. Butter completed, I debated melting some and tossing it with the squid before grilling, to keep their floppy bodies from sticking to the grate. But fearing a grease fire, I ended up tossing the squid with just a touch of olive oil. When both the bodies and tentacles were lightly golden in spots, I added them to a bowl with a dollop of pea-green snail butter. 

Expecting garlicky squid nirvana, I popped a mound of purple tentacles into my mouth. Strangely, instead of packing the garlic-and-herb wallop I expected, the flavors were weak, even though the snail butter tasted perfectly spunky when I spread it on grilled bread. I added another spoonful of butter to the squid anyway, hoping more would help. It didn't. Neither did more salt nor another splash of Pernod. By this time, the squid were doused in enough snail butter to leave a pool at the bottom of the bowl, which even to me seemed unnecessarily decadent. 

As I licked my fingers, I thought about another of my favorite pungent parsley and garlic combinations: gremolata. Sprinkled raw on top of osso buco, it gives a jolt of piquancy to the rich and fatty meat. If I chopped up more garlic, parsley and shallot, and sprinkled that on top of the squid, would it help focus and intensify all the fleeting nuances? Eureka, it did, complementing the ocean flavor of the squid and underscoring the butter itself. My husband and I gobbled every last tentacle, then sopped up the butter in the bottom of the bowl. It was better than snails, even without the 5 centimes cash back. 

Grilled Squid With Snail Butter 

Time: 20 minutes 

1/4 cup packed parsley leaves 

4 garlic cloves, sliced 

2 tablespoons pastis, like Pernod 

2 teaspoons chopped shallots (optional) 

3/4 teaspoon kosher or coarse sea salt, more to taste 

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 

1/4 pound (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened 

2 pounds cleaned squid 

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil 

4 large slices crusty country bread 

1. Preheat or light grill. In a food processor, combine parsley, garlic, pastis, shallots if using, salt and pepper; pulse until minced. Remove half the mixture and reserve for garnish. 

2. Add softened butter to food processor and pulse until mixture is smooth and tinged with green. (You can make butter a few days ahead and store it in refrigerator.) 

3. Rinse squid with cold water and pat dry with a paper towel. Cut squid bodies lengthwise to make flat pieces. If using tentacles, leave whole. Season squid with a large pinch of salt. Toss in olive oil. 

4. Grill squid over high heat, turning once, until just opaque, about 2 to 3 minutes for bodies, 3 to 4 for tentacles. Spread some snail butter on thick slices of bread and grill along with squid. While squid is still hot from grill, toss it with a generous lump of snail butter and another fat pinch of salt. Sprinkle squid with reserved parsley-garlic garnish and serve, accompanied by the hot grilled bread. 

Yield: 4 servings.

A GOOD APPETITE; Third Time's the Charm, Valentine

By MELISSA CLARK 

Published: February 11, 2009 

 A FEW years ago, I asked my husband, Daniel, what sweet treat I could make for him on Valentine's Day. Anything you crave, I promised -- chocolate tortes, chocolate truffles, raspberry tarts, nut-filled heart-shaped cookies with powdered sugar. ''What I'd really like,'' he said, ''is hot chocolate.'' That seemed like a simple request. But Daniel can't eat cream. Or milk. Or soy milk, rice milk or nut milk, for that matter. Making a really good hot chocolate without any of these wasn't, at least to me, an obvious maneuver. 

My first thought was to skip the dairy and use water. I'd often read that in pre-Columbian Mesoamerica, chocolate was consumed primarily as a frothy water-based beverage thickened with grains and sweetened with honey. Milk is a relatively recent, European addition. To find a recipe with some measure of authenticity, I turned to Maricel Presilla's fascinating book ''The New Taste of Chocolate: A Cultural and Natural History of Cacao With Recipes'' (Ten Speed Press, 2001). There were several dairyless hot chocolate concoctions, rich with spices like anise and cinnamon, even dried rosebuds. But all of them also called for obscure ingredients -- whole cacao beans and a toasted corn flour called pinole, for example. And I didn't have time to track them down before V-Day. 

Then I remembered a sophisticated creamless version I learned from a French chocolatier. Milk, he sneered, murders the finer nuances of premium quality chocolate. I didn't necessarily agree. But since I didn't have a better idea, I followed his instructions, mixing cocoa powder and sugar with boiling water, then stirring in chopped 70 percent cocoa-mass chocolate until it melted. This hot chocolate was dark and concentrated, with a pronounced bitter edge. It was so intense that I served it in espresso cups. Daniel sipped his tiny portion. It was good, in an austere, highly adult way. But it wasn't the luscious hot chocolate of his dreams. 

The following year, I tried again, whisking egg yolks into the water and cocoa. But I added too many and ended up with pudding. Any normal person might have given up. But with Valentine's Day rounding the corner again, I wanted to give it one more go. 

Thinking back to those pre-Columbian recipes, I picked up Ms. Presilla's book. While flipping through the pages, I spotted a recipe for chocolate-coconut soup made with coconut milk. Coconut milk! It's creamy yet dairy free, easy to find. And, as any Mounds-bar lover will attest, coconut is a fantastic match with chocolate. 

I mixed up a batch that night, using the sneering chocolatier's recipe but substituting coconut milk for some of the water. Fudgy, decadent, slightly bitter from the cocoa and very, very creamy, it was a cup of hot chocolate good enough to serve to my lactose-free Valentine. And that's really saying something. 

Coconut Hot Chocolate 

Time: 20 minutes 

For the chocolate: 

2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder 

1 15-ounce can coconut milk 

1/4 cup dark brown sugar 

Pinch kosher salt 

1 ounce bittersweet chocolate, chopped (about 1/4 cup) 

1 teaspoon vanilla extract. 

For the meringue (optional): 

1 large egg white 

3 tablespoons superfine sugar 

1. Whisk cocoa into 1/3 cup boiling water. 

2. In a saucepan, combine coconut milk, brown sugar and salt. Simmer, stirring, until sugar is dissolved, about 2 minutes. Whisk in hot cocoa and chocolate until smooth. Stir in vanilla. 

3. In bowl of an electric mixer, beat egg white on medium speed until it begins to foam, about 1 minute. Add superfine sugar tablespoon by tablespoon as mixer is running. Beat until egg white stiffens to soft peaks and is shiny, 5 minutes. Dollop onto cups of hot chocolate. 

Yield: 2 servings 

Coconut Hot Chocolate 

Time: 20 minutes 

For the chocolate: 

2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder 

1 15-ounce can coconut milk 

1/4 cup dark brown sugar 

Pinch kosher salt 

1 ounce bittersweet chocolate, chopped (about 1/4 cup) 

1 teaspoon vanilla extract 

For the meringue (optional): 

1 large egg white 

3 tablespoons superfine sugar 

1. Whisk cocoa into 1/3 cup boiling water. 

2. In a saucepan, combine coconut milk, brown sugar and salt. Simmer, stirring, until sugar is dissolved, about 2 minutes. Whisk in hot cocoa and chocolate until smooth. Stir in vanilla. 

3. In bowl of an electric mixer, beat egg white on medium speed until it begins to foam, about 1 minute. Add superfine sugar tablespoon by tablespoon as mixer is running. Beat until egg white stiffens to soft peaks and is shiny, 5 minutes. Dollop onto cups of hot chocolate. 

Yield: 2 servings.

THE GOOD APPETITE; Silky, Sweet and Tart, a Triple Threat

FOR cooks of a lemon-loving persuasion, a puckery citrus curd is the culinary analogue of a chocolate fanatic's fudgy ganache. A cousin of lemon custard but without the milk or cream, lemon curd is a go-to topping, filling, sauce and eat-off-the-spoon treat. It's a mainstay of the pastry cook's repertory, yet subject to countless variations. And so it was one afternoon that in front of me on the counter sat three bowls of curd in glossy pastels: yolk-yellow lemon; pale, coral-tinged blood orange; and a grass-green-speckled lime, showered with zest. 

My aim was to dollop them into miniature butter-crusted tart shells and arrange them on a platter in a gorgeous springtime mosaic. It was all looking perfectly grand. And then I tasted them. Only the lemon was just right, a restrained balance between acid and sugar. The lime was sour pickle-astringent. The blood orange was cloying and insipid. And my guests were on their way. 

Figuring that things couldn't get any worse and that there was always ice cream in the freezer as a backup, I blithely overturned one bowl of curd into the next and stirred all three together. It was a classic eureka moment. The lime and blood orange atoned for each other's sins, and the lemon rounded out the rough edges and brought everything together. It was deeply tart but not enough to make one squint, fresh and buoyant on the palate, and just sweet enough. 

To my mind, my three-citrus curd tasted better than any of those flavors alone, and it also came out an appealing salmon color. The next time I made citrus curd, I mixed together all the juices and zests ahead of time rather than making three separate curds, and that worked well, too. I made a batch, ate most of it directly from the bowl, and then made it again. And again. I was becoming quite curd-addicted, and adept. I discovered that the trick to making a perfectly smooth lemon curd, despite the name, is to keep the eggs from curdling. 

Curdling is desirable in cheesemaking but in a lemon curd (made from sugar, lemon and eggs) it gives you nasty, hard bits if the eggs cook too fast and hot. Patience is the answer. Stir thoroughly (getting into the edges of the pot) and consistently, but not too vigorously, using a wooden spoon. Energetic stirring or whisking creates air bubbles, which can interfere with a silky smooth result. It can also slow down the process. And while low heat and a pot with a heavy bottom are essential, using a double boiler is probably overkill, as long as you are vigilant about the stirring. One thing I've learned is that even if the curd develops a few tiny lumps, all is not lost. Just quickly strain it through a fine mesh sieve. If, however, the content of your pot starts to look more like scrambled eggs than pudding, dump it and start over. 

As my curd-making skills improved, so did my mania for experimentation. I found recipes for rhubarb and cranberry curds (in Mitchell Davis's authoritative ''Kitchen Sense,'' Clarkson Potter, 2006) and even red currant, kaffir lime, passion fruit and raspberry curds. All were excellent, but I -- as a person who thinks that when life gives you lemons you've hit the jackpot -- found that the citrus was still my favorite. 

Still, there is one elusive curd flavor I'd seen in jars in British specialty shops that I was dying to master: ginger curd. I wasn't able to track down a recipe, but I did find citrus curds flavored with ginger. As good as that sounded, it wasn't what I was looking for. I wanted to create a curd with a sparkly, clean ginger taste unto itself that did not battle citrus for attention. My first few attempts were failures. My strategy was to make a potent ginger ''tea'' by infusing grated root into water, and use that in place of citrus juice. But it never quite worked. I then tried grating the ginger root directly into the finished egg curd, but the ginger bits skidded abrasively on my tongue. Finally, a friend suggested I stir ginger juice into the curd at the end, which would give it a potent kick without the grit. It worked, and lent the curd an intense, spicy ginger flavor that would make even the most diehard lemon fan happily pucker up. 

Three-Citrus Curd 

Time: 40 minutes plus at least 4 hours' chilling 

2 blood oranges 

1 lemon 

1 lime 

3 egg yolks 

2 whole eggs 

1/2 cup sugar 

Pinch of salt 

4 tablespoons butter, at room temperature, cut into cubes 

1. Grate zest from one orange, the lemon and the lime. Set aside. Squeeze juice from all citrus into a sieve set over a bowl. Press on solids to extract all juice. 

2. In a bowl, whisk together the yolks and whole eggs with sugar and salt. Whisk in strained juice. 

3. Transfer mixture to a heavy saucepan and set over very low heat. Add butter. Using a wooden spoon, stir curd constantly, making sure to reach edges around side of pan. Cook, stirring constantly, until mixture has thickened enough to mound when dropped from spoon, 10 to 15 minutes. If mixture starts to curdle, immediately take pot off heat and stir vigorously. If mixture does not thicken, raise heat very slightly and stir vigilantly. 

4. Strain curd through a fine sieve into a bowl. Stir in zest. Cover top of curd directly with plastic wrap so a skin will not form. Chill until quite cold and thick, at least 4 hours. 

Yield: 1 1/4 cups 

Ginger Curd Variation: Grate a 4-inch piece of ginger root as finely as possible and, using your fingers, press pulp down into a sieve set over a bowl to obtain juice. You should have 3 tablespoons; yield will vary depending upon how fresh ginger is. Cook eggs, sugar, salt and butter into a curd as directed in the recipe above. After straining, stir in as much of the ginger juice as you like. Cover and chill as above. This yields a scant cup.