Strawberry

Caligola, Caligula—the diminutive in the dialect of the Empire for shoe—was the name given to Caio Cesare, despot of the Empire in A.D. 37. And it was under the murky waters of the small volcanic lake of Nemi, south of Rome, that were excavated, earlier in this century, two of the emperor’s small sailing ships—toy boats, really—from which his madness commanded droll, demonic games played in the shadows of the lake forest, the once-sacred woods of Diana’s mythical hunts. Now the pine and oak forests about the little lake of Nemi seem serene enough, whispering up nothing of the old horrors of the place. There, in May, begin to push up from the velvety black earth the most gorgeous and tiny wild strawberries. We like to go there then, for the festivals that celebrate them, to eat them, cool and fresh from their woodsy patches. And on a Sunday last June, as the season for them was ending, we lunched in the town of Nemi, hoping to find one last dose of the berries for dessert. Sitting out on a shaded terrace that looked to the main square, we watched the promenading of the few citizens not yet seated at table. A little ruckus came up behind us from two boys jousting with silvered plastic swords. One of them was a robust sort of chap, thickset, his patrician black-eyed face in profile to us. His adversary was a waif of a boy, a miniature of the other with the same legacy of splendid form and feature. The small one was losing the battle. I tried not to feel every blow I saw him take, the bigger one thrusting the blunted end of the toy sword into his spare middle over and over again. The little one was crying, then, but hardly in surrender. His pain was evident, his fear, too, I thought, yet he stayed to fight. Then, throwing his weapon to the side, the victor began to use his hands to pummel him. The diners around were unmindful. I begged Fernando to do something, to stop them. He told me sternly with his eyes that we must do nothing. I got up and walked, nonchalantly, over to them. “Buon giorno, ragazzi. Come stiamo? Come vanno le cose?” “Hi, boys. How are you? How are things going?” I asked inanely, as though they had been shooting marbles. Gentlemen to the core, the bigger one said, “Buon giorno, signora. Noi stiamo bene, e lei?” “Good day, my lady. We are well, and you?” “What is your name?” I asked, playing for time so the little one might catch his breath. “Io sono Alessio e lui si chiama Giovannino.” “I am Alessio and he is called Giovannino,” offered the big one. I ventured further. “Alessio, did you know that you were hurting Giovannino, that you were hurting him so terribly?” “Sì, signora. Lo so di avergli fatto un pò male.” “Yes, my lady, I know I hurt him a bit,” he answered willingly. I asked him why he would want to be so violent with his little friend. Alessio looked at me full face: “Signora, siamo romani. Combattere è nel nostro sangue.” “We are Romans, my lady. To fight is in our blood.” Educated by the eight-year-old gladiator, I could only shake his hand, then shake the hand of Giovannino and walk back to our table. Fernando told me quietly that a Roman boy could never be Huckleberry Finn. During the lunch, I noticed that Alessio, now sitting on a bench between two people who were likely his grandparents, kept looking at me, waving once in a while, smiling at me with sympathy for my unworldliness. He strolled by the table a little later and asked if we were going to taste the gelato di fragole. It’s made with basil and pepper and vinegar, he proclaimed, as though that composition might be as difficult for me to comprehend as was his penchant for rough sport. He went on to assure us it was the best gelato in Nemi. We asked him if he might like to join us. He said he couldn’t, but thanked us, bowed rathe...

The stated purpose of my junior year abroad was to study at the famous London School of Economics, but the first thing I did when I got to England was land a part-time job at the Roux brothers’ (also famous) restaurant, Le Mazarin. Of all the challenges of living abroad, I never thought I’d have a problem finding something decent to eat. Boy, was I wrong. While the food we served guests at Le Mazarin was topnotch, staff meals were a different story. Stripped chicken carcasses, limp vegetable trimmings, and, if we were lucky, a box of just-add-water mashed-potato flakes were the components of just about every meal. The rest of London wasn’t offering many great options either at that time. Fish and chips and heavy pub fare dominated the food scene in the late eighties, before Britain’s culinary renaissance. The one thing I found worth eating (and could afford on the £10 a week my job paid) was scones with clotted cream and strawberries. And that’s exactly what I ate, for 6 straight months. After so many meals of strawberries and cream, it’s a wonder that I still love that combination. Panna cotta (“cooked cream”), a silken, eggless Italian custard, is an easy-to-make complement to perfectly ripe berries. I’ve added crème fraîche to the traditional recipe to balance the strawberries’ sweetness with some tang. You can make the panna cotta in individual ramekins and unmold them just before serving or make it in a large gratin dish and spoon it out at the table family-style.

Our wild strawberry cordial is actually somewhere between a fruit purée and a syrup. The idea was to create a high-octane strawberry flavor to blend in a French 75 cocktail (page 69). Much of the flavor comes from the wild strawberries we have imported frozen from France—they are tiny in size but big in flavor and vary from light yellow to deep red. You can use regular fresh strawberries, but make absolutely certain that they are ripe and fragrant.

According to David Wondrich, the Whiskey Smash comes from the Baroque Age (see opposite page) of the cocktail. Obviously, it served as inspiration for our seasonal Ginger Smash cocktails, but it is in all its features a julep—the only difference being that the Smash has some ornamental fruits for garnish and is always shaken so that the mint is “smashed”—hence the name. From all the smashes in the Baroque Age, it appears that the Brandy Smash was the most popular (same drink, different base spirit—try it out for yourself), but somehow the whiskey version stuck with us. Maybe sampling Dale DeGroff’s rocking peach whiskey smash sealed the deal for us, or maybe it was just that we loved the term “smashed.” In any case, this is a very simple drink to make, and we suggest that you use our homemade Mint Syrup in place of simple syrup for a far more dimensional cocktail experience. This cocktail is one of the very few that contains no juice but nevertheless should be shaken and smashed.

The Fraise Sauvage was inspired by the famous pre-Prohibition classic, the French 75 (page 70). The name itself is a play on words in French, meaning “wild strawberry.” This cocktail uses our EO homemade Wild Strawberry Cordial to create a cocktail in the classic style. We shake together Plymouth gin with fresh lemon juice, simple syrup, and strawberry cordial, then top it off with demi-sec champagne. For our first summer menu at Employees Only, we wanted to put on the list a cocktail that would be a crowd-pleaser. Fraise Sauvage is the EO equivalent of the ubiquitous Caprese salad. The flavors of gin, strawberry, and champagne are a timeless combination and showcase how simple flavors can become complex when combined. To make this cocktail without the strawberry cordial, simply muddle a whole fresh strawberry, then follow the rest of the directions.

In spring, I like to make my own syrup in lieu of maple syrup, which I prefer in the fall and winter. The first berries of the season, which aren’t very sweet, are transformed by the golden caramel that melts into the firm fruit.

This recipe comes straight from my home in Alsace. My mom didn’t always have time to make fresh pastry cream, so she combined homemade strawberry jam, which we kept on hand, with fraises des bois. Those tiny, wild, sweet strawberries pair perfectly with the almond and vanilla sablé dough.

Beverly Bennett, also known as the Vegan Chef (veganchef.com), is a talented and creative cook. A number of her desserts are the ones most requested by my sons. When strawberries are lush and ripe, this is an easy way to create a light and healthy dessert in a flash. Please use ripe, juicy strawberries for this; it just isn’t the same if they’re rock-hard and barely red. Make this before dinner, and it will be ready by the time you want dessert.

Every time I bite into a piece of Banana Cream Pie (page 109), I immediately start thinking about banana splits. Shortly after coming up with the cream pie recipe, it occurred to me that with the addition of just a few more ingredients, I could re-create a classic banana split, which includes bananas, strawberries, and pineapple, ensconced in a cream filling. With a Marshmallow Fluff Whipped Cream topping, a sprinkle of walnuts, and a drizzle of hot fudge sauce, Ultimate Banana Split Pie is as close as you can get to the real thing. For best results, make this pie the day you intend on serving it so that the bananas do not turn and the juices don’t break down the cream.

This is a unique pie because it’s not baked, thus allowing the strawberries to hold their shape and maintain their delicious fresh taste. With its combination of fresh strawberries, cream filling, and a strawberry glacé on top, this pie is perfect for a picnic or potluck gathering. Please note that the glacé part of this recipe should be made at least 4 hours (and up to 4 days) before the rest of the pie so that it has time to set.

Using only cake flour produces a cupcake that has a pure-white crumb.

If fresh lavender is not available, you can use another fresh herb, such as rosemary or thyme. Half of a vanilla bean also works well.

You can also make this recipe in a fourteen-by-four-inch rectangular tart pan with a removable bottom. Roll out the dough to a sixteen-by-six-inch rectangle before fitting it into the pan; bake with parchment and weights for fifteen minutes, then remove parchment and weights and bake for eight to nine minutes more.

The icy strawberry filling in this pie is pleasantly complemented by the luscious whipped cream. The pie tastes just like a margarita—the tequila flavor adds quite a zing. The recipe calls for freezing the whipped cream on top of the pie, but you can also freeze just the strawberry part and add the whipped cream when you serve the pie.

This filling, which has a pleasant tartness, bakes up like a firm custard. The pie is at its best when served slightly warm. If it’s been in the refrigerator, 20 seconds in the microwave is all it takes to warm up a slice for that just-baked sensation.

On Mother’s Day, 2008, Mrs. Rowe’s Country Buffet sold out of its fifty-six strawberry pies—it’s become such an integral part of the local tradition. You must use fresh berries for this pie. Frozen ones would make the pie too runny. For variety, you can use any kind of fresh berry; just make sure the berry and the flavor of gelatin complement one another.

This fruit-flavored buttercream is made using the same technique as Swiss meringue buttercream, so you can refer to the step-by-step photos on page 305 as you proceed.

It’s no secret that nearly everyone at Martha Stewart Living—especially Martha—loves meringue, and these billowy puffs, with their distinctive peaks and berries-and-cream filling, illustrate why. The cupcakes need to bake for about three hours, so plan accordingly. And avoid making meringues on a humid day, as they will never become crisp.

Chopped fresh strawberries are folded into the cupcake batter, and thin slices are added as a garnish for a pretty-in-pink treat. Strawberry buttercream (made with jam) ups the fruit-flavor ante, but sweetened whipped cream (page 316) is an easy and delicious alternative.