Bittersweet marmalade mingles with orange-­flavored liqueur in this classic British dessert from Lynne Mallinson, who ran a company called Country Puddings in Cumbria, England. The moist individual puddings have a buttery but light and spongy texture, and they come out with a glistening layer of marmalade on top. For easy removal, keep them covered in the steamer with the heat turned off until ready to serve.

Featured in “In England, Pudding is the Definition of Dessert” by Carla Capalbo.

The post Steamed Marmalade Pudding With Toffee Sauce appeared first on Saveur.

In Russia, where Christmas was banned in 1928 during Bolshevik rule and not reinstated until 1991, New Year’s Eve has long been the biggest celebration of the year. Russians put up decorative trees and prepare opulent feasts. And a towering Napoleon cake, often home-baked, is the highlight of the evening.

In 1912, periodicals de­scribed a new pastry being prepared to celebrate the 100-year anniversary of Napoleon’s defeat. Inspired by the French mille-feuille, the single-serving triangles were filled with vanilla pastry cream and shaped to resemble the defeated emperor’s hat. The name stuck, but the cake has changed alongside Russia’s politics and economy.

After the 1917 revolution, for example, elaborate desserts were branded “bourgeois,” and food shortages forced home cooks to adjust their recipes. Margarine replaced butter, rendering the previously delicate pastry layers hard, and eggs disappeared from the once-rich custard. But the Communists adapted after the end of World War II. “Cake was proclaimed a mass-market phenomenon,” says food historian Pavel Syutkin, co-author of the CCCP Cook Book, “a symbol of Soviet luxury which must be available to all.”

In Russia’s latest oligarchic era, the Napoleon is typically a tower of thin layers of pastry, at least eight tiers high and sometimes more than 20. Chefs have their own variations, like Anton Prokofiev from Gusyatnikoff restaurant in Moscow, who adds splashes of cognac and apple cider vinegar to punch up his dough, and tops the slices with crumbled pastry, fresh berries, and mint. Chef Evgenia Zherebtzova in St. Petersburg still uses margarine, and a coating of powdered sugar. But mostly Russians still bake Napoleons at home using old family recipes. For many, it’s the taste of celebration, sometimes one long-awaited.

The post A Russian New Year’s Eve Party Isn’t Complete Without a Napoleon Cake appeared first on Saveur.

Our family braces for impact in the open rear compartment of a four by four pickup truck that has gone airborne off a sand dune. In Wadi Rum, a Unesco World Heritage Site located in southern Jordan, the sky is a perfect shade of blue punctuated with spectacular pinkish brown sandstone spires and pinnacles. The tires grip a desert floor dotted with white saxaul, small trees Jordanians call ghaḍā, the branches of which will soon infuse our clothes and food with their smoky fragrance.

With both hands on the truck’s safety rails, Kyra, 12, and Ethan, 9, stand with their feet planted apart the way ghaḍā’s roots grow to stabilize in the sand. My husband is seated on one bench, shielding Logan, 1, and Riley, 4, from the sun with the drape of his red and white-checkered hattah, while I shoot photographs from the opposite bench.

Nearly 600 million years of earth’s history is stratified in Wadi Rum’s rocks, petroglyphs, fossils, and wildlife. Here, you will also find black and white goat hair tents perched on top of mountainsides for a few months in spring or summer, evidence of less than ten percent of Jordan’s population still living as nomadic Bedouins. Most Jordanians claim a Bedouin ancestry even though they are settled into urban homes where education, electricity, health care and water are easier to access. Later that day, we will ride the camels they herd, milk their goats, and sleep under the stars, but first Ra’ed Suleiman, the head guide in Jordan for Rahhalah Explorers thought a cooking playdate would offer the kids a chance to experience Bedouin virtues like honesty, generosity and hospitality.

Abu Yousef has two wives and 13 children. Tall and thin, dressed neatly in a hand-tailored burgundy silk thawb, Yousef explained in his language a few days earlier when I visited as a media delegate of the Adventure Travel Trade Association and Jordan Tourism Board that he wants to create a special bond with people around the world. He wants you to feel that you are welcome and to enjoy his traditions and learn why he loves his simple life.

On my first day in Wadi Rum, I left my cell phone in a store. I thought for sure it was gone, but Yousef made a few calls with his cell and about an hour later, someone delivered it to his camp. I wanted my children to see Bedouin virtues like this in practice and how other kids are raised in other parts of the world. I wanted them to understand how preparing food or sharing a meal is an expression of friendship or love, so important that a family will spend beyond their means to host strangers.

Influenced by Lebanon, Syria, Palestine, and Egypt, Jordanian food—besides the usual Mediterranean mezze like hummous, baba ghanoush (called mutabbah in Jordan and made with tahini and garlic), falafel, and greens—is all about labor-intensive dishes like their national dish mansaf, a Bedouin feast in which a whole lamb is stewed then served on rice and shrak (a flatbread that evolved 200 years ago under the reign of the Ottoman Empire). Sometimes the dish is topped with the sheep’s head and the eyeballs and tongue are offered to the guest as an honor.

When we arrive at Yousef’s camp, ghaḍā is smoking from three fire pits. Yousef’s sons tend to two large ones unsheltered by the tent. The third is sectioned off beneath a lean-to tent for Yousef’s wives and daughters. Suleiman explains Bedouin etiquette, warning my husband that he is not allowed to look at Yousef’s wives and daughters or enter their side of the tent. None of us are allowed to photograph them.

Yousef’s youngest son and daughter are around the same age as Logan and Riley. They peek at us shyly, digging their bare toes into the sand. Logan and Riley break the ice by immediately taking off their shoes, grabbing their hands, and giggling. While Suleiman teaches my husband and Ethan how to marinate lamb chops, roll kafta around skewers, and how to make mutabbah, Kyra and I join Yousef’s wives, who are dressed in long black dresses called madraga. Their heads are covered by a usaba so that we can only see their eyes, which are kind-looking and bright. Since they do not speak English, they beckon for us to join them by their fire pit and learn how to make shrak.

Beside them upon a rug, there is a metal pan of the liquid dough and a white tarp with rounds of kneaded dough. We each grab one and begin to toss the dough back and forth against the palms of our hands. Stretching shrak is not as easy as it looks. Kyra and I both tear ours and are unable to form a circular sheet to brown upon the saj, an iron dome shaped like an upside-down wok, which is placed over the firepit.

When we finally sit down to eat the meal we’ve prepared, the shrak that Yousef’s wives made tastes more crunchy and chewy than the ones baked in the cities. Suleiman explains that Bedouin shrak is only “made of water, wheat, and salt. The Bedouins dilute the mixture and knead it to a diameter of about three feet so there is always enough for the whole family to eat.” Suleiman adjusts his black pinstriped fedora hat. “Your favorite food is pizza, yes?” he asks Ethan. Now, he has my son’s full attention.

“What country created pizza? It will shock you.”

“Italy?” Ethan replies.

“India,” Suleiman laughs. “Like shrak, pizza is also a poor man’s food. Did you know that bread is a symbol of blessing? If you don’t have bread, what happens?”

Kyra responds, “You buy more.”

Suleiman shakes his head. “You go hungry. That’s why bread is a symbol of wealth.” He tells them about a Bedouin tradition where the liquid form of shrak plays an important role in weddings. The groom’s mom dips her hands in the dough and smears it on the front door step before the bride enters.

After we are full, Suleiman asks Ethan and Kyra to help him find a shrub called ‘ajram or jointed anabis. He shows them what part of the plant to pick and crush with a rock. He places a pinch of the pulp into their hands and adds some water. “It actually has antimicrobial properties. Camels eat it to clean out their insides.” My kids are delighted to see it foam like soap.

Their hands now clean, the four of them learn how to shear and milk a goat. Yousef’s kids discourage mine from drinking the milk fresh. They are worried the milk would upset their stomachs which have never digested anything straight and fresh from an animal. Holding the cup tightly in her hands, Kyra takes a sip anyway. She blinks a few times, each time her pupils seem to dilate as she understands something that she never understood before.

The post What It’s Like to Break Bread in the Desert appeared first on Saveur.

Stuffing these petite birds with winter herbs creates an aromatic steam that flavors the meat as it cooks. A second round of roasting and a layer of sauce leaves them juicy and sweet.

Featured in “Salt Baking is the Key to Juicier Birds, Meats, and Seafood.”

The post Salt-Baked Shrimp With Caper Sofrito appeared first on Saveur.

Panettone is a peculiar holiday tradition. Beloved by some, it’s written off by others for the grocery-store versions that are so often cloying and dense and filled with artificially dyed fruits. And yet a properly made panettone can transcend its middling reputation. While some of the best breads rarely leave their remote Italian villages, these six stellar producers have made their loaves available to an international audience.

1. Rustichella d’Abruzzo
Made by one of Italy’s best-regarded gourmet food brands, these hand-wrapped panettoni come in several different flavors, including classic citrus and raisin, dried fig and chocolate, saffron and Sicilian orange, and black cherry.

2. Manresa Bread
From California–based baker Avery Ruzicka, this naturally-leavened panettone is filled with hazelnut praline and dark Valhrona chocolate. There’s a minimum order for shipping, but you’ll be glad for the excuse to add a family-size kouign amann or a chocolate walnut babka to your basket.

3. Nudo
Based in Le Marche, Italy, Nudo uses its own local first-cold-pressed olive oil instead of the traditional butter in their panettone. (You can “adopt” one of the olive trees in the company’s grove, helping to support the region’s small-scale farmers).

4. Biasetto
In Padua, Italy, baker Luigi Biasetto makes panettone in the old-fashioned Milanese style, and with ingredients he sources himself, including honey from the Alps, and organic local eggs. They are available in America through the Italian importer Gustiamo.

5. Sant Ambroeus
Baked by a New York–based café with roots in Milan, this panettone might be colossal, but it’s still light, tender, and only subtly sweet. It features a classic filling of candied citrus and raisins, and arrives decorated in the brand’s colorful wrapping paper.

6. From Roy
Inside elegant, understated packaging is a pillowy bread swirled with bittersweet chocolate and scented with fresh orange zest. San Francisco baker Roy Shvartzapel spent years mastering his panettone, and it shows.

The post 6 Mail-Order Panettone Actually Worth Eating appeared first on Saveur.

Down six winding flights of stairs, across the street, and onto rue Faidherbe, the quartier’s main thoroughfare—with its poppy-themed florist, organic and biodynamic market, local post office, and neighborhood record shop—I take a quick left on the narrow, cobblestoned rue du Dahomey and another onto rue Saint-Bernard. I could do the four-minute walk in this far east section of the 11th arrondissement—my home for the past two years—with my eyes closed and still land precisely on the chocolate-meets-caramelizing-onions-scented doorstop of 5 rue Saint-Bernard. It’s 8:30 a.m., and the gate in front of the seafoam green facade of Mokonuts is only halfway lifted, but that doesn’t stop passersby from ducking under it to see about some coffee or a cookie. This 24-seat local favorite calls itself a “café and bakery” on its sign, but it is so much more than that. Almost immediately, I’m welcomed by a familiar call: “Hiieeeee, Sara.”

Run by husband-and-wife team Moko Hirayama and Omar Koreitem, Mokonuts is the quirkily named, out-of-the-way spot in Paris—ahead of even the established French bread bakeries like Du Pain et Des Idées or praised macaron meccas like Pierre Hermé— where I tell everyone who visits the city to go. “But don’t be picky,” I encourage them. The menu, influenced by Middle Eastern, French, and American cooking, is delicious, but it’s no steak frites joint, and the options are limited. “Oh, and make reservations for lunch.” The tiny, sunlit dining room does only one formal seating, from noon to 3 p.m. Monday through Friday. (Though rumor has it they might be opening for dinner soon.)

Moko and Omar are among Paris’ growing community of international chefs laying claim to the City of Light. Moko, 46, who was born in Japan and raised in the United States, was a labor negotiator before getting into the restaurant business 10 years ago. And Lebanon-born, France-raised Omar, 44, was a liaison for the Yankees who claims that, up until the year 2000, he “couldn’t even cook an egg.”

“It’s just because I had exposure,” says Moko, quick to come to Omar’s defense about his late-blooming kitchen skills. She grew up in San Francisco with a mother whose passion was French pastry, and Moko was, therefore, “making cream puffs at, like, 10.” Today, her crispy-on-the-outside, doughy-on-the-inside cookies, hand-rolled with deeply flavorful ingredients such as Italian hazelnuts or 70 percent German dark chocolate, are gaining a reputation for being the best in town, while Omar’s savory dishes—like creamy labneh whipped with minerally, fruity olive oil from Puglia and sprinkled with za’atar—cause even the French to put down their utensils and clean the bowl with their fingers.

“Filter?” Moko asks, motioning to the drip-coffee machine—a rarity in the city’s classic sidewalk cafés. Typically, she will have the coffee brewed before I get there, but because it’s still early, she flips the switch as soon as I give her the go-ahead. My stomach is growling, too, but a lack of urgency is perhaps the place’s only typically Parisian element—one I remember every time I come in under-caffeinated or very hungry. While it’s usually quiet this early on a weekday—there are generally a few people parked behind a laptop, a business meeting or two taking place, and, increasingly, a table of tourists photographing their egg on a sourdough waffle—today, Moko is furiously frothing noisettes and mixing batter, while Omar is preparing his mise en place. I feel bad about interrupting them, but I eye someone eating what looks like a bowl of granola with yogurt and point it out to Moko across the room.

“What’s that?” I ask in English. While they both speak fluent French, my native tongue is spoken widely at Mokonuts.

“Oooh. You’ve never had it? Hold on,” she says, pulling down plastic containers from shelves and mason jars from cabinets.

And so I hold on, for a while, and when it comes, it’s heaven in a raw, misshapen ceramic bowl (by local potter Judith Lasry, who is known for that deliberately unfinished style). The homemade yogurt is not too sour and not too sweet, and it’s topped with handfuls of Moko’s so-called freestyle granola that “changes based on ingredient availability and mood,” she says. The crunch I get today comes from toasted oats, glossy hazelnuts, and sunflower seeds, held together by rice syrup and melted brown sugar. She has topped it with chopped segments of tart, refreshing grapefruit, and torn pieces of fresh mint.

“The idea was that there was no idea,” says Omar of opening their first collaboration as a couple, in 2015. “That’s the thing. We had no concept in mind. We knew Moko made good cookies, and we thought we’d do some sandwiches and serve good coffee.” Fifteen years prior, Moko still had her nose in law books when Omar began spending hours at bookshops drooling over classic cooking tomes. “I’ve always loved to eat,” Omar says. “I grew up in a Lebanese family where food was always very important. But it was really books, especially Thomas Keller’s French Laundry Cookbook, that gave me the desire to just drop everything and learn to cook.”

After a traditional culinary-school experience back in New York, where the couple met, Omar landed at the canapé station at Daniel. Moko’s company transferred her to London, and Omar followed shortly after, eventually finding himself on the line at the Gordon Ramsay Group’s Savoy Grill.

It was not long before Moko wanted in on the pots-and-pans action. Ladurée had just opened inside Harrods, so she called them up and asked if she could come in as an unpaid apprentice on weekends. The couple soon found themselves wearing aprons until the wee hours, but Moko was reluctantly still in a suit while the sun shone. Convinced the only place to legitimately bake was Paris, in 2008, Moko quit law and the pair moved back to Omar’s hometown. (“Moko, you’re nuts!” her colleagues told her, and thus, the name of their future café was born.)

After weeks of trying to talk pastry chefs into taking her on without any formal training, Blé Sucré’s Fabrice Le Bourdat (formerly of the luxurious restaurant at the Hôtel Le Bristol, now baker of the city’s fluffiest, sugar-glazed madeleines) gave her a shot as an unpaid intern. “He said, ‘If you want to come in and work at four in the morning for free, sure!’” says Moko, laughing. Folding temperature-­controlled dough over and over again to make croissants wasn’t for her, though, so she decided to try restaurant pastry instead, and went to apprentice at Alain Senderens’ two-Michelin-starred Lucas Carton.

“You still had to follow traditional protocol,” she says. “We were allowed to propose things, but my ideas were always too weird. Out of the norm. ‘Nobody is going to eat that,’ they’d say. Then I went to Yam’Tcha, and that was like, ‘Wow.’”

She’s speaking of Chef’s Table France personality Adeline Grattard’s Michelin-​starred restaurant in the 1st arrondissement, which she walked into with the intention of asking for a job. Grattard’s concoctions often mingle contradictory flavors, like an airy Chinese bun filled with Stilton and Amarena cherry, and Moko felt that the two of them spoke the same language. “She plays around with herbs and spices in her desserts, and our sweet levels were in sync,” Moko says. Grattard created a position for her, and while it didn’t last long (Moko became pregnant), much of Moko’s baking philosophy stems from her time there. “I do not like sweet pastry crust, or pâte sucrée,” which is almost always present in Parisian pastry-shop tarts,” says Moko. “I like desserts to accentuate the sweetness of natural fruits, so I try to accomplish that by using honey or light fruit jam.” While the rotating confections on display at Mokonuts can’t rival traditional patisseries when it comes to quantity—this is not where you come to grab a dozen cookies for a picnic at Place des Vosges or a whole tarte to take to a soirée at a friend’s apartment—the individual slices of moist halvah cake with bits of cinnamon-coated pecans, or a fresh fig tarte oozing with sugary juices and topped with light-as-air mascarpone cream might make you think twice about popping yet another macaron. Wooden crates filled with just-received fresh produce—yellow heirloom tomatoes, shiny violet eggplants, leafy “chou” kale—are stacked on top of each other like Jenga pieces, making the passageway between the dining room and kitchen (not to mention the closet-size bathroom) a tad tight. What Omar isn’t using generally remains there in boxes, acting as decor. Bottles of natural wine are lined up along a plant-scattered shelf against the white, exposed brick wall. Edison bulbs hang over the wooden tables for two. By the time Omar gets in, Guillaume the fish guy—a built, black-bearded man who looks more like he belongs on the cover of GQ than in gaiters—has already let himself in to drop off today’s supply.

“You don’t know what you’re going to get until the day before, because whatever he catches, he catches,” Omar tells me, as he carefully cleans live scallops. These were sourced from another purveyor, a fisherman named Laurent, from Northern Brittany, “who scuba-dives to pick them by hand.”

“When we get them, they are barely out of the water 24 hours,” says Omar, placing the shells aside to reuse for plating. He’ll do little else to the round, fleshy pearls but cut them into chunks, toss them with olive oil and flaky salt, and gently splash them with water. Then he’ll top them with clarified butter and a bergamot-scented sabayon that he vigorously whisks by hand for 20 to 25 minutes. “You have to stop it at the right point,” he says while spooning the bubbly sauce onto the glossy shellfish. “Not cooked enough, and it will fall and separate; too cooked, and you get scrambled eggs.”

This near-perfect execution of a creative scallop tartare is a far cry from classic café fare. At barely two weeks old, Mokonuts evolved into a full-fledged, reservations-required restaurant where, contrary to the formulaic Michelin-starred spots he worked at prior, Omar now prefers to make things up as he goes. And since he prioritizes sourcing his ingredients straight from local French farmers, he has little choice. Aside from the seasonality aspect—cepes in September, asparagus in April—he must contend with his neighbors’ selections, too.

“This guy Vincent from Chablis in Burgundy, who supplies some of our vegetables, comes to Paris only on Wednesdays,” explains Omar. “I do my shopping from his truck outside the restaurant and then he moves on. Sometimes I’ll ask, ‘Do you have the same turnips you had last week? Because they were beautiful.’ And he’ll be like, ‘Sorry, Giovanni [Passerini, chef at the eponymous Italian restaurant on nearby rue Traversiere] took everything.’ It happens a lot.”

There are only a handful of chefs and restaurants in Paris that function this way, according to Omar. “Bertrand [Grébaut of nearby restaurant Septime] and Taku [Dersou of Dersou] are two more,” he says, “and coincidentally most of these are located in the onzième [11th arrondissement].” It’s a friendly, close-knit chef crew who are all a part of a community WhatsApp group. “We work with the same produce because we demand high quality and high standards, but at the end, what shows up on the plate is completely different.”

During the lunch rush, when Moko acts as server, sommelier, and hostess—complete with her own hand-drawn seating chart—the menu generally features a choice of three appetizers (and always the za’atar-sprinkled labneh), two mains (maybe a pan-cooked Guinea fowl with crispy skin served with apples and cabbage, or flaky but moist line-caught hake topped with anchovy-based salsa verde). And, of course, there’s a choice of sweet seasonal treats, which might include anything from a rhubarb galette with buckwheat crust to a strawberry tarte with mascarpone and black pepper cream. I often recommend at least one cookie—if not to have with a cup of Moko’s weekly-steeped hibiscus tea, made from dehydrated flowers that she picked up in Puebla Mexico, then to indulge in later after, say, arriving back up those six flights of stairs.

Following goûter—French for afternoon snack time, when much of the country stops for a sweet—the 80 or 90 cookies Moko bakes twice daily, in varying types from miso and sesame to black olive and white chocolate, are usually all gone. But just before she rolls up her sleeves and starts shaping tomorrow’s batch, she realizes the time: Their daughters, Aly, 4, and Mia, 7, need to be picked up from school around the block, which Moko zips out the door to do with flour-coated hands and her apron still on. Once back at the café, they settle in to color and watch videos while Mom and Dad prep for the next day—or, in some cases, that night, when Omar stays alone to cook for a private dinner party.

Moko is resolute about not having a nanny—“Why do I have to pay someone to raise our kids?” she asks—so the two keep the café closed on weekends and late nights. The girls have become a fixture for regulars, who they’ll often engage. Today, Mia is pointing out her sparkly new shoes.

“See you tomorrow?” Moko asks me, as Aly clings to her hip.

“Exactement,” I say. Because, really, they will.

Get The Recipes From Mokonuts

Labneh with Swiss Chard, Black Olives, and Za’atar

Pommes Tapées with Jalapeño Vinaigrette

Lamb-Stuffed Cabbage Rolls with Green Tahini

Waffle Sandwiches with Cecina, Avocado, and Arugula

Veal Tartare with Trout Roe, Capers, and Fiore Sardo Dressing

Double Chocolate and Candied-Ginger Cookies

The post Here’s Where to Eat Paris’ Best Cookies appeared first on Saveur.

On the edge of san pedro del pinatar, a fishing village in the Murcia region of Spain’s Mediterranean coast, a vast, irregular grid of salt flats juts out into the sea. Seawater floods them each spring, then evaporates each summer, when workers come to rake out the white- and pink-tinged crystals and pile them in glistening mounds to dry in the sun. These salt flats, or salinas, were created during the Roman Empire and have been in use ever since, providing sal to help season, conserve, and even bake—as is the case for one of Murcia’s most famous dishes, dorada a la sal. The region’s fatty, succulent sea bream, or dorada, is baked whole in a crust of extra-coarse salt, which hardens into a snug shell during baking, allowing the bream to steam entirely in its own juices. The result is a moist, flavorful fish with tender white flakes (and, no, it doesn’t taste too salty).

As I’ve learned during my time living and cooking in Spain, salt baking is widely adaptable and works wonders with whole shrimp and sardines, young chickens or Cornish hens, and even meaty or robust vegetables such as eggplant or onions. It adheres perfectly to the general theory of cooking along the Spanish coast, where the goal is to heighten, rather than disguise, the natural flavors of the freshest ingredients.

Whole Fish

Locals credit Spanish fishermen with the creation of this dish: During their days at sea, they’d place a whole fish on a marble slab, bury it in salt, and cook it over a small fire. It was simple and practical, and involved just two abundant and accessible ingredients.

Get the recipe for Salt-Baked Sea Bream with Allioli »

Poultry

Salt baking small fowl like Cornish hens, young chickens, or even duck legs helps to retain moisture and keep the meat succulent. A second salt-free bake provides a lacquered skin without the risk of drying out the meat.

Salt-Baked Cornish Game Hens with Shallots and Orange Sauce

Shellfish

Shellfish aren’t traditionally salt-baked in Spain, but the shells and heads make a natural protective barrier that prevents shrimp and lobster tails from absorbing too much salt.

Salt-Baked Shrimp with Caper Sofrito

Salt Baking Technique

Although the quantity of salt required might seem startling at first, rest assured you can tuck a whole meal’s worth of sides around your main course. Root vegetables like onions, shallots, or potatoes will roast down to a perfectly seasoned, no-fuss side dish as they bake. Scatter veggies—skins and all—around the centerpiece, leaving at least an inch between them, before burying it all beneath its blanket of salt.

Step 1: Mix the Salt

Step 2: Form the Salt Crust

Step 3: Bake

Step 4: Remove the Crust

The post Salt Baking is the Key to Juicier Birds, Meats, and Seafood appeared first on Saveur.

Stuffing these petite birds with winter herbs creates an aromatic steam that flavors the meat as it cooks. A second round of roasting and a layer of sauce leaves them juicy and sweet.

Featured in “Salt Baking is the Key to Juicier Birds, Meats, and Seafood.”

The post Salt-Baked Cornish Game Hens With Shallots and Orange Sauce appeared first on Saveur.

The most classic of the region’s a la sal (baked in salt) dishes is made with gilt-head bream, a silver fish with a distinguishing gold spot on its cheeks (dorada means “golden” in Spanish). Grouper, snapper, sea bass, or other varieties with a thick skin also work well; always use whole fish rather than fillets. Allioli is a traditional Catalonian garlic-and-oil sauce that is classically served with the resulting tender fillets. Although less traditional, blending in a raw egg helps thicken and emulsify the sauce for a richer consistency.

Featured in “Salt Baking is the Key to Juicier Birds, Meats, and Seafood.”

The post Salt-Baked Sea Bream With Allioli appeared first on Saveur.

“My favorite breakfast as a kid was labneh served with traditional Lebanese sesame sticks called ka’ek,” Omar says. “I loved to eat it drenched in olive oil.” Though it is not customary to mix the oil in, ”this is my touch simply because I love the flavor of olive oil and thick yogurt,” he explains. Serve this as part of a meal for 4, or as an appetizer for up to 8.

Featured in: Here’s Where to Eat Paris’ Best Cookies

What You Will Need

• Medium Serving Bowl
• Whisk
• Small Skillet

The post Labneh With Swiss Chard, Black Olives, and Za’atar appeared first on Saveur.

The delicate flavor of freshly ground veal is enhanced by a smoky, punchy dressing made from Italy’s pecorino fiore sardo and colatura, a fermented anchovy sauce. Buy the freshest high-quality veal and grind it yourself, or have your butcher do it for you.

Featured in: Here’s Where to Eat Paris’ Best Cookies

What You Will Need

• Small Saucepan
• Blender
• Medium Bowl
• Spatula
• 4 Small Plates

The post Veal Tartare With Trout Roe, Capers, and Fiore Sardo Dressing appeared first on Saveur.