“Until the 1650s there wasn’t anything remotely like distinct, codified ‘national’ cooking, anywhere,” writes Anya von Bremzen in her new book, National Dish. Those are fighting words if, say, you’re a chef specializing in “authentic” Japanese curry, an Italian American exalting the primordial Italian-ness of pizza, or a food writer (cough) publishing recipes for Thai this or French that. 

On a whirlwind tour of six cities—there’s Parisian pot-au-feu in one chapter, pizza in Naples the next—Von Bremzen celebrates the colorful histories of canonical dishes like ramen, mole, and borshch. But she also picks at their accepted narratives like a scab: Was pizza Margherita truly invented in 1889 to honor the queen of Italy, as Wikipedia and umpteen scholars would have you believe? (Spoiler: It wasn’t.) Are mezzes really Turkish, considering there was no cookbook with the term “Turkish” in its title until the 1970s? (Probably, but it’s complicated.) 

Answering these fraught questions, Von Bremzen’s prose is anything but academic—it’s as bold and richly textured as a steaming bowl of shoyu ramen. In Oaxaca, kernels of maize “glimmer like multihued amber.” In Seville, tapas are “little road signs or historical plaques, couched in the language of the plate, marking the long epic national narratives of power and politics.” 

Von Bremzen is no newcomer to the intersection of food and national identity. Born in the Soviet Union (more on that in her memoir, Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking), she has written a potpourri of books, including Paladares: Recipes Inspired by the Private Restaurants of Cuba, Please to the Table: The Russian Cookbook, and The New Spanish Table.

National Dish reads like a lively, personal spin-off of those titles. It’s as if, after spending decades fact-checking culinary history for myriad articles and cookbooks, she finally reached her foodie “fakelore” quota and said, “That’s it, I’m calling BS.”

That frustration can be felt in the occasional rhetorical bomb—for instance, when Von Bremzen writes that many national dishes are “products of a late-capitalist cultural logic that treats identities, belonging, heritage, and origin myths as commodities subject to the rule of the marketplace.” But she’s equally quick to point out that although identities are social constructs, that fact doesn’t make them any less real or important.

Last month, I gave Von Bremzen a ring at her apartment in Queens to get a window into how she grappled with some of these sticky subjects. Here are the highlights from our conversation.

BK: How did this book idea come about?

AVB: I guess it all started with the collapse of the Soviet Union. My first book, Please to the Table: The Russian Cookbook, was about all the different cuisines that belonged to an empire. And it came out right when [the USSR] was breaking up into many countries. I hate to say it now, but the book had a sort of imperial perspective, with “Russian” in the title. Later I did this book called Greatest Dishes: Around the World in 80 Recipes, which had me researching iconic foods like pizza, risotto, and mole—and that got me thinking, gee, there’s so much material here, but in a cookbook you can only do so much. 

What is the best thing you ate while researching?

Pizza. Because who doesn’t love pizza, especially when Enzo Coccia is making it. Then there was pringá in Sevilla. It’s basically a full Andalusian cocido [meat stew], just distilled into a slider. You get four perfect bites that are the essence of Spanishness—the pimentón, the chorizo … all in a tapas-scale version. And in Mexico I loved all the different moles. Especially with the warm handmade tortillas made from heirloom maize. The way they puff on the comal. The toasty scent and earthy corn. Those tortillas—it’s like comparing mac and cheese from a box to something your Southern grandmother made. 

Tell me more about those moles. What role does mole play in Mexican culture today?

It’s everywhere. In Mexico City, you have chefs like Enrique Olvera making borderline metaphysical moles that are aged for over a year and served at different stages of maturation. What’s interesting is that mole is colonial—it represents a mix, or mestizaje, of ingredients both Spanish and native Mexican. Now, down in Oaxaca, there’s a lot of attention being paid to “indigenous” moles that have almost no Spanish elements. So you have a multiplicity of moles, not one colonial hybrid dish. 

The subtitle of National Dish is, “Around the world in search of food, history, and the meaning of home.” Did you find the meaning of home?

The book wasn’t about me, but it did make me reflect on my childhood in the USSR. Borshch, for example, represented home for me and for Russians in general, but when war broke out in Ukraine, borshch suddenly became political, with Ukraine rightly calling it theirs. I’m a ruthless cosmopolitan of sorts, so for me, “losing” borshch seemed justified. It was a way of decolonizing it from, and for, myself. Many other Russians wouldn’t agree with me, though. Home is an idea we carry inside us, but it can divide us, too. 

What was the most surprising discovery you made?

For me it was this whole story about pizza Margherita—how the dish got its name from a queen who allowed a pizza to be named after her … The claim is repeated in every academic source, yet it turns out, it’s fakelore. So many of the “traditional” dishes I looked at are actually recent inventions. For instance, people think Japanese curries from Sapporo and Hokkaido and whatnot are old, but they didn’t exist before the 1980s. 

Did researching this book change your view on cultural appropriation as it relates to food?

When we talk about cultural appropriation, we’re really talking about racial injustice and other power imbalances. I think it would be much more useful to talk about those issues directly. So, instead of “he appropriated my mofongo,” maybe it’s, “there is racial injustice in the food sector.” National identities change all the time. When most dishes were invented, current borders didn’t exist—so how can you really claim something is from Syria or Lebanon or Turkey when it was eaten under the Ottoman Empire? The philosopher Kwame Anthony Appiah says that when you treat culture like corporate property that belongs to someone, you’re not acknowledging the fluidity and complexity of cultural exchange. Nations do that with food. I wish every time we talked vaguely about cultural appropriation, there was a “donate” button, because ultimately only political action can effect change.  

In the book, there’s constant tension between universality and propriety. That a dish like pizza can be eaten everywhere, with new iterations being created all the time, and yet many claim it’s from a specific place. How do you walk that tightrope?

After writing this book, I’m much more in the universalist camp. When you start reading about this stuff, you see how recent borders are, and how histories are appropriated and mythologized for the purpose of commercial and political interests. But regardless of the actual history of a dish, what’s more important is how people feel about it. 

On that note, UNESCO recently said dolma, stuffed vegetables, were part of Azerbaijan’s cultural heritage. That didn’t sit well with Turkey and Armenia, countries that also lay claim to the dish. Are these international organizations perhaps hurting more than they’re helping?

When UNESCO gives dolma to Azerbaijan, they’re not saying the dish belongs to that culture; they’re saying they want to honor the dolma-making tradition of Azerbaijan. Of course, that’s not how it’s read. And because everything is about marketing and nation-building and place-branding, countries use these designations in promotional campaigns—not just abroad but at home as well. I think these organizations mean well, and their phrasing is ok, but it’s all very complicated. 

One of the most fascinating passages was about cucina povera, and how we get it all wrong. 

Yes. There’s this whole myth that peasant cuisine was wholesome and wonderful, but when we look at what people actually ate in Italy or France, for example, we find horror stories of scarcity, hunger, and bleak gruels. Sure, our ancestors ate more healthy whole grains, but they definitely wanted the white rice. We poo-poo white bread and industrial food now, but when they became accessible to the masses, imagine what a revolution that was. 

I was struck by the fact that American perceptions of certain food cultures often don’t jibe with reality. You mention that sake accounts for six percent of booze consumed in Japan. Beer is Spain’s alcohol of choice by a landslide, not wine. Where does this disconnect come from?

It’s natural to orientalize cultures, to imbue them with the essentialist qualities we want to see in them. When you go to Turkey, you want to see Turks eating Turkish food. So when you realize Japan has some of the best French, Italian, and hybrid food you can imagine, it’s hard to check the “authenticity” box. That’s where the cultural appropriation question comes in: What do you do when a country like Japan wants people around the world to appropriate its food? At the same time the world was falling in love with sushi, Japanese people were turning away from their traditional diet. Ironically, the success of Japanese food abroad encouraged Japanese diners and chefs to rediscover authentic local cuisines. 

What do you hope readers come away with?

I want people to understand that identity is transactional, complicated, and really important, and that food is a part of that. I hope readers will be skeptical of essentialist stories and canned bits. To recognize that food histories are dynamic and open-ended.

The post The Problem with National Dishes appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to One Pot Bangers, Benjamin Kemper’s column, where you’ll find our freshest, boldest cooking ideas that require just one pot, bowl, skillet, or sheet pan. Busy week? We’ve got you covered with these low-effort, high-reward recipes from around the globe.

When I’m in charge of dessert but baking is the last thing I feel like doing, these dense and chewy raspberry chocolate blondies always save my skin. Something about the raspberries and almonds puts these bars in fancy-pants territory—even if the batter comes together in a single bowl. Feel free to customize this blondie recipe based on whatever’s lurking in the recesses of your cupboard: White chocolate instead of milk is a no-brainer here, or you can nix the berries and add ½ cup of toasted shredded coconut in their stead.

Note: For extra-nutty blondies, melt the butter in a small pot set over medium-high heat. Continue to cook, using a silicone spatula to stir occasionally, until it turns light amber and smells nutty, about 2 minutes more. Transfer to a heatproof bowl and cool to room temperature before using in step 2.

The post Raspberry Blondies with Chocolate and Almonds appeared first on Saveur.

In Tbilisi at this very moment, someone is pounding walnuts and garlic for bazhe, spooning cilantro-flecked filling into dumpling dough for khinkali, and dipping long strands of walnuts into saperavi syrup to make the prehistoric confection called churchkhela. 

Food ambushes you in the Georgian capital—in the best sense imaginable. One minute, you’re overtaken by the smell of sweet, buttery khachapuri wafting up from a basement bakery. The next, you’re haggling with street vendors over cherries and tarragon and sour green plums. Turn down one street, and smoke clouds your vision as pork kebabs crackle on a streetside grill. Walk up another, and the sound of glasses clinking on a restaurant patio reminds you that you’re mere miles from the birthplace of wine. 

Tbilisi is easy to love but tricky to navigate when it comes to food. Newcomers often wonder, what are the must-try dishes, and where can great versions be found? Last spring, I spent a month trying to answer those questions, letting my stomach guide my feet. Here’s where I netted out.

Cucumber and Tomato Salad at Khasheria

3 Vekua St. (Inside the Orbeliani Food Hall), +995 595 89 29 25

If there’s one thing you can bank on in Georgia, it’s that no matter where you are—city or countryside, fancy restaurant or greasy spoon—cucumber tomato salad will be on the table. At its simplest, the dish is a cool, crunchy foil to whatever hearty mains are on offer, often just sliced tomatoes and cucumbers sprinkled with parsley. More memorable versions—like the one served at star chef Tekuna Gachechiladze’s casual outpost, Khasheria—are drizzled with unrefined Kakhetian sunflower oil and add ground walnuts, sliced green chiles, and torn fresh herbs like cilantro and purple basil.

Pkhali at Shavi Lomi

28 Zurab Kvlividze St., +995 32 296 09 56

Georgia’s greatest gift to plant-based cooking is pkhali, the family of colorful vegetable spreads made with everything from spinach to leeks to beets to carrots. If it’s kicking around your vegetable drawer, you can probably pkhali [verb] it. At Shavi Lomi, a candlelit Tbilisi institution where the floorboards creak and cats roam the courtyard, you get the full pkhali experience: multiple spreads rainbowed alongside one another, plus all the traditional accoutrements (cheese, corncakes, and pickled bladderwort blossoms called jonjoli). The pkhali arrive in a gobi, or big wooden bowl, and after savoring the thrilling textures and flavors with your dinner companions, you’ll understand why gobi is the root word of megobari, or “friend.”

Tolma at Sulico Wine Bar

27 Mikheil Zandukeli St., +995 511 10 27 27

Tolma—vegetables filled with meats, grains, or a combination of the two—are a staple throughout the Caucasus region. (Controversially, in 2017 UNESCO linked the tradition to the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Azerbaijan.) In Georgia, it’s no surprise that stuffed grape leaves are the most popular variant, given the country’s outsize wine production. The tolma at Sulico are outstanding—juicy, featherlight bundles of spiced ground meat enrobed in tender (never fibrous!) grape leaves. Pan-fried just before serving until the edges are singed and wispy, they come with yogurt sauce and cinnamon sugar for sprinkling.

Khachapuri at Gunda

5 Besiki Square, +995 551 50 00 40

Khachapuri, Georgia’s indomitable cheese bread, is so ubiquitous that its average price is a national bellwether for inflation. Even gas stations sell decent khachapuri, but to wrap your mind around all the fascinating variations (historians have counted 47), head to Gunda, a new khachapuri-only restaurant that’s reviving ancient ingredients and techniques. Gunda is the sole restaurant in Tbilisi that brings in rare regional cheeses and uses only endemic Georgian flours (as opposed to the Russian or Ukrainian all-purpose stuff) in its doughs. One of those flours, made from an Imeretian wheat strain called makha, was extinct in Georgia until the owners recovered it from a Danish seed bank. Come decision time, the egg-topped, boat-shaped Adjaruli is the most ‘grammable of the lot, but don’t sleep on kotori, the little-known Tushetian flatbread filled with sheep’s-milk cottage cheese and painted with melted butter.

Beef Kharcho at Salobie Bia

17 Shota Rustaveli Ave., +995 551 92 77 22

Kharcho, a meat stew spiked with Georgia’s favorite chile condiment, ajika, is such a crowd-pleaser that it was adopted by cooks across the former Soviet Union, where it remains a mainstay from St. Petersburg to Samarkand. Some kharchos are brothy and flecked with rice, while others, like my favorite rendition served at Salobie Bia, are ultra-thick and all about the ground walnuts and spices. In a basement dining room beneath Rustaveli Avenue, Tbilisi’s maple-lined main artery, Chef Giorgi Iosava spoons the braise over creamed foxtail millet akin to polenta. The brisket and silky porridge are so delightfully soft that the combo ought to be prescribed after wisdom tooth surgery.

Lobio at Salobie (Mtskheta)

7 David Aghmashenebeli St., +995 555 67 19 77

You don’t expect to reach life-altering bean nirvana at a highway rest stop on the outskirts of town, but there I was, staring down at some of the finest Brown Food I’d ever tasted at a picnic table at Salobie. As I’d later learn, Salobie’s success is built almost entirely on beans: Day in, day out, cooks ladle the spicy stewed kidney beans into individual clay urns, topping each with a disc of homemade mchadi (griddled cornbread) that fits snugly inside the rim. Salobie’s lobio recipe is under lock and key, but in every spoonful you can taste the cilantro, marigold petals, chiles, and heaps of sweet sautéed onions.  

Khinkali at Cafe Daphna

29 Atoneli St., +995 595 69 00 11 

The only upside of the Mongols’ bloody conquest of Georgia in the 13th century is that they left behind a dumpling-making tradition that continues to this day. Khinkali are primo mountain food—caloric, hot, and deeply satisfying—but they’re also popular down in Tbilisi, where everyone has their favorite sakhinkle (dumpling and beer house). Mine is Daphna, a newcomer by the Dry Bridge flea market with inviting picture windows and millennial-pink plates. Their cilantro-forward “kalakuri” dumplings get my vote for their supple hand-rolled dough and well-spiced pork and beef filling.  

Shkmeruli at Craft Wine Restaurant

54 Egnate Ninoshvili St., +995 599 66 33 00

Fried chicken is great, but have you ever tried shkmeruli? There’s no definitive formula for the down-home Rachan dish, but the throughline is garlic—an entire head of it, in fact, cooked in butter with the chicken’s juices to make a rich, soppable sauce for the crisp poultry. Most shkmeruli recipes call for tremendous amounts of whole milk or cream, but the cooks at Craft Wine go creamless (per the original recipe, according to them) to give the chicken the spotlight. I love that they debone the bird for you, a cheffy flex that you (and your shirt) will appreciate. 

Bazhe at Ninia’s Garden

97 Dimitri Uznadze St., +995 32 219 66 69

Bazhe is a velvety, coriander-scented walnut sauce that’s a staple of Georgian home cooking. Traditionally served alongside cold boiled chicken, the condiment also plays well with grilled vegetables, meats, and fish. At hot-spot restaurant Ninia’s Garden, chef Meriko Gubeladze spoons the sauce over grilled baby eggplants and serves them as an appetizer with crusty bread. Her bazhe recipe has become my go-to—it’s lighter and tangier than most, thanks to the double whammy of acid in the form of white wine vinegar and fresh pomegranate juice. 

Ajika Ribs and Ghomi at Amra

Lisi Lake, +995 568 39 34 30

Tbilisi is such a vibrant melting pot that you can taste dishes from regions as far flung as Samegrelo on the Black Sea coast, which is known for its fiery, assertively spiced dishes like kuchmachi (offal stew), kharcho (see above), and ajika-rubbed meats. At Amra, which occupies a charming pavilion on the banks of Lisi Lake, the ajika veal ribs are a must. They come sizzling in their sauce, which you should absolutely swirl into a side order of ghomi (corn grits) or elarji.  

Chakapuli at Sasadilo Coca-Cola Dining Room

114 Akaki Tsereteli Ave.

They don’t make restaurants like Sasadilo anymore. Hiding among the bodyshops, factories, and warehouses by Didube bus terminal, this proletarian canteen has the feel of a Soviet-era stolovaya: Construction workers hunch over steaming bowls of soup, off-duty cops sip tarragon soda while leafing through the paper, and aproned waitresses zigzag around the room carrying enormous trays of grub. Based on appearances alone, you’d think the food would be mediocre at best—but then, you’d be wrong. On a recent lunch with my friend and food tour guide Paul Rimple, I couldn’t believe my taste buds when I tried Sasadilo’s chakapuli. The meat (usually lamb or beef) stew can be gristly and bland, but here it was downright invigorating, enlivened with tart green plums and a garden’s-worth of tarragon. Beware, the staff don’t speak English, and payment is cash only.  

Ajapsandali at Sofia Melnikova’s Fantastic Douqan

Stamba Dead End, +995 592 68 11 66

Not unlike ratatouille, ajapsandali is a spicy, rib-sticking vegetable stew made with eggplant, tomatoes, peppers, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. It’s kind of a culinary free-for-all—in fact, Georgians use the word ajapsandali to call something a “mess.” Though the dish is occasionally served hot, I like it better chilled, scooped onto crusty tonispuri bread and drizzled with good olive or sunflower oil. That precise combo makes an ideal light lunch at Sofia Melnikova’s Fantastic Douqan, an indoor-outdoor restaurant with a charmingly overgrown yard that plays Soundcloud techno sets as background music. 

Badrijani Nigvzit at Pictograma

31 Atoneli St., +995 595 85 71 87

Badrijani nigvzit, fried eggplant slices spread with walnut paste, is a fixture of the supra table. It’s always good, but it’s rarely great—the eggplant is easy to over- or undercook, and if you’re not careful with the spices and garlic, you’ll quickly overpower the walnuts’ delicate flavor. At Pictograma, Tbilisi’s only restaurant devoted to the cuisine of Khevsureti in northeast Georgia, let’s just say they know what they’re doing. The eggplant is meaty and melty all at once, and the walnut paste, redolent of khmeli suneli, is so fluffy it verges on a mousse. A generous flick of pomegranate seeds brings the whole dish together, adding sweetness, bite, and crunch.   

Wine at Vino Underground

15 Galaktion Tabidze St., +995 599 08 09 84 

One of the most defining features of Tbilisi’s skyline is Mother Georgia, 65-foot statue of a woman holding a sword in one hand and a cup of wine in the other—as if to say, “welcome to town, but do not mess with us.” Wine is so central to Georgian culture that even in Tbilisi, grapevines furl around apartment balconies and become homemade garage wine. But many visitors are surprised to learn that the bulk of Georgian wine is not the sublime, kvevri-fermented “amber” stuff sold in trendy wine shops around the U.S., but rather boring European-style plonk. To drink your fill of those oddball wines you won’t find anywhere else, pay a visit to Georgia’s most legendary natural wine bar, Vino Underground, which stocks cult (and often unlabeled) bottles from the country’s most experimental vintners. Keep an eye on the bar’s Instagram for winemaker-led tastings and events.   

Abkhazura at Kaklebi

Tskneti Highway, +995 557 76 00 66

It’s worth the cab ride up to Kaklebi—a hilltop restaurant with cascading terraces and multiple dining rooms—for the abkhazura alone. This meatball dish is the culinary star of the Black Sea region of Abkhazia, and it’s phenomenally fragrant with coriander, summer savory, garlic, and fenugreek. At Kaklebi, the patties come studded with barberries, whose cranberry-like acidity cuts through the richness. Before being tossed on the grill, chef Meriko Gubeladze (of Shavi Lomi and Ninia’s Garden above) wraps the abkhazura in a web of caul fat, which crisps up like bacon as the meatballs cook in the flames.  

Tkemali at Dezerter’s Bazaar (Meet Me Here Tbilisi)

5 Abastumani St., +995 593 969 985  

You can snap up all sorts of edible souvenirs at Dezerter’s Bazaar, Tbilisi’s main market—wine, chacha (brandy), spice blends, a decapitated pig’s head … But half the time, you won’t know what you’re looking at as you roam the stalls—unless you book a market tour with Tbilisi journalist and culinary tour guide Paul Rimple (whom we met at Sasadilo). Paul introduced me to Tina Nugzarashvili, who makes such killer tkemali that I always bring a bottle home. Tkemali is a puckering plum condiment that’s so ubiquitous in this part of the world that you could call it Georgian ketchup. Brimming with garlic and ground spices, it goes on everything, from fried potatoes to baked trout to mtsvadi (pork shashlik; try it at Kakhlebi). Nugzarashvili’s tkemali stands out for its kick of heat from fresh chiles and its mentholated bite from fresh pennyroyal leaves. 

Churchkhela at Badagi

4 Roman Miminoshvili St., +995 597 11 10 22

Georgians aren’t big on dessert, but if there’s one sweet that binds the nation, it’s churchkhela, a primordial power bar of sorts that’s made by repeatedly dipping strands of walnuts (or in West Georgia, hazelnuts) into thickened grape juice. After hanging to dry for a few days, the churchkhela are hardy enough to take into battle—as they historically were. Don’t trust the churchkhela sold at the airport or souvenir shops; instead, pay a visit to Badagi, a confectionery that keeps things old-school (no artificial colors or flavors). Not only does churchkhela make a striking and affordable gift for friends—sliced into coins, it also looks gorgeous on a cheese board.

Muslim Georgia: A Journey to the Hidden Kitchens of the Kists

The Walnut Whisperers of Georgia

The post The 17 Essential Dishes of Tbilisi—And Where to Eat Them appeared first on Saveur.

Good strawberries—you know, those crimson, thimble-size gems currently perfuming the air at farm stands—are as ephemeral as spring itself. They can turn to mush in hours, a problem we often solve by tossing them back like popcorn while mosying home from the market. Cooks with more restraint, however, should keep strawberries fresh by storing them in the fridge, spread in a single layer on a paper towel in an airtight container.    

Strawberries make some of the world’s most heavenly sweets, from cool berry tarts to pretty pink cocktails and crowd-pleasing strawberry shortcakes. Rhubarb may be the strawberry’s most ubiquitous bedfellow, but the berry’s heady aromas play wonderfully with citrus, acid, booze, spices, and—yes—salt, as proven by dishes like strawberry-goat cheese hand pies and crackly strawberry focaccia. A dollop of dairy (mascarpone, yogurt, ice cream, what have you) turns them into something altogether ambrosial, as anyone who’s tucked into a bowl of fresh strawberries and cream can attest.

But we have a bone to pick with supermarket strawberries. While useful in a pinch for decorating desserts, they can be watery and tough. That’s because they’re a Chilean American hybrid bred for looks and durability as opposed to flavor. They pale in comparison to our favorite Tristars and Lilliputian fraises des bois, which you’re more likely to encounter at the farmers market—all the more reason to seek out (and, sigh, splurge on) the real deal during the berries’ fleeting season. With these recipes in your back pocket, you’ll be off to a running start.

Strawberry Bread

Swirled with jam and and divoted with whole cooked strawberries, this snacking cake is a brunch knockout. Get the recipe >

Grand Marnier Strawberry Sundaes

Strawberry milkshakes get the adult treatment in this boozy, orange-scented beverage that doubles as dessert. Get the recipe >

Strawberry Rhubarb Pâte de Fruit

These fragrant jelly candies call for a bounty of fresh fruit—which means they’re healthy, right? Right? Get the recipe >

Strawberry Shortcake for a Crowd

Baking a single oversize biscuit instead of laboring over individual ones makes for a marvelously over-the-top presentation of the classic American dessert. Because our favorite strawberry shortcake recipe hinges on peak-season berries, it’s best to hit up your local farm stand for Tristar and other heirloom strawberries (alternatively, fancy-schmancy Oishii berries are sweet all year round). Get the recipe >

Strawberry Rhubarb Hand Pies

It’s two sticky thumbs up to these flaky, fork-crimped beauties perfect for picnicking and potlucks. Get the recipe >

Almond Cheesecake with Macerated Strawberries and Mint

Swirled with jam and and divoted with whole cooked strawberries, this snacking cake is a brunch knockout. Get the recipe >

Strawberry Focaccia with Maple-Balsamic Onions

This sweet-and-salty focaccia that comes together with minimal effort is a welcome springtime twist on the original. Get the recipe >

Strawberry Spritz

Thickened with coconut milk and pepped up with fresh lime juice, the strawberry spritz created at Detroit’s Candy Bar drinks like a tropical vacation. Get the recipe >

Strawberry Ice Cream

It turns out that the secret to great strawberry ice cream is—you guessed it—sweet, overripe farmers-market berries. Get the recipe >

Strawberry-Beet Sorbet

Vibrant fuschia orbs of tart yet earthy sorbet are a refreshing finale to any summer cookout. Get the recipe >

Strawberry Rhubarb Cheesecake

Inspire oohs and aahs with this luxurious strawberry-topped cheesecake spread with smoky, tangy charred rhubarb jam. Get the recipe >

Goat Cheese and Strawberry Breakfast Tarts

This recipe goes out to all the readers who can’t think of a better bagel topping than cream cheese and jam. Get the recipe >

Pavlova

A crackly crown of meringue brimming with colorful berries is the kind of fresh, light dessert we crave when temperatures soar. Get the recipe >

Strawberry Rhubarb Yogurt Pops

Cool off with these homemade pink popsicles that are a hit with kids and adults alike. Get the recipe >

Strawberry Jam

Preserve the summery flavor of fresh berries with this simple preparation. Get the recipe >

Strawberries with Wine

This bright, citrusy dessert from chef José Andrés makes the perfect nightcap to wind down an evening of grilling. Get the recipe >

The post 16 Strawberry Recipes to Sweeten Your Spring and Summer appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to One Pot Bangers, Benjamin Kemper’s weeknight cooking column, where you’ll find our freshest, boldest ideas that require just one pot, skillet, or sheet pan. Busy week? We’ve got you covered with these low-effort, high-reward recipes from around the globe.

Deli-case pasta salad—you know the type, gobbed with sugary mayo and flecked with bargain-bin tuna—can be grim, frightening stuff. With cookout and picnic season upon us, I wondered how I might freshen up the American side to give it a more intriguing flavor profile. The goal was to give the dish what a zoomer might call “main character energy”: pasta salad as the meal, not a sorry accessory to it.

I settled on using fresh salmon instead of tuna—a generous amount, flaked into big, juicy chunks. Then, drawing inspo from my Ashkenazi forebears, I added a few tugs of fresh dill, a glob of horseradish, and a handful of chopped pickles (plus a splash of their brine to loosen everything up). A sprinkling of caraway-scented breadcrumbs on top, and I had a recipe I could get behind. I’ve been making this salmon pasta salad on repeat for picnics, barbecues, and (since all the action happens in one pot) casual weeknight meals.

Feel free to use frozen or canned salmon in place of fresh. Poaching is the easiest way to cook the fish: Simply place the salmon in an 8-by-8-inch microwaveable pan, add ¼ cup of water, then cover and cook on high until opaque, about 8 minutes for center-cut fillets (9–12 minutes for frozen). For a more elegant presentation, transfer the drained pasta to a serving bowl in step 2.

The post Dilly Salmon Pasta Salad with Pickles and Caraway Breadcrumbs appeared first on Saveur.

People flock to Brauð & Co.—one of Reykjavik’s busiest bakeries—for the crackly sourdough bread, but on a recent visit, it was a different baked wonder that (sorry, couldn’t resist) took the cake. I’m talking about hjónabandssæla, or “happy marriage cake,” essentially Icelandic rhubarb bars that fall somewhere between a fruit crumble and an oatmeal cookie. They have three layers: a soft, oaty crust on the bottom; a crisp streusel up top; and a middle oozing with rhubarb compote that acts as a sweet, sticky mortar, binding the pastry together. Cooked rhubarb can be rather beige; to amp up the fuchsia, add a chunk of red beet to the pan with the rhubarb (don’t worry, it won’t impart any flavor).

Note: The butter quantities (converted from metric, hence the odd numbers) are correct—these are some boldly buttery bars!

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Welcome to One Pot Bangers, Benjamin Kemper’s weeknight cooking column, where you’ll find our freshest, boldest ideas that require just one pot, skillet, or sheet pan. Busy week? We’ve got you covered with these low-effort, high-reward recipes from around the globe.

Too much asparagus might be the definition of a fancy problem, but there I was, looking down at three hefty bunches I impulse-bought on sale. My usual move when faced with a surfeit of veg is to blitz it into a puréed soup, but then I wondered—could asparagus be transformed into a silky, pastel-green sauce for pasta? 

The answer, I discovered through trial and error, is a resounding “yes,” especially when you blend peas into the sauce and keep it nice and green by adding a handful of fresh arugula (asparagus, I remembered while testing, isn’t the prettiest shade when cooked). 

Morels, shallots, lemon zest, Pecorino—these are the add-ins I wound up loving the most, since they play well together and all but scream spring. Enjoy this asparagus pasta recipe hot—and then (if you’re like me), enjoy it even more the next day straight from the fridge, with an extra squeeze of lemon juice and a generous drizzle of olive oil.

Note: Seek out asparagus that are ½ inch thick (thinner asparagus can be stringy, and thicker can be woody). Peeling the stalks in step 1 is essential as fibrous bottoms make for a far less creamy sauce.

The post Creamy Asparagus Pasta with Mushrooms, Lemon, and Pecorino appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to One Pot Bangers, Benjamin Kemper’s weeknight cooking column, where you’ll find our freshest, boldest ideas that require just one pot, skillet, or sheet pan. Busy week? We’ve got you covered with these low-effort, high-reward recipes from around the globe.

If you’ve never heard of Bolivian sopa de maní, or “peanut soup,” you might think it’s in the same gene pool as Taiwanese wedang kacang or West African groundnut stew. But unlike these, the dish’s protagonist is not the peanut but rather fall-apart beef and a vegetable drawer’s-worth of produce. Even so, the peanuts are essential: They thicken the soup while lending it a bass note of umami that will have you going back for seconds. 

Though there are as many sopa de maní recipes as there are cooks in Bolivia (not to mention parts of Peru and Argentina), where the dish is a mainstay, the most heavenly version I’ve tasted comes from my friend María Colquehuanca, a La Paz native who’s famous for the dish among her Bolivian family and friends. I love how she browns the dry pasta in oil before tossing it into the peanut-thickened broth, adding yet another layer of nuttiness. 

“I got this sopa de maní recipe from my aunt Marina, who comes from Cochabamba,” she told me. “That’s where the peanut fields are, and where the dish is said to have been invented.” María insists that the peanuts be raw and unsalted, and that they be ground to the texture of wet sand. Fried shoestring potatoes or french fries are an optional garnish; they add crunch to an otherwise spoon-soft dish.

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Before I moved to Spain, the pimentón in my cupboard often wound up collecting dust. Sure, I loved the smoky undertow it brought to the odd Spanish cooking project, but getting through a whole tin before it expired? Imposible.

But if eight years’ eating my way across the Iberian Peninsula have taught me anything, it’s that pimentón is a miracle spice, its barbecue-pit smokiness enhancing everything from seafood to stews to fruit salads. These days, I keep three types in my pantry—and they never last longer than their expiration date. 

All that is to say, I have a hunch you’re not using pimentón wrong—you’re just not using it enough. So, don’t let any of that twee little tin go to waste, and up your pimentón cooking game with these essential tips.

1. Play around with different Spanish paprika varieties.

As food historian Almudena Villegas told me, “One cannot conceive of Spanish cuisine without pimentón.” There are three main categories to know: dulce (sweet), agridulce (medium), and picante (hot). The first is made from Jaranda and Bola peppers; the second from Jaranda and Jariza; and the third from Jeromín, Jariza, and Jaranda. The different pepper types and heat levels make each pimentón variant distinctive, so buy a tin of each and experiment freely. Harder to find is the less-famous paprika of Murcia, an unsmoked variety made from sweet, bulbous ñoras.

2. Buy pimentón in small quantities.

Past-its-prime paprika won’t kill you, but it lacks the complexity and fruitiness of the just-packaged stuff. Ensure your paprika stash is always fresh by buying in small quantities from a trusted purveyor like Despaña or La Tienda, then use it within a year (ideally within six months). If the expiration date has passed, chuck it and restock your supply.

3. Store it as you would good olive oil or wine.

Unlike most spices in your cupboard, pimentón still comes in old-timey metal tins. That’s not just good marketing—the opaque container shields the paprika from light, which degrades it. So do heat and humidity. Store pimentón in a cool, dark, dry place (i.e., not next to the stove or on a shelf that gets sunlight).

4. Turn to Spanish paprika for color, not just flavor.

Pimentón makes a striking garnish—even when you don’t want smoke to be the dominant flavor. I like dusting it onto pale-colored dishes for a vivid pop of red: buttered baked potatoes, hummus, cream of cauliflower soup, egg salad, risotto, garlic bread, braised cabbage, poached fish … The applications are endless.

5. Use it liberally when grilling isn’t in the cards.

The downside to living in a postage-stamp apartment in Madrid is that I can’t grill. Enter pimentón, which comes to my rescue when I’m craving ribs or kebabs or baba ghannouj. I add it to spice rubs before broiling or grill-panning my protein or veg of choice, or I drizzle the finished dish with paprika oil (more on that below).

6. Bloom your pimentón for extra depth of flavor.

I’ll never forget watching Pablo Barrera make patatas revolconas (pimentón-laced mashed potatoes with crispy bacon) in the mountains north of Madrid. The way he dropped heaped spoonfuls of paprika straight into sizzling-hot pork fat before stirring the bright-orange liquid into the mash. “Blooming” the pimentón this way coaxes even more complexity from the spice—but be careful it doesn’t burn, lest the spice turn bitter. Twenty seconds is about right. Pour this Spanish-inflected tarka of sorts over soups, stewed legumes, boiled meats, mashed root vegetables—you name it.

7. Learn to recognize this symbol—it’s a guarantee of quality.

The most sought-after pimentón comes from the sun-soaked region of La Vera, in landlocked Extremadura, southwest of Madrid. Every tin of real-deal pimentón de la Vera bears the symbol of the D.O.P. (Denominación de Origen Protegida), the government body that oversees and regulates pimentón production. Keep your eye out for an abstract rectangular emblem with a spiral sun and long red chile.

8. Understand the difference between Spanish and Hungarian paprikas—and when it’s ok to substitute.

Hungarian (and Hungarian-style California) paprika can be mild, medium, or sharp (hot), but it’s seldom smoked like pimentón. Recipes that call for Spanish paprika, like escabeche or baked rice, are after that campfire flavor, which Hungarian simply can’t provide. Likewise, substituting pimentón for Hungarian paprika in paprikash or goulash would make for an overly smoky result. Use the type of paprika the recipe specifies—unless it calls for only a dusting, in which case you’re safe to use whatever paprika tickles your fancy.

9. Add it to your vegetarian (and vegan) cooking arsenal.

Let pimentón be your secret weapon next time you want to channel the savory smokiness of bacon, chorizo, and other cured meats without resorting to animal proteins. Stirred into stews and sauces or sprinkled on salads, Spanish paprika hits those high notes of meaty umami that everybody craves. “It’s like a drop of liquid smoke,” according to Anya von Bremzen, author of The New Spanish Table. “I like to put in borscht, because some recipes call for Ukrainian smoked prunes, which are hard to find.”

10. Think of pimentón as a charcuterie board pinch hitter.

Some of the best Spanish cheeses and cured meats are flavored with pimentón, from Canarian almogrote and Majorero cheese to Extremaduran chorizo and Majorcan sobrassada. But even if you don’t have access to great Spanish charcuterie, you can add smokiness to appetizer spreads by tossing olives with olive oil, minced garlic, and pimentón. Or pan-fry whatever nuts you have on hand with a bit of oil, pimentón, and a spoonful of whatever spice blend you fancy.

11. Don’t stop at savory.

Pimentón’s presence in Catalan dishes like spinach with raisins and pine nuts got me thinking about the spice’s compatibility with fruit. I’m pleased to report that pimentón pairs marvelously with ripe mango, especially as a salsa for grilled fish or chicken, as well as melon or orange salads, and grilled stone fruit dolloped with melty cheese.

Smoky Spanish Pork Rib Stew with Potatoes and Pimentón

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The Pimentón in Your Cupboard Comes From My Quiet Corner of Spain

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The post Your Ultimate Pimentón Primer appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to One Pot Bangers, Benjamin Kemper’s weeknight cooking column, where you’ll find our freshest, boldest ideas that require just one pot, skillet, or sheet pan. Busy week? We’ve got you covered with these low-effort, high-reward recipes from around the globe.

“Tagine is architecture,” explained Houssa Yakobi, owner of Gîte Ourthane in Zaouiat Cheikh, as his elder sister Mouna—a stern silver-haired woman with faded face tattoos—scattered sliced cardoon over goat meat stewing in orange broth. The olives, carrots, and sweet potatoes would be layered on in an hour or so—enough time for us to knead up a batch of sourdough khobz, the sturdy Moroccan bread that doubles as a sponge for the goat tagine’s cumin-scented juices. 

Purists will tell you a tagine isn’t a tagine unless it’s cooked in the eponymous conical pot, but don’t worry if you don’t own one: This dish comes out wonderfully in a Dutch oven. If you can find cardoon, use it (peeled and coarsely chopped) in place of the fennel as they do in the Atlas Mountains, adding it along with the parsley and spices in step 1. Cardoon and fennel are traditional early-spring tagine ingredients. Chicken thighs make a fine substitute for goat if the latter isn’t readily available.

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