A Monte Cristo consists of ham, turkey or chicken, and Swiss cheese sandwiched between two slices of white or challah bread that is dipped in an egg batter, then grilled or fried in butter until golden brown. It is often dusted with confectioners’ sugar and served with a side of red currant jelly.
The Monte Cristo is an American version of the Croque-Monsieur, the famed French grilled cheese and ham sandwich that is fried in clarified butter. The sandwich first appeared on the menu at Gordon’s, a restaurant on Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles, but it didn't get its big break until Disneyworld got involved. When the Blue Bayou Restaurant in the Pirates of the Caribbean put the Monte Cristo on its menu, its popularity soared.
I hadn't eaten a Monte Cristo since I was a kid, and I didn't remember particularly loving it. My, how things have changed. This sandwich has it all: it's sweet, salty, and chewy. It's addictive.
There is something indulgent about starting the day with a cup of rich dark coffee, (no cream or sugar, thank you), and a big, warm, moist scone that is loaded with dried apricots and a generous amount of big chunks of nuts and maybe, sometimes, still-soft morsels of dark chocolate that melt on the tongue with each bite.
Years ago, when I was living on Beacon Street in Boston’s Back Bay, I was invited to a rooftop barbecue by my neighbor. Everyone was bringing something, so I thought a pound cake with fresh strawberries would be nice. It was a great party, and the host, who was raised in North Carolina, prepared an elaborate feast of primarily Southern Cuisine – ribs, chicken, baked beans, succotash, corn bread, etc.
During the heat of summer I'm always looking for foods that are light, refreshing, and ultimately cool. I never crave hot foods in summer—and who does? The best cuisine for staying cool under the sun has always been Mediterranean. These foods, especially the dips and spreads, never make you feel like you've been weighed down. Many vegetables make a delicious dip, but eggplant dip is particularly popular in the region and beyond.
There are as many oatmeal secrets in America as there are splattered recipe cards – everyone seems to have a grandmother’s trick or a magazine shortcut to oatmeal bliss. Me? Forget fancy training and hand-kissed organics, because I’d never abandon this pleasure: pulling back the Quaker Oats tab with a satisfying “whh-ch,” getting a nice wholesome whiff, and then turning over the recipe to make Vanishing Oatmeal Cookies.
