Barbra Austin

For the past two years I have eaten at Barbuto almost every week, excepting, of course, those times that I was away from New York. Just a quick walk up Washington Street from my apartment, it has been my local, my go-to, my I-am-too-lazy-to-cook-tonight solution, serving the kind of food that I could never get tired of: Seasonal, loosely Italian, flavorful and fresh, with well-sourced ingredients.

Clafouti is clafouti. It’s not a cake, though it’s made from a batter. It’s not a custard, though it’s a bit creamy. It’s not a soufflé, though it puffs up during baking. It is what it is. And when it’s good it’s delicious.

I put cream cheese frosting in the same category as basil pesto, Bordier butter and aïoli, and that category is called You Could Spread This On Anything And I Would Eat It.

The best thing about old friends is how easy it is to step right back into the old roles, to immediately know how to be with each other.

I eat in restaurants regularly. I love cooking big meals for friends. But when I am home alone, this is the kind of thing that I like to eat.

My French teacher once told me that I could exempt myself from les devoirs by making treats for the class. I did not really take her seriously and, anyway, it is in my best interest to do the homework. But as of Monday morning I had not even looked at chapter 6 of Les Poisons de la Couronne. What I had been reading was David Lebovitz’s new book, which enthusiastically advocates the practice of of bribery-by-sweets.

What better moment to test my dear prof’s offer? And what better reason to try one of the 50 recipes David included in the book?

I initially published this about a year ago, from Paris, where asparagus was on abundant display at every market. At Union Square the other day I was happy to see that the tri-state crop had finally come in, and I thought I’d revisit the idea of asperges crues.

We call this pudding but there’s no cornstarch to thicken it, no skin on top to poke through. No, this is just a rich crème Anglaise with lots of chocolate added, enough to thicken the mixture as it chills to a spoon-clinging custard that melts in your mouth almost like a truffle.

You might think that because I like to cook, my refrigerator is perpetually well-stocked with a bounty of beautiful produce, fine meats, and ripe cheeses. This could not be further from the truth. On most days, the contents of my fridge could be summarized as follows: Condiments and booze.

Some purists would say that making one’s own crème fraîche with pasteurized cream is a waste of time, that there is no substitute for the real, raw stuff found in France.

They are half right.