There’s a particular, specific delight in finding pleasure in unexpected places. When I was 13, I spent a month in Europe with my grandparents and my little sister, who was 11 and wretchedly homesick at the time. The evenings were the hardest for her, as they tend to be (isn’t it always when dusk falls when we feel the most woebegone when we’re sick or sad or down?).
We stayed for a few nights at a spot in rural England that had once been a huge, imposing Victorian country house and was converted into a rather posh luxury hotel. The grounds were beautiful—all carefully pruned boxwood hedges and climbing roses and emerald green topiary. Our room was situated in a little cottage set back from the main building; at dinner, we’d get dressed up and walk across the manicured lawns into the polished dining room.
The service was all quite formal—not Downton Abbey, exactly, but certainly not the sort of place that would bust out crayons for a teary-eyed 11-year-old. After several courses of very adult food, one of the waiters came striding briskly towards our table and set down our desserts. In front of my sister was the most spectacular plate: the oval-shaped white china was flat, with no rim or edges. Six perfectly quenelled scoops of ice cream sat on top—the scoops were brightly colored, ranging from a deep raspberry to a startling shade of green.
It was meant to look like a painter’s palette and it was beautiful. She was entranced, and quietly and delightedly ate her way through the entire thing.
As he came to clear the plates, the waiter leaned down next to us and whispered, “Would you like to visit the kitchens?” Our eyes widened and we nodded. He beckoned solemnly to us and we slipped out of our chairs, following closely behind him past the other tables, the ruddy-faced British men in tweedy jackets and ties eyeing us curiously.
He pushed open a heavy door and suddenly we found ourselves in the warmly lit kitchen: all cozy smells and sounds. Dishes clattered and cooks called back and forth to each other. It smelled like sugar and roasting meat and yeasty bread. The waiter motioned for us to come stand by a gleaming stainless steel island where a chef in a spotless white coat stood.
“Would you like to taste something?” he asked. Again, we nodded.
He held out a spoon and I took it, obediently closing my mouth around the bright red liquid. My eyes widened. “Do you know what that is?” I shook my head. “Strawberry basil sauce!” he said happily.
My 13-year-old mind was blown. But…but…basil is salty, I thought. It goes in pesto, I knew that much. And strawberries are sweet. And this sauce was dessert! It tasted both familiar and strange all at once: herbal and green and fruity and if he’d let me, I knew I’d eat an entire bowl of it.
I’d love to recreate that recipe, though it’s never occurred to me until now to try.
It was a first exposure to unexpected pairings—a lesson that you can think way outside the box when it comes to cooking, and that’s where the fun lies.
Even at that age I understood the magic of sweet + salty. Sometimes in the summer my mom would make us strawberry milkshakes in our old tan blender along with homemade French fries, the potatoes cut in thin strips. She’d toss the hot French fries into a paper bag and shake them with salt. We’d eat both together outside in the waning evening light.
Now, years and years later, I find great pleasure in creating recipes that break rules or combine ingredients in a surprising way. Take, for example, this recipe below—a savory babka with two cheeses (mozzarella and Gruyere) and black sesame seeds. It’s shaped and baked just like a traditional babka, the logs sliced in half and twisted together.
But the filling is salty and gooey with melted cheese, the sesame seeds adding crunch and a nuttiness that makes this bread addictive. You’ve been warned.
Note: I add a little mustard to the filling which is crucial. Do not skip this! I also add scallions to the filling, which you absolutely may skip, as well as garlic powder and cheese powder to the dough, which you also may skip, though both add more flavor to the dough itself.
Savory Black Sesame + Cheese Babka
3/4 cup + 2 tablespoons (198g) milk
2 1/2 teaspoons instant or active dry yeast
3 cups (360g) all-purpose flour
6 tablespoons (84g) unsalted butter, softened and divided
1 egg yolk
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons Vermont cheddar cheese powder (optional, for more flavor)
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder (optional, for more flavor)
1/4 cup sliced scallions
1 tablespoon whole-grain mustard
3/4 cup (84g) grated Gruyere cheese
3/4 cup (85g) grated mozzarella cheese
1/4 cup toasted black sesame seeds (you can use regular sesame seeds as well)
To make the dough, heat the milk until just lukewarm. Stir in the yeast and let sit for 5 minutes.
In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a dough hook, or by hand in a large bowl, mix together the milk/yeast mixture, flour, butter, sugar, egg yolk, salt, cheese powder (if using), and garlic powder (if using). Mix until the dough comes together, and then knead until the dough is very smooth and elastic—don't skimp on this step. It should take about 10 minutes in a stand mixer. If the dough is still pretty sticky, carry on kneading until it feels quite smooth.
Lightly grease a large bowl and place the dough in it. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap or a damp tea towel and let rise for about 1 1/2 to 2 hours, until puffy and almost doubled.
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Gently press down the dough to deflate it, and turn it out onto a counter. The dough is buttery enough that you shouldn't need extra flour—it shouldn't stick.
Press/roll/stretch the dough out into a large rectangle, about 12" x 18" in size.
Brush a thin layer of melted butter evenly over the dough, leaving a little space around all the edges (about 1/2"). Spread the mustard thinly over the butter.
Sprinkle the cheeses, scallions, and sesame seeds in an even layer over the dough.
Starting with the long side closest to you, roll the dough into a long log and pinch the seam firmly closed.
Using a sharp serrated knife, cut the log in half lengthwise. You’ll end up with two strips of dough. Take those two pieces and pinch two ends together. Twist the logs around each other two or three times; pinch together the other two ends. Place the braid, cut side up, in a greased 9″ x 5″ loaf pan.
Cover with plastic wrap and let rise for 20 minutes.
Bake for 30 minutes, then tent the top with foil if the cheese is browning too quickly, and bake for another 20 minutes. Remove from the oven and let cool for 10 minutes in the pan before turning out to cool on a wire rack.