Cynar’s pleasant vegetal bitterness, derived primarily from artichokes, pairs nicely with the fresh mint and grapefruit soda in this lower-proof, herbaceous julep variation. This recipe is adapted from bartender Renato “Tato” Giovannoni of Florería Atlántico in Buenos Aires.

Featured in “Amari” by Camper English in the January/February 2014 issue.

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We loved everything about Sassy—the teen magazine whose frank storytelling put it in a class of its own in the 1980s and ’90s—but especially its “Eat This” column. It featured recipes ranging from Sonic Youth’s tuna tacos to comic strip character Weasel’s beef chili. The latter alluded, with Sassy charm, to legumes’ “magical” properties: “Sometimes things that test a relationship make it stronger.” This meaty, curry-spiced chili appeared in “Eat This” in the February 1992 issue as a recipe courtesy of Weasel, a character from the comic strip “Guy Stuff” by Jim Ryan. Cook up a pot when you need something warm and satisfying to get you through winter, or serve it with all the fixings—chopped cilantro and onion, grated Monterey Jack cheese, and sour cream—for the Super Bowl.

Featured in the SAVEUR 100 in the January/February 2014 issue.

Order the SAVEUR Selects Enameled Cast Iron 4½-Quart Braiser here.

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We love the elegant cast-iron skillets from Borough Furnace, a small foundry established in Syracuse, New York, in 2011 by John Truex. We asked John to tell us more about the history of the project and how Borough Furnace skillets are made. —Karen Shimizu

Saveur: What’s your background, and how did you come to start Borough Furnace?

John Truex: My background is in product design. For a few years, I worked at a furniture factory and at a small design studio, but my goal was always to be able to produce my own stuff rather than outsource. I was interested in creating a new production model for manufacture, and I had some experience with iron casting—I went to college for sculpture—so I knew the backyard version of it. What I had to learn was the production version of it. Most cast-iron manufacturing is very dirty; foundries generally use coke-powered furnaces, generating a lot of pollution, or induction furnaces, which use massive amounts of electricity. We came up with a system where we run the furnace on recycled cooking oil and make the pans from scrap metal, so the environmental impact is minimal.

S: How did you decide to make frying pans?

JT: Once we wanted to work with cast iron, the material led us to pans. A frying pan is a traditional expression of cast iron and provided a design challenge. Every cast-iron skillet we looked at was basically the same. All of them had a stubby handle that you couldn’t really use because it would get so hot. So in our design, we made a long handle that counterbalances the pan so you can pick it up easier—and it stays cool when it’s on the stovetop. Our pans are also a little thicker than most, which helps with heat retention.

S: How do you make your pans?

JT: Our pans are made out of recycled iron. Our starting material is any scrap iron that is clean and that I can break up with a sledge hammer: old steam radiators, bathtubs (those without coating), pieces of old cast-iron stoves, things like that. I have a big pile of those things already broken up into three- to four-inch-pieces. Each pan requires about 12 pounds to cast the pan and the runners that feed metal into the cavity. So I put 12 pounds into the crucible in the furnace to melt. Once the iron has melted, it’s poured into a mold and cools overnight. Each skillet is then hand finished and seasoned several times with organic flaxseed oil before it is tagged with its individual production number and ready for sale.

S: Sounds like this is a full-time job!

JT: I teach at Syracuse University in the mornings and a few afternoons during the week. During that time, Adam, who works with me at the shop, is breaking up the molds poured from the day before, remixing the sand, and making new molds. In the afternoon or at night, I come in and fire the furnace up to 2600 degrees Fahrenheit and put the metal in the crucible to melt. The whole process, from cold furnace to having liquid metal ready to pour, takes two and a half hours. Once the iron is molten, I pour the molds—I can do one every 40 minutes or so. Right now I pour three to four every day.

S: Your skillets and braising pans are in extraordinarily high demand. What’s next for you all?

JT: At present, we’re hoping to increase production. Right now we sell out in 10 minutes every time we post new inventory. One of the limiting factors we’re currently facing is our mold-making process; it’s time consuming to make each mold by hand. We’re working on some efficiencies that will retain the small scale of our production but allow us to get more skillets up for sale each week, and to introduce some new products in the coming year.

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The most unexpectedly exciting part of New York City for culinary discoveries? Staten Island. This content first appeared in the tablet version of our January/February 2014 Saveur 100 issue.

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We cooked the duck liver mousse for The Black Hoof‘s liver and onions dish in a water bath—placing a metal loaf pan of uncooked mousse into a shallow pan filled with water and putting everything in the oven—because this cooking technique distributes heat gently and evenly. The result: a delicate mousse that comes out light, moist, and perfectly smooth. But how exactly does a water bath work? Though the oven temperature may be 300°, water turns to steam once it reaches 212°. As some of the water turns to steam and evaporates into the oven, it cools the surface of the water bath, yielding a lower heat source that gently insulates the mousse from the oven’s blazing dry heat. The mousse doesn’t overcook or curdle, and the constant release of steam keeps the preparation moist. The water bath method is also great for custards, flans, soufflés, cheesecakes, and eggs. —Dominique Lemoine

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Simple roasted baby potatoes with whole garlic cloves are the perfect foil for a zesty lemon and olive oil emulsion. This recipe first appeared in the tablet edition of our Jan/Feb 2014 SAVEUR 100 with the article Lemon Olive Oil.

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In a breadbasket at Manhattan’s Carbone, we discovered the Platonic ideal of garlic bread. With roasted garlic butter made from freshly chopped cloves that are by turns sharp and mellow, heat from red chile flakes, and a bit of funk from parmesan, each crunchy bite of baguette, scattered with parsley and chives and bathed in olive oil, is fiercely flavorful and craveworthy. This recipe first appeared in our Jan/Feb 2014 SAVEUR 100 issue with the article “Carbone’s Garlic Bread.“

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I typically don’t go for blender drinks, but I make an exception when I’m in Wisconsin, where the after-dinner libation known as the ice cream cocktail is a cherished tradition among patrons of the Dairy State’s old-timey supper clubs. Most ice cream drinks are amped-up versions of cream-based cocktails—the minty grasshopper (left) and the Golden Cadillac (center), tasting of anise from a dose of Galliano. Others, like the almond-flavored Pink Squirrel (right), are Wisconsin originals. A magnificent concoction of vanilla ice cream, crème liqueur, and often brandy or another spirit, the ice cream cocktail is certainly more dessert than digestif. But in uniting two postprandial pleasures—one childlike, the other grown-up—in a single glass, it hits an enduring sweet spot.

See the Recipe for Grasshopper »
See the Recipe for Golden Cadillac »
See the Recipe for Pink Squirrel »

David McAninch is a SAVEUR editor-at-large.

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This Dominican-style hamburger is topped with sautéed cabbage, onion, and tomato and doused in a Worcestershire-spiked ketchup-mayonnaise blend known as salsa golf. This recipe first appeared in our Jan/Feb 2014 SAVEUR 100 issue with the article Chimi Burger.

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Japanese bartending blows my mind. It’s so artful that, as with oil painting, the equipment is paramount. Even the simplest drinks are painstakingly prepared. I start the way I learned from the Japanese masters: with the ice. Hand carving a perfect sphere with a trident ice pick (A), I knock off edges with the head and chisel with a single prong. I measure spirits with a sleek, two-ounce Japanese-style jigger (B); its precut lines allow me to measure half-ounce to two-ounce pours and everything in between. For smooth, efficient stirring, my Japanese bar spoon‘s (C) tight-coiled stem spins easily between my fingers. For shaken cocktails, I reach for weighted, leak-proof Koriko mixing tins (D), then pour the contents through a deep basket strainer (E)—its high sides can handle two drinks at once. But my favorite tool is the cut-crystal Yarai mixing glass (F), sturdy enough to keep in the freezer and so pretty that it catches customers’ eyes. I like to pass those customers their drinks as a Japanese bartender would, with both hands; it’s a gesture of appreciation—a reminder of who these exquisite tools are really made for.

Japanese bar tools, various prices at Cocktail Kingdom and Umami Mart

Brian Means is bar manager at the Fifth Floor Restaurant in San Francisco.

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Fresh, juicy lemongrass, crimson Thai chiles, and fragrant holy basil. To find such a glorious bounty in the U.S., just stop by the hyperlocal Laotian markets of Fresno, California, where much of the glowingly bright produce is cultivated only a few miles away by the Hmong and Lao farmers whose families settled here in the 1970s. Better yet, at Asia Supermarket (4818 East Tulare Avenue; 559/252-7025), Golden Bowl (1221 North First Street; 559/485-5593), and other Fresno grocers, the prices are so low that there’s always cash left over for a green papaya salad or Hmong pork sausages with sticky rice from the supermarket’s deli.

Andrea Nguyen is a SAVEUR contributing editor.

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