What ever happened to dessert as spectacle? Too often, dessert is something that happens out of sight. It's made earlier in the day and tucked away; or it's bought from a bakery or dug out of the freezer, the frozen last resort of mango sorbet or some bite-sized thing from Trader Joe's. The flaming drama of crepes Suzette and bananas Foster, it seems, is long behind us.

But why not reclaim the last course's potential as a little bit of interactive performance? After all, your guests have already been fed. If you screw up, no one's going to have to call for pizza delivery on the way home, loudly bemoaning your hubris in the kitchen. No one thinks you can just make a cake, snap, like that, right under their noses while the dishes are being cleared and the coffee made. Thus, I've turned what is actually a fault--not getting it together on time to show up on the doorstep with a cake already baked--into a party trick, showing up with a bagful of ingredients secretly pre-measured and ready to mix and bake. Certain simple butter cakes, especially those topped with sliced fruit and an aromatic sprinkle of cinnamon sugar, like this ever-popular plum torte, are perfect for this, with the added benefit of making everyone's mouth water with their alluring scent of browning butter, sugar, spice, and fruit.

Madeleines, those dainty, shell-shaped little cakes, are even easier, and have the added benefit of being French and therefore, to American eyes, fancy. They also give those who have put their time in reading Proust a chance to show off, especially if they can quote the relevant passages in the original. You can please, or one-up, these people by serving a tisane de tilleul (linden-flower tea), since that is what Proust's narrator was drinking when his fragment of madeleine, soaked in the tea, brought forth its famously prolific gush of memory.)

Now, the thing about madeleines is, they're at their most delectable fresh out of the oven. Yes, the ones sold three at a time in little plastic bags at Starbucks or out of the vending machines in the Paris Metro are still pretty good; as spongy little cakes go, they're surprisingly resilient. But I still remember the grande geste of some very posh French restaurant in New York City where, post-dessert but pre-check, the waiter brought out a complementary bowl, swaddled in a huge napkin, that was unfolded to reveal freshly baked madeleines snuggled in the white linen like baby birds in a nest. Ooh la la, how I wanted to kiss that waiter and leave him a huge, huge tip!

So, to make this happen effortlessly after dinner, a few tricks. You can easily make the batter beforehand and stash it in the fridge. Because it depends on well-beaten eggs, not baking powder, for its puff, it won't lose any potency for being made ahead of time. The ingredients are pantry-simple--sugar, butter, flour, a little lemon or orange rind, a splash of vanilla and a pinch of salt--meaning no frantic last-minute trips will be needed to search out 85% chocolate or a bottle of Grand Marnier. The only thing you must have is a madeleine pan. Usually, I am all about the good-enough substitution; many are the pie crusts I've rolled out with a tequila bottle and the chickens baked in a cast-iron skillet rather than an All-Clad roasting pan. No matter what the nice lady at Crate & Barrel tells you, you do not need a plastic strawberry huller shaped like a strawberry. Nor do you need an egg slicer or a mango pitter.

But in this case, there is no way around it; you want to make a madeleine, you need the pan that makes them what they are: neatly cupped, oblong and indented like a elongated scallop shell. Personally, I prefer the plain metal French version, the kind you need to thoroughly butter and flour to prevent sticking. They are work perfectly and last pretty much forever, so long as you wash and dry them carefully afterward to prevent them any flecks of rust from showing up. (The easy way to do this? Soak the pan for a few minutes to loosen any baked-on bits, give a gentle scrub and rinse, then flip over and return to the turned-off but still-warm oven to dry upside down.) There are non-stick versions, and those creepy, flippity-floppity silicone ones, but in my experience, the extra buttering and flouring the metal ones require help give the subtlest whisper of a crust, just a tiny bite of nutty golden-browness to contrast with the sunny, spongy crumb.

As for flavoring, lemon is classic, orange delightful, some specks of vanilla bean perfectly wonderful. You could rub some lavender flowers into a canister of sugar and use the softly floral results. You can even make savory madeleines, crunchy with cornmeal and a hint of rosemary, particularly nice with soup as a first course. I've long adored this corn-muffiny recipe created by Molly O'Neill, which I tore out of a New York Times Magazine circa 1996 and have kept tattered, splashed on, and well-loved ever since. You can melt the butter and then keep going, gently cooking until it smells nutty and turns the color of honey. Strained to remove the solids, this beurre noisette, as our French friends call it, deepens the flavor with a aura of toasted hazelnut. Right now, my favorite accompaniment to a bowl of summer peaches and nectarines is a batch of Meyer lemon madeleines, made from with a backyard lemon picked right off the tree.

Recipe: Meyer Lemon Madeleines

Summary: These spongy, delicate little cakes taste best fresh out of the oven. If you need to make them ahead of time, reheat gently and dust with powdered sugar just before serving.

By Stephanie Rosenbaum

Prep time: 15 minutes
Cook time: 8-12 minutes
Total time: 23-27 minutes
Yield: 12 to 40 madeleines, depending on the size of pan

Ingredients
1/3 cup sugar
1/2 tsp finely grated Meyer lemon rind
2 eggs, at room temperature
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 cup flour, plus an additional 2 tbsp for pans
1/4 cup (2 oz/4 tbsp) unsalted butter, melted, plus an additional tbsp of softened butter for pans
powdered sugar, for dusting

Instructions

1. Preheat the oven to 375F. Depending on whether you have a sluggish or an eager oven, this can take up to 20 minutes. You really need your oven good and hot to get the batter to rise up in that characteristic madeleine hump, so turn the oven on as soon as you walk in the kitchen. Prepare the madeleine pans: Rub each scallop lightly but thoroughly with softened butter, making sure to grease all the ridges and crannies. Dust the greased pan with flour, shaking it to and fro to make sure each scallop is completely coated. Turn the pan upside down and tap sharply to remove any excess flour. Set aside.

2. Mix lemon rind and sugar together. Add eggs and salt. Using a wire whisk, a hand-held electric mixer, or a stand mixer, beat eggs and sugar together vigorously until mixture lightens and becomes creamy, pale, and thick. By hand, this will take 5-8 minutes; using a mixer, from 4-6 minutes. Don't skimp on this part, since the volume of air mixed in at this stage is crucial to making the cakes spongy and light.

3. Stir in vanilla extract. Gently fold in the flour, followed by the melted butter. Fold gently until just combined.

4. Spoon batter into each scallop, filling it 2/3 full. Bake for 8-12 minutes, until firm and just beginning to color around the edges. Remove from the oven. Let stand for 1 minute, then flip pan over and tap firmly. Most of the scallops should drop out; run a butter knife around the edges of any that remain to loosen.

5. Wrap in a napkin to keep warm. Sift powdered sugar over the madeleines just before serving.

I have this thing about history books-- especially ones about food history, military history, and the misdoings of European royalty. If its got a lot of useless trivia packed into it, I will read it, digest it, and annoy my friends with the opening line, "Hey did you know...?"

And if what I'm reading includes all of the above, I am one happy nerd.

Thanks to my recent reading, its finally happened. I've met him-- my new historical crush, Stanislaw Leszczynski. He might not have been the handsomest fellow in the world, but he had it going on: he lost the crown of Poland, became the French Duke of Lorraine by marrying off his daughter Maria to Louis XV (after losing Poland a second time), and, most likely by virtue of is own good nature and a heavy dose of pity from Frederick III, was made a count of the Holy Roman Empire. It doesn't matter much that, by the 18th Century, The H.R.E. was neither holy, nor Roman. It wasn't even much of an Empire, but a cluster of bickering Central European states. Still, it was a nice title.

But it really isn't his laundry list of honors that impresses me. I'd still like him if he were merely an viscount or baron or margrave. It's his penchant for popularizing and ascribing names to food that I like. Really, really popular food. King Stanislaw, it seems, was quite a gastronome, as his painting might hint at. Just look at those multiple chins.

According to my latest read, The Food Chronology by James Trager, Stanislaw started a craze in Paris for pigs' feet, tripe, and most importantly, onion soup soon after his daughter became queen of France. According to legend, he was so taken with an onion soup he was served at an inn on his way to Paris that he visited the kitchen in his dressing gown and demanded the chef to show him how to make it. Et voilà, everyone was eating Soupe à l'Oignon.

It is also culinary lore that Stanislaw would drench kugelhupf with rum from the French West Indies to create Baba au Rhum. Though it is more than likely he did not name the dish "Baba au rhum", three points of truth indicate his possible involvement in some ways-- kugelhupf was a well-established dish in the regions of Alsace and Lorraine by the time Stanislaw took up residence, he loved alcohol, and the word "baba" is derived from the Polish word for "good woman" or grandmother. Think "babka."

And finally (unless you want to get into the quiche Lorraine, which I do not), he's got the madeleine-- that tea cake enshrined by the famously self-obsessed shut-in, Marcel Proust. Not everyone will agree that Stanislaw was the man who named it. What is known is that the madeleine originated in the town of Commercy, in Lorraine, where Stanislaw was in residence. Some say he named it after a maid who served them him. Others say they had long been baked by the local nuns of St. Mary Magdelen convent.

Oh, there are lots of theories on the origin of madeleine, but I won't bore you with them.

I think what I'm rather taken with is the fact that this man seems to have had his finger in a number of culinary pots. I am jealous that, because of his stature, he was able to influence the tastes of a country which was then becoming famous for its food-- a country that wasn't even his.

Of course in the 18th Century, anyone of note was aching to have their cooks invent dishes to be named for them. Think Sauce Richelieu or Sue Anne Nivens' favorite, Veal Prince Orloff.

Are people naming dishes today or has everything already been named? It feels as though everything has. Apart from delis with a penchant for naming sandwiches after Borscht Belt comedians, I'm coming up blank. We just don't see elegant dishes like Asparagus Britney Spears or Tournedos à la Brenda Fricker coming into common usage. There is no flourish these days. Everything is so bloody straightforward, a long string of words listing ingredients. Flank Steak with kohlrabi pudding, sunchoke fries, and anchovies. Or whatever. Are we so unsophisticated that we now have to have everything spelled out for us?

I mean really.

Give me the days when an old Polish king could wander into France, have a bit of cake and say, "Oh, let's call this a madeleine." Perhaps his French wasn't good enough to say "I would very much like one of those delicious, buttery cakes with the faint whiff of lemon." It doesn't really matter. One says "madeleine" and one knows exactly what one is getting.

And to that I say, "Dziekuje, Stanislaw." Thank you. You've given me an idea. I shall start naming everything I eat. Sadly, the best name I've come up with for anything lately is Chicken Statutory, which is an Americanized version of Chicken Cacciatore, but made with younger, fresher chicken.

I think it needs a little work.