John Birdsall

Distills the intelligence and playfulness of a movement that changed American food in the late 20th century. Jeremiah Tower goes essentially uncredited, though much of the book reflects him.

Maybe the only book Beard wrote entirely by himself, this moves the cookbook-as-memoir genre far beyond where it existed in 1964.

Grigson draws on history, literature, and horticulture to deliver on the central mission of the cookbook: to suggest what to do with that bag of spinach in the fridge.

Makes the case for French food as an ethos and a feeling, not a compendium of exact formulas.

Fuses cookery, scholarship, and authorial personality in a way that's become common.

In the 1970s, this book persuaded skeptical middle-class white Americans that Mexico has one of the world's great food cultures. It's a testament to Kennedy's immersion in her subject.

The recipes turn precise technique into joyful expression, an approach that has come to drive more than fine dining cookbooks.

With calm professionalism, this book lends order to a sprawling subject.

Bugialli's not afraid to let his recipe stand naked, unfussed with, or fancied up—in other words, to be quintessentially Italian.

The recipes shine with grace and dignity, and the chapter intros and headnotes show like faded snapshots of a lost world.