QUICHE HAS MY sympathy. It, too, has borne the burdens of chauvinism. And yet it’s such an equal-opportunity dish. Easily thrown together, transportable, crowd-friendly and filling, it’s a picnic basket’s best friend.  The maligning started as far back as 1980, when the B-52s released “Quiche Lorraine,” a song about a poodle who sounds a lot like a dog drag queen. The “sweet, sweet puppy” is “dyed dark green, about 2 inches tall with a strawberry blonde fall, sunglasses and a bonnet.” Though the pastry of the same name has been persistently feminized stateside, that bacon-filled quiche is named, not for a female—human or canine—but for the French region of its origin.  Full-blown discrimination arrived in 1982 with Bruce Feirstein. In an attempt to poke fun at the contemporary state of masculinity, and all the “perplexing moral dilemmas” that came with it, he wrote a book titled “Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche.”  And just who was the “Real Man” of Mr. Feirstein’s satire? Someone, the author elaborated, who “realizes that while birds, flowers, poetry, and small children do not add to the quality of life in quite the same manner as a Super Bowl and six-pack of Bud, he’s learned to appreciate them anyway.” But quiche? Never. “The one phrase that sums up his very existence, a simple declaration that he finds symbolic of everything in today’s world that’s phony, affected, limp or without merit”? Cue the title. “Could John Wayne ever have taken Normandy, Iwo Jima, Korea, the Gulf of Tonkin, and the entire Wild West on a diet of quiche and salad?”  With that, Mr. Feirstein cheekily damned quiche to the place where all things fancy and girlish—and, seemingly, French—are banished. And it’s ironic, because in its native country, this tart is among the more rustic, hearty baked goods: a home cook’s catchall for scraps and pantry staples. Though men entered their “sensitive” phase in the 90s and then evolved into grooming-obsessed metrosexuals, this did not bring redemption for the quiche.  Thank goodness two of my personal heroes have always been simultaneously comfortable with their masculinity and loyal to the classics. The late musical prodigy Prince Rogers Nelson was known to ask for a quiche every now and then. And my father, James Druckman, introduced me to quiche Lorraine when I was a kid, at a small French café called Les Delices Guy Pascal, around the corner from our home on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. I began requesting the dish a lot—not, I assure you, because I’m a girl. It was because I couldn’t get enough of that buttery crust and the soft, creamy filling with its salty, chewy nuggets of pork suspended inside. Then I tried the broccoli quiche at Eli Zabar’s E.A.T. a few blocks away, and forgot all about my friend Lorraine.  Lately, I’ve noticed a whole lot of quiche being offered and eaten, by people of all genders. The thing is, it’s rarely identified by its proper appellation. A “vegetable tart,” it’s called, or a “savory pie.” In her forthcoming entertaining-focused cookbook “Mozza At Home,” chef Nancy Silverton offers recipes for “Egg Pie,” replete with leeks and goat cheese or braised Swiss chard and ham. Similarly, one of the British food writers I often turn to, Felicity Cloake, has a lovely looking “Confit Garlic, Thyme and Parmesan Tart” in her newest book, “The A-Z of Eating.” It is quiche, dammit. And it’s time we all admitted that.  Some have. At Manresa Bread in Los Gatos, Calif., baker Avery Ruzicka offers a regularly updated seasonal quiche. At the brand new Saboteur Bakery in Bremerton, Wash., pastry chef Matt Tinder tends to have at least one, identified by its proper name, on his daily menu.  It’s also time we started making quiche at home. I took the plunge with three variations, each showcasing a different style of crust, type of filling and variety of custard base.  For the custard, my standard ratio is four large eggs to one cup of heavy cream. But you can play around with that. For my potato skin-inspired quiche, I used tater tots bound with rendered bacon fat and cheddar to line the pie dish, which I then filled with bacon (whence the fat), chives and more cheese. The custard features crème fraîche instead of heavy cream, because that’s what I like on my skins.  Next, I mixed canned salmon with peas and dill and set them in a rich mixture of heavy cream and egg yolks. The crust is Liz Prueitt’s infallible standard from Tartine Bakery in San Francisco, with the addition of lemon zest and caraway seeds to complement the filling’s fish and herbs.  Finally, I wanted to do something a little lighter and vegetarian—a new broccoli quiche. I roasted the vegetable and used eggs, cottage cheese and Dijon mustard as the binding. Because it’s laced with piment d’Espelette, the cornmeal crust has a smokiness reminiscent of bacon without containing any. This may not qualify as la vraie chose to Mireille Guiliano, author of “French Women Don’t Get Fat,” who endorses quiche-eating but alleges that Americans don’t eat “real quiche.” Ours is “the heavy quivering dish” served “cold or reheated after sitting for who knows how long in a glass case.”  None of the options I offer at right is aquiver; I don’t eat them cold or reheat them. If you prepare them yourself, you can enjoy them warm, after they’ve emerged from the oven, or tote them at room temperature to a lunch en plein air. By all means, share them with women and men, American or otherwise.
Remember when this simple, savory custard tart ruled without offending Francophobes or ‘real men’? Let’s just call quiche what it is: delicious, picnic-friendly food that suits most everyone, regardless of gender or nationality.