I
grew them first for their
beauty. Treviso’s spear-
shaped, deep-red leaves, and
bold, white veins demand
admiration, and peeling away
the lettuce-like outer leaves of
Castelfranco to reveal a heart
of white splashed with blood-red
stains is more magnificent than
unwrapping any gift. Grumolo
radicchio, nicknamed gnome
cabbage by my daughters (it looks
for all the world like a cabbage
hit with a shrink ray), proved its
worth when I used some in table
decorations for a visiting chef’s
dinner, where my friend began
eating the arrangements while
waiting for her meal.
Then I grew them for their
ease. The long, green leaves of
spadona chicory resisted pests
and frosts to provide us with greens
through a hard winter when many
other plants succumbed.
Then I grew them for the
challenge. Supplying chefs is an
endless pursuit of novelty. I’d read
about puntarelle, its special slicing
apparatus and the unique salad
it’s used in, and had to master it,
but getting it to produce hearts
has, so far, proved impossible.
It only goads me into greater
effort, seeking the satisfactionsuch as these, when we were
exhausted from a long market day.
Lighting a fire, we grilled our
piece of pluma draped with slices
of lardo, took it from the pan and
wilted the shredded spadona in
the meat juices before popping the
pluma on top and placing it all by
the fire to rest. The combination of
fat, salt and smoke on the chicory
was a revelation to me. Without the
contrast of the sweet, fat-laced meat,
the bitterness can be confronting,
but in this context it’s magical,
creating balance with the richness
to leave you feeling satiated rather
than overfed.
Once through that magical
gateway, my addiction reached
fever pitch, where it remains today.
It makes me question why the
flavour we pursue every day in
coffee or beer can be seen as
challenging to many palates when
it’s in vegetable, or even amaro
form. Many a disastrous night
ensued for me when, in my youth,
I’d buy my friends a round of
Campari, which they’d refuse to
drink and – waste not – I’d be
compelled to finish. Now I steep
bitter artichoke or olive leaves in
syrups of elderberry or rhubarb to
have on hand for more responsible
after-dinner drinks, and have even
been known to drink artichoke-leaf
tea after overindulging at dinner
time, its bold, unimpeded bitterness
both soothing and cleansing.
It’s seemingly satisfying to eat
sweet, savoury, easy food, but
I can’t imagine anyone feeling for
an iceberg lettuce what I feel as
I cut into a fat palla rossa radicchio
or being quite as smug after dinner
as I am when I pour pet-nat into
a Spritz based on my own amaro
infused with bittersweet herbs from
my garden. Learning to prepare, or
acquiring a taste for something
that challenges you? That can
inspire real passion. ●“I can’t
imagine
anyone
feeling for an
iceberg
lettuce what
I feel as I cut
into a fat
palla rossa
radicchio.”of some day laying the perfect
puntarelle on a chef’s pass.
Finally (and perhaps I have
this rather topsy-turvy), I grew
them for the flavour. It took a
home-killed pig and a fire to get
me addicted to bitter leaves. At
first taste – if they’re not properly
grown or prepared – bitter plants
may seem quite awful. Bitter
compounds are produced by plants
precisely to protect them from
being eaten, but that flavour,
in many cases, means they’re good
for us. Bitter plants stimulate the
production of bile, making it easier
for our guts to deal with rich foods
such as like fatty meats. Which is
how I found my gateway chicory.
It was the spring of the
spadona, the long-leafed, green
variety that survived a harsh
winter. I’d picked a lot for market
and only sold a couple of bunches- one to an elderly Italian man
who shouted “Cicoria!” at me
before throwing a dollar on
my table and making off with a
bunch. It was also the spring of
pork. We’d killed some pigs and
I’d inexpertly separated the “neck”
muscles (some say that pigs don’t
technically have necks), the larger
to cure into coppa, and the smaller
pluma for quick dinners on nights
Bittersweet
victory
Bitter leaves are not hard
to swallow after all, writes
PAULETTE WHITNEY.
Produce
ILLUSTRATIONS DAWN TAN & LAUREN HAIRE (PORTRAIT)48 GOURMET TRAVELLER