Sometimes it’s good to be bitter…

We don’t really associate deep – winter with salad but early in the year it is possible to enjoy some of the most spectacular leaves you’ll see on the greengrocer’s shelves. You’re probably familiar with Belgian chicory and Italian Radicchio. These are available year round. If you’re lucky you might also encounter some of their more seasonal near – relatives. I say relatives because although they bear little resemblance to one another at first glance they are part of a family. The posh family name they share is Chicorum Intybus. You can see the Latin root of our word ‘chicory’ right there. In English, chicory is mostly used to describe what the French call Endive and the Belgians, Witloof (literally: white leaf). It is unmistakeable with its firm spearhead of tight, white leaves. In fact there are many chicories. Some are grown for their leaves and others for the roots which have been used to create caffeine – free coffee substitutes and ‘root beers’ for centuries.

For the purposes of this piece, I’m going to be referring to what’s up top: an almost dizzying array of leafy vegetables that can be eaten raw or cooked. Texturally, chicories are not unlike beets and spinach but they have a kick. They are overtly, unapologetically bitter.

Chicory in flower, in summer on my allotment

The love of bitterness is an acquired taste. Humans have trained themselves to tolerate and even enjoy a flavour which, in its mildest form, tells you what you’re eating is unpalatable and, in some instances, lethal. 

In Much Depends on Dinner, Margaret Visser’s book about the history and mythology of the ‘ordinary meal’, the author suggests that learning to enjoy such tastes is both a rite of passage (marking a transition to eating ‘grown up food’) and a bonding experience. The ancient Romans prided themselves on taming the olive by curing it in brine: the fruit is wholly inedible when left to its own devices. Their’s was the first society to go beyond harvesting olives for oil and developing a taste for eating them as a snack was seen as the height of sophistication. Moreover, liking olives was seen as intrinsically Roman.

Few meals on earth represent identity more than the Seder: the Jewish feast of Passover. The food tells a story and each ingredient is symbolic. Bitter herbs are eaten to represent the bitterness of suffering as slaves. In the modern meal these herbs are often represented by horseradish but the first Jews to observe Passover almost certainly gathered many types of leaves. These were not exclusive to the Seder. Passover tells the story of Exodus but it is also a feast of spring. In the hot, dry countries which surround the Mediterranean, spring is the most verdant time of year. There is bounty in every crevice if you know what to look for. The first shoots of plants that we might call weeds are enjoyed all over the region and some of them are chicories.

 Like many edible leaves, the chicories we grow for food are the tamed cousins of a  wild and unruly bunch. One is much beloved by romantics: he loves me, she loves me not. It is also the sworn enemy of tidy – minded gardeners. All wild chicories – including dandelions – are actually a type of daisy or Asteracae. In the Mediterranean (and to a lesser extent here)  the blue flowers of these wild chicories are as unmistakable as dandelion clocks in summer months. Left to their own devices most cultivated chicories will produce a similar flower when they bolt. At this point the texture changes from tender to fibrous and the flavour from mildly to overtly bitter. Those in the know will forage youthful dandelion  leaves long before this happens. In Crete, people gather in spring to pick a mix of wild weeds and herbs they call Horta. There are literally hundreds of leaves which can make up a dish of Horta but many are Radiki (wild chicories). These edible weeds provide sustenance during the hungry gap when winter crops are finishing and summer’s bounty has yet to arrive. They are also regarded as a cure for the blood. A sort – of spring clean. 

Nutritionally, the chicory leaves  are rich in vitamins and minerals. The roots of daisies, dandelions and all plants from Asteracae family have a reputation for improving  liver function and aiding digestion. They are also a mild diuretic, which is the reason behind the French name for dandelions: ‘pisenlit’ (literally: wet -the – bed). Since this is my first time blogging about what I cook and eat I should pin my colours to the mast and say that I stop short of recommending foods because they are ‘good for you’. I’m not a nutritionalist. I have a strongly held belief that no single ingredient can ever be as good for you as a balanced and (where possible) seasonal diet. 

But I do think some foods ‘feel’ good for you and that this gut wisdom can be followed, within reason, to the benefit of your health (both mental and physical). Some years ago I visited a friend in Florence, just as winter was turning to spring. Our conversations revolved, as they must in Italy, around food. We spent several more hours than others might mooching around the city’s amazing central market. The vegetable stalls were groaning with just about every variety of chicory you could dream up. Some grown, others foraged. “This is what we eat now, to balance out the winter diet”, my friend told me. In this way she was echoing what the grandmothers of Crete might tell the children who don’t want to eat Horta. In modern times this is more of a nod to tradition than an act of necessity. Today most Europeans eat just as much fresh food in the winter as they do for the rest of the year. Not long ago people spent the darker months surviving on preserved, fatty and salty meals to get by. No wonder they ‘took a broom to their blood’ once nature provided them with the opportunity.

You will hear similar sentiments about chicories up and down Italy but if one region is characterised by a love of these bitter greens it is Puglia in the deep south. “Cicoria” is so ubiquitous there that it has earned a nickname: La Verdura (literally the vegetable). It is often wilted, dressed with lemon juice and olive oil and served with a purée of broad beans. Cicoria grows abundantly in the wild and but it is also deliberately cultivated in Puglia. You might see it growing in the shade of Olive trees, in farmland dotted with Pajare ( the squatter, flatter Salentine versions of Trulli). It is said that these ancient storehouses were originally built with stones removed from the Olive groves so that land could be ploughed for ‘La Verdura’.

There is wisdom in providing shade for Cicoria . it is a fast maturing plant. If left in full sunshine for long it would surely bolt and spoil. When most plants flower the stems thicken and the leaves dwindle. In Rome, where the Puntarelle variety of Cicoria is prized, they make a virtue of this. The swollen, hollow stems of Punterelle are sliced razor thin and macerated with a generous amount of lemon juice, a suggestion of salted anchovies and, of course, olive oil.

You’ll come across this marriage of flavours again and again in the Italian kitchen. Somehow the salt, the sour of the citrus and the peppery nature of the oil manage to accentuate and sweeten the bitterness of the greens which, when tasted undressed, can be lip puckering stuff. But the wild nature of a daisy – leaf can be tamed further and to find out how, we need to travel north.

in Puglia and its southern neighbours the wild chicories may have been confined to the vegetable plot but they are still mostly doing what they want to. Reaching for the sky, they make sprays of arrow- shaped leaves. It’s photosynthesis which makes a chicory bitter. The greener it gets, the stronger it tastes. If you look at the crown of any leafy vegetable (be it a head of lettuce or of cabbage) you can’t fail to notice that the outer leaves – which get more sunlight – are darker and tougher than the inner leaves. It is the sweet, tender heart which is prized. Some growers actively wrap the outer leaves around the inner shoots and this is known as ‘blanching’ (not to be confused with the cook’s practice of giving something a quick dip in boiling water). In the garden, ‘blanching’ a vegetable makes the centre of the plant more pale and interesting by depriving it of sunlight. You can take the process further and deprive the plant of light altogether by growing it in the dark. This is known as forcing. As a forced plant reaches for the light which never comes it will throw out eerie, pale versions of its outside self. In Northern Italy, particularly in the Veneto, growers of Radicchio have turned this into something close to an art form. They call it ‘Imbiancamento’. In this process ( the same as the one which produces White Asparagus and forced Yorkshire Rhubarb) the plant is grown conventionally through the summer. Then it is cut right back to the root and taken indoors. Water, kept at quite cool temperatures, is swirled around the roots. Light is kept at bay by fleecing the crop with straw or even sand. The aim of keeping everything in the dark is to produce sweeter, slightly less bitter leaves. The results can be astonishingly beautiful. Without the sun, that which would have grown green blushes instead. The most stunning variety is surely ‘Castelfranco’ named after the town in the Veneto where it was first produced. Cross breeding of classic red radicchio with apple green escarole has produced a creamy, yellow head of leaves, flecked with crimson. It’s like looking at a negative image of the classic colours.

Castelfranco, bought from the General Store, Peckham. January 2021

Taste – wise, Castelfranco might be the sweetest of all chicories but it can be eye – wateringly expensive. Since the brief season (January to March) means I will probably only buy one or two heads each year, I tend to think of it as a luxury I can afford. If that sounds stupid, there are plenty of others to choose from. The tight, round – headed variety we simnply call Radicchio is from Chioggia. There is strawberry – mousse pink Rosa de Veneto. There is torpedo shaped Treviso. There is otherworldly Tardivo, with fronds that wouldn’t look out of place on a coral reef. They all have a pretty robust leaf structure. Let’s say they are toothsome. With less moisture content than white chicory, there is no getting away from Radicchio’s bitter notes.

This is why Radiccchio is often cooked in Italy. Cooking brings out a mild, nutty flavour which can be masked by the bitterness when it is raw. Radicchio is delicious when grilled, in which case it is best simply quartered, with the stem or ‘heart’ left intact. If you’re trying this for the first time, grill it hard and fast, on a barbecue or griddle pan. Then dress it with nothing more than modest quantities of salt and olive oil. Of course, you can get creative. I tend to keep vinegar away from all the chicory leaves. A squeeze of lemon or orange juice is better. A little of the zest grated into a dressing doesn’t go amiss either. I like adding grilled radicchio to roast winter vegetables. Celeriac, squashes, carrots or parsnips…anything with a hint of sweetness. Mozzarella and Burrata are good companions to Radicchio as well.

Eaten raw, with or without all the above, Radicchio is best shredded rather than torn. It’s easier to dress (and eat) that way and you can weave it around the other ingredients with greater efficacy. I wouldn’t say the same for the leaves of blonde chicories which are best left like petals or little boats, into which you could let their accompaniments fall. I never cook CastelFranco and I’ll admit to being fairly set in my ways when it comes to dishing it up. It needs a dressing which makes a virtue of it’s shocking good looks. It needs accompaniments which won’t upstage it. A handful of hazelnuts or almonds: shelled, roasted and chopped. Thinly sliced pear which I’ll toss with a little lemon juice to preserve its colour. Acidulating the pear means I can be very mean with the dressing. Oil and salt. Nothing more. 

When preparing all the chicories and radicchios, including Castelfranco, remove at least the first two, outer layers of leaves. In some cases you’ll see signs of browning or, in the paler varieties, a subtle hint of green on the outer layers. Even if the leaves have been forced in darkness there’s nothing to stop them doing a spot of sunbathing at the market. No kidding. Don’t throw the outer leaves away! They never need go to waste.

All the chicory leaves can be braised. This is why it is always worth keeping the outer layers. I love to cook radicchio and chicory with frozen peas to create a wintry version of a classic, French dish. I sauté a couple of cloves of garlic with a sprig of sage (if there is some handy) Before anything gets the chance to colour I’ll add a handful of diced celery and maybe leek. But not onion. It will take over. Whatever I dice is accompanied by a generous pinch of salt. In goes a slug…a glass full…of red wine (white will do just as well). I’ll stir in a really stingy teaspoonful of tomato purée then add enough peas to feed whoever is around. For two of us that’s about 100g. I could cover them with stock but water will suffice. The peas simmer until they are unfashionably tender and, to be honest, pretty murky. That’s when I wilt in the radicchio, shredded or torn. It’s delicious on its own, I often eat it on or next to a round of toast. It works as a side dish, too.

Peas braised with Radicchio

Notes from the Allotment

The Bean Tunnel, full of wild greens and chicories, summer 2020

I have had some success on the plot with Italian varieties of chicory and Radicchio. I have found that if I sow Radicchio in the late spring it will produce quite astonishingly bitter green leaves throughout the summer and if I keep picking them, they keep on coming. The autumn, with its shorter days, allows their heads to turn ruby – red and they start to look more like the shop-floor versions. I have yet to try blanching. I haven’t found a suitable spot for forcing either but if the shed was bigger I’d give it a go. Last summer, I tried mimicking the Puglian model of growing these plants in some shade. I sowed rows of Treviso and Cicoria in the green tunnel formed by my bean canes. This proved to be the perfect environment. I also ‘stewarded’ youthful dandelion shoots and planted them in the same spot. This seriously retarded their tendency to flower and gave me delicious leaves all the way through the summer. If you have a garden and dandelions vex you I can’t recommend this strongly enough. it’s less frustrating than trying to eliminate them. If you keep picking the leaves before they flower they will run out of steam before forming those pesky seed – heads. Bedsides, if they don’t, the bees will thank you. Other, self seeded Interlopers found their way into the same spot as my chicories. Calendula, rocket, wild mustard and chard. By late May I was gathering a Peckham version of Horta on an almost daily basis. This hodgepodge of pretty astringent flavours needed cooking for sure. I tend to steam my wild greens and then dress them but they can be wilted directly in oil. In which case I love to pair them with bruised garlic and a crushed, dried chilli or two. In the summer of 2020 this was as close to the rugged shores of the Mediterranean as I could get. So there was an element of comfort food to these dishes. At the beginning of this piece I spoke briefly about the way food can help us form bonds with each other. Friends and colleagues from Italy, North and South, taught me how to cook these dishes and, perhaps even more importantly, how to love them. Each time I turn to such foods I feel a connection with those friends which nothing, not even a pandemic, can break.

Horta (by way of Peckham)

summer 2020

Some Practicalities:

Natoora is a great place to look if you don’t see the seasonal chicories in your local shops. If looking for seeds, I turn to Franchi. Their deliveries are quick… and you can sign up for a decent newsletter which (so far) seems to be much more about sharing information than marketing.