Wild Garlic, Gooseberries and Me: A chef’s stories and recipes from the land

Here then, from cabbage to watercress, via asparagus and chard amongst others, is a personal take on the most truly vital ingredients of my kitchen.

The iconoclastic lover of heartless cabbage

Cabbages of all sorts have been playing a huge role in the diets of most parts of Europe for hundreds of years. So I’m told, anyway. They certainly played a big part in my youth, which concerns me a lot more. It may be subjective and provincial, but my youth, despite fading into the past, still affects my relationship with food more than European history does. If the opposite is true for you, I’d love to read your dissertation on cabbage and its role in the fall of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

I know it’s an old Irish cliché now, but I did in fact eat a lot of cabbage as a child. I can at least spare you the weary and hackneyed description of the smell of over-boiled cabbage permeating the house, simply because I have no memory of it. My mother never over-boiled cabbage. When she used it in classic bacon ’n’ cabbage (yes, we did have it a couple of times a week), it was added to the pot lateish with the lid kept off, and cooked until soft but not disintegrating. How’s that for enlightened?

I do, however, have a reference for the type of horrific food smells that can cause distressing memories. No, not from my friends’ houses, because everyone in the town was similarly enlightened. (Thanks to the town council for sponsoring that comment.) In New Zealand, there is a similar modern trauma amongst the newly sophisticated regarding the smell of long-boiled mutton, often combined with cabbage as well. I knew about it from hearsay before I ever experienced it. Like the cabbage legend on this side of the world, their version is often used as a way to laugh at country cousins or the ignorance of an earlier generation.

When I finally came nose to nose with the olfactory reality, I was living in a small town in the middle of the North Island of New Zealand. One quiet day of many, I went out for a cycle to pass the time. I could have gone swimming or cricketing or rolling bowls around the green like everyone else, but I was feeling unsociable. Miles out of town, I was overtaken by one of those serious bike people, decked out in the kind of tight-fitting, outrageously gaudy outfit that would get cyclists thrown out of all but the most hedonistic of gay clubs. He pulled over and made small chat, always delighted to meet someone interested in bikes, and so on. He was not a young man, and thus was very proud of overtaking youngsters. He was also running a small cycling club in a part of the world that didn’t care much for the sport, always on the lookout for new members. I wasn’t exactly fit at the time, but I was young and had my own bike, so I guess I was fair prey. I was also foreign and way too polite. Against my better judgement, I followed him to his nearby house to sign up to a glittering cycling career.

It was one of those classic Kiwi country homes, a tiny shack of timber with a tin roof and a small front porch on which there is always an old couch with cushions held together by the dog or cat hairs of their usual occupants. While the club chairman went into the back room to get forms, I stood in the kitchen. There was a tall pot on the stove. I recognised it from the legend. In it goes a piece of a dead sheep with plenty of water, and maybe a couple of onions if you’re really cooking. On goes the lid, heat turned down low, and off to work you go. When you get home, you call it dinner. Or maybe when you get home, you put the cabbage in – I never did pay enough attention. Anyway, the smell was vile, even sulphurous. I wasn’t professional enough to do an analysis, but I would swear there was definitely cabbage in this one. The smell wasn’t just coming from the pot – every part of the house reeked of it, from the endless daily ritual. By the time the chairman came back with the paperwork, I was a couple of miles down the road, moving a lot faster than when I’d met him. Saved by the reek of long-boiled dinner.

Because I have no childhood odour trauma about cabbage, I have never been uncomfortable with it, which must be why I still find it one of the most useful, affordable and flexible vegetables, both at home and in a restaurant kitchen.

The first book I usually turn to when trying to decide what flavours to pair with a vegetable is Jane Grigson’s Vegetable Book. Although I’ve never knowingly cooked directly from it, the book works as a springboard to an almost endless range of possibilities because of Grigson’s passionate but detailed research. True to form, she doesn’t hide her disdain for what she considers the coarser greens. On spring cabbage and its inability, or disinclination, to form a heart, she quips that ‘heartlessness is never a desirable quality’. It’s a fun line she must have enjoyed writing. I would have liked an evening in her company to discuss it – wouldn’t even have minded losing the argument, though an argument it would have been.

However, she clearly adored some cabbages, and rightfully placed the Savoy at the top of the pile. The Savoy is a highly cultivated vegetable, with a sweet flavour and wonderfully crunchy texture which makes it just as good eaten raw or cooked. Despite the recent trend against long cooking of cabbages, I think the best way to cook Savoy is to braise it for an hour or more in olive oil, wine and stock, with the possible addition of spices and the extra sweetness of tomato. After that you can add anything you fancy that goes with cabbage: I like chickpeas, lentils, seeds such as fennel, coriander, caraway and cumin, sweet peppers, fennel, even potatoes in a reverse of the classic method of adding cabbage to spuds. Not all at the same time, mind. Pick a well-matched two or three. In Paradiso we use it as a wrapping for dolmas and timbales, as well as a braised side dish. Savoy isn’t the most obviously smooth wrapping material, but the flavour makes it worthwhile and it only takes a little effort to flatten the leaves if you need to.

Even after losing my imaginary argument with Ms Grigson, I still love spring cabbage, partly for its lovely soft, pliable leaves and its relatively mild flavour, but mostly because it arrives in early spring just when we are tiring of the stored winter foods. Putting away the winter things and moving on is one of the most exciting times in the vegetable year. It changes your focus from the past to the potential future. Spring cabbage has the flavour of new growth, of life and hope and the mad optimism of a new year.

The brassica that divides people most, however, is surely the Brussels sprout – an eccentric name for a gloriously eccentric-looking plant. Brussels sprouts are compact cabbages in mini form, with concentrated flavour. But what an astonishing-looking plant they come from. It grows about 60cm (2 feet) high with a few dozen sprouts clinging to the stalk, while out of the top it puts up what it clearly believes to be a decent attempt at a cabbage. And it’s not far wrong. The leaves are indeed good cabbage, and have the advantage, culinarily speaking, of clinging to life when the sprouts and most other winter greens are gone. These should, however, be cooked like winter rather than spring greens. They are tough, having been hanging around all winter, and are best braised or thinly sliced and fried.

The sprouts themselves are as adaptable as the entire range of cabbages put together. They are best known as a simply boiled vegetable – hard or soft, as you like it. But they also fry well, with spices and tomato. They are good in creamy gratins with strong cheeses. The sprouts can also be shredded leaf by leaf and added to salads, soups or stews. Brussels sprouts with chestnuts is a classic combination, one that gets a frequent run-out at Christmas, but they also go well with other nuts, including walnuts, hazelnuts and macadamias. I believe they work with blue cheese too, but not everyone agrees with me. You have to admire that about Brussels sprouts – as much as they are pigeonholed by local tradition, they are also just as happy dressed up in exotic gear.

The thing about sprouts is that very few people can agree on how to cook them. Leaving out those who simply can’t abide the vegetable at all, the rest of us who profess to love them – there is apparently no middle ground with sprouts – are very subjective about how they should be cooked, so it is very difficult to say anything other than this is how I like mine. For everyone who likes them lightly steamed, there is another who likes them almost mushy, and really loves them that way, so you can’t say it’s wrong or ill-advised. Every winter at Paradiso I try a new twist on sprouts. The recipe to follow later with a blue cheese cream and spiced potato gnocchi is this year’s model. I love it, but I accept that it’s a personal thing.

There is also a relatively new cabbage that we used for the first time last winter. In fact, it’s relatively new to everyone except the Ethiopians. It was only in the late 1950s that it was first brought to Europe and America. It is called Abyssinian cabbage, but you may have come across it as ‘Texsel greens’, a very unglamorous name given to it by people trialling it as a crop in, er, Texas, would you believe? Ultan first grew it to fill that gap in mid-to-late winter. It can survive outdoors in our summer, but the fields and tunnels are full of greens then. So instead, he grows it in a tunnel in the dull days of November to February, to give us some badly needed variety at that time, something softer and lighter than most winter greens.

We harvest it in two ways for Paradiso: firstly as a cut-and-come crop where small-to-medium leaves are picked from closely sown plants; and secondly as a plant grown to full maturity when the leaves are almost the size of spring cabbage. The younger, cut-and-come leaves are close to spinach in texture, and can be used in almost the same way, bearing in mind that they do have a slightly tangy cabbage flavour. This works well with the sweetness of tomato and garlic, and it is comfortable too with the zing of ginger and some of the sweeter spices like nutmeg, paprika, fennel and cinnamon.

Even at full size, the leaves are relatively soft, somewhere between a coarse spinach and spring cabbage. This is a refreshing food to have in the depths of winter, when you want the flavour of fresh greens but are not in the mood for the full-on hit of kale. You can even eat the sprouted shoots, which cook like sprouting broccoli. The large leaves make a good wrapping for dolmas, timbales and terrines, but they are best cooked simply in any way that works for spring cabbage, especially stir-fried and seasoned with sesame and soy sauce.

Flowering brassica – the true cabbage royalty

When I think of great brassica, however, it isn’t the headed cabbages I dream about at all, but the flowering heads of broccoli and the loose leaves of kale. It is astonishing that purple sprouting broccoli has been grown for hundreds of years, yet it has remained relatively obscure in recent times. Meanwhile, the vegetable generally known as broccoli or, properly, calabrese, has taken over the Western world in a mere thirty years.

On the other hand, sprouting broccoli has the drawback of being a vegetable that doesn’t accord with the average supermarket buyer’s criteria. It has a long growing season, is time-consuming to harvest on a large scale, and it needs to be eaten when very freshly picked. But for the consumer, the flavour of sprouting broccoli has an intensity, richness and complexity that shows up the big-headed green version as the one-dimensional thing it is.

It doesn’t take much imagination to see how those attributes can be seen as positive attractions to those whose main priority in food is not mere convenience. This is a vegetable that sits in the ground over winter, then produces the most beautiful and intensely flavoured shoots in late winter, and continues producing more for eight to ten weeks. Its arrival at this lean time of year gives it a very special place in the hierarchy of all vegetables. There are varieties that crop even earlier, depending on the mildness of the winter, and others that go on producing into late spring. This is an area where the breeding of varieties to extend the season can only be seen as a good thing. The autumn in which I wrote this piece was so mild that many broccoli plants due to sprout early, as in shortly before Christmas, were already putting out a crop in early November. What is a grower, or a cook, to do? Scold the plant for unseasonal behaviour and ignore the crop? Or be grateful for such an early treat? I value the principle of seasonality as much as anyone, and I love those vegetables which remain resolutely and stubbornly seasonal. But there is a big difference between growers using their skill and knowledge to extend the season of a plant and a supermarket flying the stuff in from the opposite hemisphere because we can’t go a week without it. It is mainly because of this intelligent and useful extending of sprouting broccoli’s season that we are finally beginning to see it more frequently in markets and even in some supermarkets.

The last time I wrote about purple sprouting broccoli, in Paradiso Seasons, I suggested that the only hope for wider recognition of its virtues was if both the public and the growers viewed it as a vegetable on a par with asparagus in terms of perceived value and price. I didn’t know then that in Italy, where it has been loved for centuries, it has long been treated as such when sold at markets. It was even referred to as ‘Italian asparagus’ in eighteenth-century England.

Purple sprouting broccoli has a big rich flavour; a little bitter, yes, but with that essential innate sweetness too. It is great in stir-fries with hot spices like chilli and ginger, but is just as comfortable in pasta dishes with the sweetness of tomato or peppers, and herbs like thyme, basil and oregano. It works with most cheeses, but especially soft sheep’s milk cheeses like Knockalara, or mild blues. One of the nicest and simplest ways to prepare it is to simmer it in a small amount of water in a covered pan until just tender, and then dress it with olive oil, salt and pepper. This simple dish is equally good whether served at room temperature or piping hot.

Cime di rapa, or broccoli raab, is a somewhat similar vegetable, but it is grown more for its leaves than for the flowering stalks. The leaves are wonderfully bitter, yet cook as quickly and as softly as spinach. When cooked in olive oil, the leaves shrink quickly but become the most darkly vibrant shade of green. The edible stalk is sweeter than the leaves, which makes the combination such a deliciously balanced flavour. The skin of the stalks can be slightly stringy, so it’s best to either peel them or chop them finely. As I write, we have only eaten a trial crop, but it is a vegetable I am very excited about for the coming years. It is wonderful in pasta, as a perky side dish for a comforting risotto and cooked with the tomatoes and chillies that complement dark greens so well.

There is a great love of flowering brassica in Chinese cooking, and most of the favourites are from a range of greens going under the general name of choi sum. One that we have taken to using in the restaurant is Chinese broccoli, sometimes known as Chinese kale. (Well, it isn’t technically one of the choi sum family at all, but it is grown and used in the same way.) For some reason, faced with the choice of names, Ultan and I decided to go with ‘kale’ at first. I think he had kale on his mind that week, trying to find ways to make sure we always had a couple of kale varieties on the menu.

To confuse the matter even more, if you are lucky enough to come across this gem in a Chinese restaurant, as I did in a wonderful place in London doing a modern take on dim sum, then it will probably be called ‘gai lan’. Probably. Don’t bet your house on it. It might be ‘kai lan’, or any of a number of variations on the two. Outside of horticultural books, these terms can be more casual tools for communication. We choose one and go with it. That way, I know what the grower means, my cooks and floor staff understand what I mean and, hopefully, so do the people eating in the dining room. Nonetheless, when it came to serving the vegetable, I reverted to ‘Chinese broccoli’. Next year, I’ll go for broke and use ‘gai lan’. It must be a brassica thing, this confusion over names. I’m sure the rest of the vegetable world is much more conformist.

While not exactly a fast grower, Chinese broccoli gives results much faster than its Western cousins, putting out flowering stems with soft leaves attached. As with sprouting broccoli, these stems are the prized part of this amazing vegetable. It has that classic combination of sweetness and slight bitterness, and the young leaves are delicious too. The texture of the stem, picked at the right time, is tender and juicy, with a little bite. In the pantheon of greens, it has it all. It is often picked as a young whole plant, when every part can be eaten, and can be presented on the plate as one piece, which looks very striking.

Chinese broccoli has strong enough flavours to carry quite a lot of spices, and works especially well when flavoured with chillies, ginger, soy sauce or sesame oil. But if you think of it as having a character close to sprouting broccoli, then you can see how it can be used with European seasonings, with garlic, tomatoes and herbs, even with cheeses, as well as in the usual contrasting role with risotto and other comfort foods. It is great with eggs too, especially served straddling a soft omelette.

The timely revival of lowly kale

Not fifteen years ago, the only kale to be found was the curly green one. Even then, most people believed it to be fit only for cattle; a tiny minority enjoyed it from their own gardens, but it never showed up on shop shelves. Kale may have suffered from its association with poverty and hunger, something it shares with the wonderful but often derided swede turnip.

There is something tragi-heroic in kale’s history, in the way it fell from a dull but important survival food to something looked on with disdain. Kale is a tough character, it survives well in cold weather and in poor soil, and it is a low-maintenance, cut-and-come source of food. Most importantly, it over-winters well and can go on through the lean months of March and April, the notorious ‘hungry gap’ months. So much for the heroic. Foods that nourish through times of deprivation are quickly left behind when the good times roll in. Throwing off the badge of poverty, the survival food is discarded, denied even, and replaced by the exotic, by what can be afforded.

Years ago, I was discussing roots with a German grower working in West Cork, who supplied me with local and imported vegetables, a man who went by the descriptive name of Organic Joe. I was moaning about the high price of imported roots like celeriac and salsify, and the humble turnips too, though I never bought those from him. He said that for a new generation of growers and foodies in Germany, Holland and other parts of Europe, roots were something of an exotic. They had largely disappeared once the post-war economic boom kicked in and people could finally put away the foods that helped them survive when rationing was necessary. As one generation shied away from roots and the associations they brought to the table, the next generation went back to them as something with the dual appeal of being both exotic and traditional. So it may have been for poor old kale in these parts. I don’t think this is a conscious thing or an overt snobbery; it just happens that people unthinkingly move away from the things that have associations with the parts of their history they would rather forget.

In the early 1990s, as Ireland became more self-confident due to its increasing wealth, there seemed to be the beginnings of a new lease of life for kale, echoing Organic Joe’s theory on roots. Kale, having been rejected by a generation or three, was at once new to us and obviously part of our food history. At first, there was a renaissance for the traditional curly kale. Not long after, other more exotic varieties began to show up. By the late 1990s, we were seeing kale as a newly fashionable ingredient. Put away that dull old cabbage, dear, we’re having kale for dinner tonight.

The first of the immigrant kales that I fell in love with was cavolo nero, the Italian variety, and still my favourite. Again, the issue of naming comes up here. We’ve always called it by the loose translation ‘black kale’, not for any reason other than that it became the term in common usage between grower and kitchen. I know this can seem annoyingly careless to those who are fastidious about the proper names of vegetables. I’m generally as fussy as the next person about attention to detail but, in naming things, common usage often dictates the rules.

Black kale is a strikingly handsome plant, growing up to 1 metre (3 feet) high, with long leaves fanning out from the stem. The leaves are the most fantastic colour. Definitely a green, but purple too at the same time, a very intense purple that is almost black. Take a look at the water in the pot next time you boil some. It will be a beautiful, bright, shade of green. No purple there at all. Meanwhile the kale itself will have become more intensely dark. What’s going on here? Most greens become brighter and more translucent when cooked. This one leaks its green colour, intent on becoming a black vegetable. Cooked in olive oil and stock, its deep colour glistens, and the strong flavour has the perfect balance of bitter and sweet elements.

A new favourite is Red Russian, though the colour is really more of a magical blend of a silvery translucent green with pink shading. It has a softer, more open leaf than the black kale, and it cooks faster to give a more tender vegetable. We still persist with the curly green variety too, but I admit it is only as a back-up to the current two favourites. Others we have tried and liked, and will definitely come back to, are Pentland Brig, Red Bor and Raggedy Jack.

All kales can be cooked in the same ways, making allowances for their toughness. If you are using leaves with a thin stalk, simply chop them coarsely. This is especially good when you are adding kale to stews, as the stalks cook down to a softly chewable texture. If the stalks are thicker or seem tough, pull the leaves from the stalks, discarding the stalks, and then take one of two options. The first is to boil the kale in a large pot for anything from four to ten minutes. If the cooked kale is to be part of a dish, such as in pancakes, frittata, tarts or gratins, cool it by dropping it into cold water. Squeeze out the water and chop the kale. How thorough you need to be in squeezing out the water depends on the dish. If you intend to add the kale to a soup or risotto, it’s not such a serious issue, but if you are making gnocchi or putting it in a frittata, try to get it as dry as possible. Alternatively, for a simple side dish, wilt the kale by frying it in olive oil over medium heat, splashing regularly with stock or water until the kale is tender. This simple method makes kale a perfect foil for rich food, such as egg or cheese dishes. Most kales are strong enough to take quite a lot of spicing, especially chillies, cumin and coriander seeds, and ginger.

Kale is traditionally a winter crop, and, as such, it is a vital part of our repertoire during those lean months. However, we also use it in summer, sometimes even from plants grown in a tunnel. Kale in a tunnel? In summer? That may seem to go against the accepted thinking on the subject of kale, and indeed on the whole notion of serving vegetables according to their season. Over the years, Ultan has developed growing patterns to ensure that we always have a variety of different greens to work with. In fact, because of kale’s affinity with different ingredients and flavourings (it loves tomatoes and herbs, but also chestnuts and potatoes), I like to have one or two varieties around most of the year.

In the early summer, when the spring greens are disappearing, kale from the tunnel is very welcome, and is followed by outdoor kale which crops through the summer. The kale of deepest winter is the hardiest, with the toughest leaf and the strongest flavour. Kale grown in a tunnel is a different beast. It grows quickly, producing softer leaves. These cook faster too, giving a softer texture and a sweeter, milder flavour. The Red Russian is particularly successful this way, finishing up closer in texture to coarse spinach than to winter kale. It’s a lovely summer green, simple as that, and very welcome on my plate and in my menus.

Another misleading theory about kale is that it is bitter in early winter before the first frost. Bitterness in greens is a good thing, but the theory suggests that at this time of year it is not balanced by any sweetness when the vegetable is cooked. The frost theory is applied to other brassica too, especially Brussels sprouts. Some go as far as to say these greens need a few weeks of frost. (Weeks of frost? Brr…no, thanks.) I would agree that the first outer leaves of kale in early winter are not as sweet as the inner ones later on, but they are far from unusable or completely lacking in balance. To rigidly await the arrival of frost only makes sense in a location where the weather patterns are predictable and there are plenty of alternative greens. Many vegetables with a long season go through changes in flavour and texture during their picking time. This is something to be celebrated and savoured, even if some adapting of recipes is called for. The best analogy I can make is with the Sungold tomatoes that Ultan grows all summer long. Through the season, their flavour moves across the spectrum from acidic to sugary sweet, and few people agree on when they are at their best. They are, however, always good. In any case, while the climate in West Cork may not be a sub-tropical nirvana, the winters here are not very cold. If we were to wait for a decent number of consecutive frosty nights before we picked the crop, then some winters we’d never get to eat kale at all.

Whether growing kale or doing any other kind of gardening, you can only ever take a manual or instruction book as a guide, not a bible. The rest depends on your own circumstances, as well as your needs and tastes. This is true of cookery books too, including this one. Ultan puts it succinctly when he says that every locality, every field or side of a hill, every tunnel or glasshouse is a micro-climate. In her classic book Grow Your Own Vegetables, Joy Larkcom says that all gardeners need to be experimenters who have to co-operate with the conditions and requirements of their particular garden, as well as with the local weather patterns. By the same token, all cooks in their own kitchens have to be experimenters too.

Asparagus, perennial king of a gardening renaissance

I received an e-mail from a man I know, let’s call him ‘Harry’, who contacts me occasionally with proposals for business opportunities. Mostly they involve me working very hard and him adding to his stash. Still, I like looking at projects, fantasising about dream kitchens with more chefs than I need or can afford, turning out food I haven’t yet imagined. I can even get as far as thinking about what I’ll do with my share of the millions. Alas, the projects never happen, yet each time I mull over the possibilities with the same enthusiasm.

However, this most recent e-mail opened with news of his asparagus bed. Doing well, apparently, and giving the best asparagus in the world of course, though the slugs are causing sleepless nights. Now, Harry is young and wealthy. He knows the ways of the business world and has the tough streak needed to function in it. He also takes a good chunk out of life and is equally partial to a New York nightclub or a weekend’s ice-climbing. So, this e-mail was a new twist. (By the way, one of the many methods used by organic growers to deal with slugs is to crawl around at dusk, snipping them in half with decently sharp scissors. Now, that takes character. Good preparation for the cut-throat world of business, I would think.)

I tell this story to illustrate the fact that gardening, especially the growing of vegetables, is becoming fashionable, infecting people’s imaginations like some sort of virulent contagion. I have been told by people who give talks about vegetable cultivation that the audience is growing and the age profile is dropping alarmingly. Encouragingly, I should probably say. It is surely a bit ironic that while we cram our modern cities with hideous shoebox apartment blocks, those who have access to land, even a tiny piece of earth to dig, are turning to the ancient activity of growing food. There is a different focus this time round, however. Sure, people are growing a few spuds and onions, but there is greater emphasis on speciality and ‘heirloom’ vegetables, on the varieties that you can’t get in shops, as well as on those vegetables that need to be eaten very fresh and which are therefore usually in poor condition by the time they appear in a shop. Even where potatoes are being grown, the focus is on early varieties that are immeasurably better to eat when freshly dug. This new gardening is more about a love of food than saving on the household budget.

In a sense there is a new model being created for the kitchen garden, where the old staples are being replaced by vegetables further up the hierarchy; higher up the social ladder, one might say. Opinion on the aristocracy of vegetables may vary, but in almost everyone’s list you will find asparagus. In a rapidly growing minority, you will also find seakale. Both asparagus and seakale require a commitment of time and energy that gives a return that can’t be measured in volume, only in depth of pleasure. This makes them more than a mere luxury, because they can only be had through work and careful attention. And I say this as someone who doesn’t garden but who envies those who engage in this primal pastime.

It is ironic that, for such a classy vegetable, an asparagus bed is not much to look at during its productive season. The beautiful shoots poke their heads up, quickly grow to a size worth picking and eating, and then they’re gone, cut down and off to the kitchen to make someone’s day. Your typical asparagus bed, therefore, is a brown patch of earth with a mixture of a few short juvenile spears and some long grassy stalks, the ones that were never fat enough to pick, waving in the breeze.

The first time I saw an asparagus bed, however, it was a thing of beauty indeed. The bed was in its first year and Ultan had sensibly picked none of the shoots for eating, instead allowing them all to grow as they wished. The spears had grown to be long, delicate fronds, almost 2 metres (6.5 feet) high, and they were a pretty sight. Letting the asparagus grow would strengthen the plant below ground and set it up for good cropping in later years. The following year, he did it again, though I suspect he cheated a little this time, sneaking the occasional tea-time treat. We finally got some for Paradiso in the third year, although he picked for a fortnight only. It was worth the wait. Fresh asparagus has an intensity of flavour that might shock a palate used to pale supermarket imitations.

Freshly cut asparagus, from a variety grown for flavour as well as for yield, is indeed the king among aristocrats. It sets a benchmark for the flavour of other vegetables. How often do you hear or read that a certain vegetable has a hint of asparagus? Usually it is said in hope or bluff more than truth. And yes, good asparagus does have an element of primal green in its complex and intense flavour. It also has a definite earthy sweetness that leaks easily after picking, which is one of the best reasons to buy locally grown asparagus when it is available.

Asparagus has a proud history. It has been cultivated for close to forever, at least as far back as Roman times, and was produced on a large scale around Venice in the sixteenth century. All that time, and continuing today, it has been the jewel in the vegetable market of every culture lucky enough to be able to grow it, and smart enough to embrace it. It is shocking, then, to think of how, in Ireland, it went from being the most exclusive exotic to the mundane in what seemed like the vegetable equivalent of the speed of light. As well as shocking, it is perhaps a wry reflection on the values of a newly rich society.