“Pea” was Luca’s fourth word (“mamma,” “pasta,” and “up-up” being the first three), and he seems to have inherited my love of these tiny pouches of sweet and savory, both in fresh and frozen form. As I write, we are still very much in frozen pea mode. We had them last night with fresh egg pasta in broth, and a few nights back beside mashed potatoes and a fried egg, but spring is in the air and soon the emerald-green pods will appear at the market.
Like asparagus and new potatoes, peas are an ingredient that both England and Italy can be proud of, and since my feet are firmly in both food worlds, this shared pride makes me happy. We eat them English-style with butter, in fat frittata-type omelets, with rice and pasta, and pureed into a coarse paste reminiscent of grass in both color and taste, to be smeared on toast. A relatively new favorite is a delicious Roman habit of sautéing peas with a little prosciutto until tender and deeply flavored, then finishing them off with a shower of finely chopped parsley. I particularly like peas cooked in this way with roast chicken.
serves 4–6
2 pounds unshelled fresh peas, or 10½ ounces frozen ones
2 garlic cloves
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 ounces pancetta, prosciutto, or bacon, chopped
2 tablespoons finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
salt and freshly ground black pepper
If you are using fresh peas, shell them, and if you have the time (or inclination) pull the stringy thread and thin membrane away from half a dozen of the pods. If you are using frozen peas, thaw them.
Peel and gently smash the garlic with the back of a knife. In a large frying or sauté pan, warm the olive oil over medium-low heat and add the garlic and pancetta. Cook until the garlic is fragrant and just colored and the pancetta has rendered its fat. Remove the garlic before adding the peas (and pods if you have them) and turn them so that each pea is glistening with oil. Add the parsley, a grind of pepper, and 4 tablespoons water if you are using fresh peas. Cover the pan, turn the heat down, and cook for 5 minutes if you are using frozen peas, or 10–15 minutes if you are using fresh ones. If the water seems insufficient, add another tablespoon, but cautiously: there should be no liquid by the time the peas are tender, just a green-tinted oily sheen. Taste and add the chopped parsley, a grind of black pepper, and salt if necessary, stir again, then serve.
I have a friend from London who arranges his annual business trip to Rome in April so that he can eat carciofi (artichokes). The exact nature of his business is ambiguous, but the ambiguity may be more intriguing than the reality. Anyway, over three days, in between business appointments, he eats carciofi alla romana (whole, trimmed artichokes braised stem-end up with wild mint and garlic); carciofi alla giudea (whole artichokes deep-fried until they look like a bronze flower); vignarola (a spring vegetable stew of artichokes cooked with peas and fava beans); on pizza and in pasta. If he has time—what with all the business—he will take a train out to Velletri for the festival of carciofi, where he eats more of the above while drinking plenty of local wine. In between business and artichokes he also finds time to go to Gammarelli, the pope’s tailor, to buy socks. He then goes home with cardinal-red and bishop-purple socks and a dozen artichokes in his suitcase.
The beauty and sheer quantity of artichokes in Roman markets in late winter and spring is extraordinary, from bulbous romano or mammola artichokes as big as cricket balls with violet-stained leaves, coarse ribbed stems, and silvery glaucous green leaves; slim spinosi artichokes that look like beautiful weapons; to baby artichokes, purple-tinged and the size of a walnut. Extraordinary too—at least to me, who was used to only the occasional beauty to be admired and eaten leaf by leaf—is the nonchalance with which Romans treat them. Rather like going past the Colosseum every day on the way to work, it just is: buy them by the dozen and trim them. The first time I saw a woman trimming artichokes was at Testaccio market. She was sitting on a chair beside the stall, ankle deep in leaves and whittling something with such speed that I couldn’t tell what it was. When I finally realized that it was an artichoke I was shocked, in the same way you might be on first seeing a friend whose beautiful mop has been crew cut. Once you understand, it isn’t shocking at all, but makes absolute sense. Romans have found a cunning way to whittle away in a circular motion everything that is inedible, so that what you are left with is a pale, tulip-like heart that cooks beautifully.
One of the very best ways to eat artichokes is alla giudea, which is traditional in the Jewish community in Rome: trimmed artichokes fried until the leaves are burnished bronze, shattering, and crisp and the heart is as yielding and tender as it is possible to be (see here). Beyond frying, there are countless ways to prepare artichokes. I have chosen two ways that I think work well in kitchens anywhere you can find them: braised with mint and garlic, and in a spring vegetable stew. On a practical note, trimming artichokes, although it is pesky and initially makes you feel like Edward Scissorhands, is not particularly difficult once you’ve got the knack (see the recipes below).
Wine and artichokes are a tricky combination, as the chemical compounds in artichokes make everything you taste afterward seem oddly sweet or metallic. My wine-knowledgeable friend Hande suggests that if you are eating artichokes on their own, you should drink only water, resuming wine afterward. If, however, the artichokes are combined with something else, wines can be carefully matched. I often follow the “what goes together grows together” rule and eat artichokes from Lazio with a Malvasia from Lazio.
I will finish by mentioning an Italian drink called Cynar, a pale green, bitter aperitif based on artichokes, which comes in a green bottle with artichokes on it. You may well have seen one at the back of your parents’ well-traveled friends’ liquor cabinet in about 1979. It is weirdly delicious stuff, tasting medicinal, oddly sweet, and tinged with delicious bitterness. I love it served over ice as an aperitivo with salted almonds.