It seems counterintuitive to cook lettuce, or at least it did to me at first. Surely the whole point was that it was raw and vital, especially crisp varieties like romaine or little gem, whose job was to crunch virtuously, offering contrast to my sluggish nature. It was the inclusion of lettuce in the spring vegetable stew vignarola that convinced me otherwise. Salad it may be, but lettuce is a green vegetable too, and one that braises surprisingly well. I promptly found several recipes for and including cooked lettuce, which I adapted into this recipe for braised lettuce and scallions. As Simon Hopkinson says, if you have never braised a lettuce you should start now.
The method is similar to several others in this section: the smothering method. That is, having been turned in the melted butter and oil and doused with a little white wine or water, it is covered and left over a low flame so the lettuce—in a sort of pan steam-room—can cook in its own juices. Nothing of its flavor is lost, but simply reabsorbed into the leaves, which collapse into a tender and floppy pile. It’s simply delicious. I serve it with roast chicken and fish cakes.
serves 4
6 little gem or 2 large romaine lettuces
a bunch of scallions
1½ tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons olive oil
7 tablespoons white wine
salt and freshly ground black pepper
Remove any dark or damaged outer leaves from the lettuce, then cut the little gem in half, or the larger lettuces in quarters, lengthwise so they remain connected. Trim and slice the scallions into 2-inch pieces.
Melt the butter and olive oil in a deep frying or sauté pan with a lid over medium-low heat, then add the scallions and lettuces and turn them in the oil and butter before adding the wine, a pinch of salt, and a grind of black pepper. Cover the pan.
Turn the heat to its very lowest and cook gently for 20–30 minutes, turning the vegetables every now and then, until they are tender and floppy. If at any point the pan looks dry, add another tablespoon of water or wine, or remove the lid and increase the heat to reduce any excess liquid. Serve immediately or at room temperature.
The traditional Roman salad is misticanza (“a mixture of things”): an assortment of leaves, field herbs, and aromatic shoots collected at the first signs of spring from the fields around Rome, then eaten as a salad. Italian food historian Gillian Riley reminds us that this habit of collecting wild plants is a legacy of the days when the poor, unable to afford a doctor, were cared for by country women and their collections of wild medicinal plants. Until fairly recently, women dressed in black would bring the misticanza they had collected to the market to sell.
We may not have a field to collect herbs and aromatic shoots from, but it’s still possible to assemble a misticanza of sorts with an assortment of green leaves and herbs from your garden or the market, such as baby lettuce, arugula, mâche, radicchio, escarole, watercress, sorrel, baby borage, and dandelion. You need a combination of tender green leaves, some small crisp ones, something strong and peppery, and something very soft. The leaves should be washed and dried carefully (wet lettuce is the enemy of dressing, and therefore my enemy) and dressed simply with salt, lemon juice, good red wine or balsamic vinegar, and extra-virgin olive oil. I usually put these in the bottom of a large bowl, put the leaves on top, then toss them at the last minute.
My brother, Ben, and my dad are both big fans of a plain lettuce salad (“nothing fancy,” Dad might say): the heart of a soft English lettuce, ripped into manageable pieces, with some of Dad’s dressing (5 tablespoons olive oil, 4 of grapeseed, 1 of wine vinegar, 2 teaspoons Dijon mustard, 1 of honey, put in a jam jar, shake like mad until it emulsifies). I like this salad too and think of them both when I eat it. For four people you need three lettuces, as you’re only going to use the soft heart, which should be separated into leaves and washed and dried carefully, then tossed with your favorite dressing, and served with or after most things.
The mere mention of puntarelle has me shooting off on a sentimental tangent that involves my friend Alice, a trattoria in an irritatingly pretty piazza, a paper tablecloth, Pyrex glasses, a liter of hair-curling wine, a grumpy waitress, braised rabbit, and a bowl of pale-green curls of gently bitter salad leaves with anchovy dressing.
I’d heard about an idiosyncratic salad from a Roman friend in London long before I moved here, of a Catalonian chicory with dandelion-like leaves called puntarelle, which, once trimmed, cut, and immersed in cold water, curled in much the same way as Shirley Temple’s hair. The pale green curls are dressed with a pungent and loudly delicious dressing of anchovies, garlic, olive oil, and lemon or vinegar. I ate it with Alice during the first spring I was in Rome, and neither the wine nor the waitress could spoil our delight in the puntarelle salad that we, in the proprietorial manner of new arrivals in Rome, had so happily “discovered.”
Nine years later, less proprietorial and pretty comfortable about still being in Rome, I prepare puntarelle a lot during its winter-spring season. I say prepare, but curl, pulse, and assemble is a better description. Some people say that the dressing should be made with a mortar and pestle, but I make mine with my immersion blender—not just for speed, but because I like the more consistent, thicker dressing that a few pulses creates. I also prefer lemon juice to vinegar, as it gives the dressing a citrus-sharp but less aggressive edge. Puntarelle is becoming more widely available, but in its absence you can use frisée.
serves 4
1 head puntarelle or frisée
1 garlic clove
4 anchovy fillets packed in oil, drained
1 teaspoon lemon juice or red-wine vinegar
4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
To prepare the puntarelle: holding the whole head, pull away the dark green external leaves. Separate the individual tube-like stalks and pull off any dark green leaves. Cut away the tough lower part of each stalk, then cut the tubes in half lengthwise and then each half into strips about ⅛ inch wide. Rinse the strips under cold water, then immerse them in a bowl of iced water for 30 minutes, or until they curl. Once curled, drain and dry thoroughly.
To prepare the frisée: discard the tough outer leaves (or use them for soup), then wash and carefully dry the paler inner leaves. Tear the leaves into bite-size pieces.
Peel the garlic, then cut it in half and remove the green shoot, if there is one. Pound the garlic in a mortar and pestle, then add the anchovy fillets and grind to a rough paste. Stir in the lemon juice or vinegar and then the olive oil. If you’re using an immersion blender or small food processor, blend all the ingredients until they form a textured dressing. If not, just blend the ingredients in the mortar and pestle.
Tip the leaves into a bowl or serving dish, pour over the dressing, toss to coat evenly, and serve immediately.