Cardoons

I have been a big fan of Mario Batali's for years, and he has waxed rhapsodic about cardoons so often that I have developed a near-pathological desire to try them. Unfortunately, we don't see so many cardoons around our parts. Most folks around here don't even know what they are.

So what are they? Cardoons belong to the artichoke family. We grew one a few years back but unfortunately couldn't figure out how to harvest it; when it flowered, the flower looked just like an artichoke. You don't eat the flower of the cardoon, however; you eat the stalks, which look like celery on steroids.

The local Whole Food had cardoons in stock a few days ago. It was the first time I'd ever seen them in their 'ready to cook' format, and I immediately knew that my commitment to eating locally was about to be compromised. I grabbed what appeared to be the best looking bunch (what does a good cardoon look like? I truly have no idea), plunked down my $3, and started planning my preparation.

Fortunately I have a mountain of Italian cookbooks at home. I lean most heavily on Mario Batali, Marcella Hazan, and Giuliano Bugialli, so that's where I started my research. They all agree that cardoons should be washed, cut into 2" or 3" sections and soaked in acidulated water (a little lemon juice does the trick; skip this step and they will start to turn brown, which I'm pretty sure does not effect the taste but does mar the presentation), then simmered for 30 minutes in acidulated water. The tough strings running through the ribs must be removed; most chefs say that this is easiest to do after cooking.

Because I had never had them before, I wanted a simple preparation that focused on the flavor of the cardoons, so I rejected a delicious-looking but too-elaborate-seeming recipe for cardoons baked with béchamel, cheese, and the like, and chose instead to sauté the cardoons briefly, then dress them with olive oil, lemon juice, salt, and pepper.

My results were mixed. My instinct was to boil less rather than more; I didn't want the cardoons to turn to mush. As a result, they were cooked but still a bit crunchy. A few of the smaller pieces had cooked further and had the consistency of a well-prepared artichoke heart; they offered a little, but not much, resistance to the bite. This is the way cardoons should be prepared, I think; cooked this way, they truly are the poor man's artichoke.

One bunch of cardoons makes an awful lot of cardoons, much more than the missus and I could eat in one sitting. I used the rest the next day in a lentil soup that also featured pancetta, parsnips, carrots, garlic, and onion. As we say down here in the South, it was some good.