How to cook the aristocratic artichoke

Enjoy artichokes, the very top drawer of the vegetable world. Picture: Tony Jackman

Enjoy artichokes, the very top drawer of the vegetable world. Picture: Tony Jackman

Published Oct 11, 2013

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Cape Town - If there is elitism in the vegetable world, artichokes are in the aristocracy. It’s one of those ingredients that, just by its dignified, silent presence, makes its pedigree felt, like the dowager countess of Grantham, who can sweep into a roomful of chattering people and silence them with a mere look. If you have ever watched Downton Abbey, you know the look.

The character played by Maggie Smith would no more cook artichokes herself, of course, than she would drive a car (it would never catch on, she feels sure) nor speak on a telephone (“What is that?”).

If there’s an upstairs and a downstairs in the vegetable community – as there used to be in many of the grand homes of an England that has largely disappeared – then the ones living downstairs undoubtedly include the humble carrots, slaving away at the kitchen hearth, the intrepid onions and potatoes scuttling hither and thither with dirty pots, pans and utensils, washing, polishing them and scrubbing them, and the ubiquitous tomatoes and cabbages, buffing his lordship’s shoes and seeing that his perfectly pressed dinner suit is laid out just-so on his bed just as he emerges from his evening bath.

Serving the elegantly attired clan in the dining room and desperate not to slop gravy on her ladyship’s silk-clad lap will be the leeks and celery, somewhat haughtier than the rest of the downstairs crew but nevertheless always knowing their place, their private thoughts on the matter only ever suggested by the discreet raising of an eyebrow a la the formidable Mr Carson, who doubtless would raise an eyebrow at the suggestion that he might be compared with a mere leek.

Upstairs, meanwhile, the artichokes would be in fine company with the likes of the aubergines, courgettes and asparagus of the vegetable milieu. The dowager countess herself is much like an artichoke, if you think about it, all drawn up at the neck as if having been dressed by a valet with half a mind to throttle her.

Lord Grantham, meanwhile, could fairly be likened to an austere yet shiny aubergine, frequently going purple about the gills whenever one of his well-groomed gaggle of offspring deigns to step out of line with their latest social faux pas, whether inadvertently sleeping with a Turkish diplomat one happened to find in her bed or another running off with an Irish firebrand.

Lady Cora, of course, has to be an American vegetable, so she can only be the pumpkin which, though native to America, has travelled well and generally fits in well with whichever world culture it has settled into.

The artichoke, too, has American connections, with Castroville in Monterey county claiming to be the “artichoke capital of the world”, but let’s not tell the dowager countess about that lest we be the recipient of a withering rejoinder that will have us slinking to the drawing room for a cigar and a whispered moan to Lord Grantham, with much mutual empathising and shaking of heads.

Of course we’re talking about the globe artichoke, not those silly Jerusalem ones which are a bit of a bother for Lady Violet’s digestion and are wont to bring on any number of muttered putdowns at the dinner table.

It was an American based in France who first unknowingly introduced me to artichokes in his book The French Menu Cookbook, the tattered remains of which are now somewhere on my bookshelf encased in a blackened cover which once got left on the stove top to catch fire. More recently I have become a fan of another American living in Paris, David Lebovitz, whose cooking advice is always spot on.

Lebovitz advocates the classic way of preparing a globe artichoke, which means you must have to hand a bowl of water and lemons with which to prevent the artichokes from discolouring while you’re preparing them.

Some cooks are proponents of rubbing the flesh side of half a lemon all over the artichokes each time you remove a layer of leaves, but Lebovitz urges you to pour cold water into a deep bowl and to squeeze the juice of halved lemons into it, then add the remainder of the halved lemons themselves. This is for putting the peeled artichokes into the second you’ve trimmed away their leaves.

Cut the stems down leaving only about 2cm on each. Then, with a sharpened chef’s knife (the big, flat one, Daisy), cut the crown (the part with all the leaves, Daisy) pretty much in half, right across the middle. You have to accept the part of the artichoke you’re going to eat is only a fraction of the whole. This should leave you with a flat-edged crown about 3cm from the base.

The hard outer leaves should now be pulled off one by one, before you run a paring knife (that’s one of the little jobs, Daisy) round the edge of the crown to get rid of tough leaves and skin.

In the centre, there’s a furry choke which needs to be scooped out with a spoon and discarded. You’re left with a stem topped by a little artichoke “bowl”. Pop the trimmed artichoke into the water, push it down to immerse it, and get on with the next one.

When they’re all ready, pat them dry and slice them about 1cm thick. Heat olive oil and on a low heat sizzle chopped garlic, quickly adding the artichoke slices, tossing and seasoning them before cooking, stirring, for about five minutes. Add 60ml dry white wine, or wine and a little lemon juice, cover and simmer on a very low heat for about 12 minutes, stirring now and then. I’d rather leave out the lemon juice. Add finely chopped parsley or thyme and cook briefly, uncovered, over a slightly higher heat to reduce the juices a little.

Ask Carson to serve them with freshly-baked bread and a crisp sauvignon blanc. - Weekend Argus

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