Meanderings on Capparidaceae

by Gustav

Speaking of the beauty and mystery of culinary language (whaddya mean, we weren’t?) what do you think of Capparis Spinosa: the caper? Delicious, is it not? I think that if someone gave me a kitten  or maybe a macaw I might just name it Capparis Spinoza. Why not. There’s the implied playfulness of  “capparis” and the philosophical intellectualism of “spinosa”.  There’s hints of “caprice” and “capricious”—qualities of the tiny comestible itself.  We love this sort of verbal whimsy and nuance,especially as it pertains to something yummy,  and there’s nothing not to love about the capers  themselves, once you get familiar with ‘em.

The vibrant cuisine of the Mediterranean coastlines reflects the vegetation that abounds there. Olives and their oil, garlic, rosemary and lavender are prerequisites of the Italian, Greek and Provencale kitchen.  Also essential is the caper, whose unique aromatic  quality has been enhancing Mediterranean dishes for thousands of years. Capers are, uniquely, both a seasoning and a condiment.  The ancient Romans used them in their startlingly complex sauces; they are mentioned in the Old Testament. Italy, Spain and Algeria are the major players in the caper biz. The caper bush itself is a trailing, prickly plant with shiny oval leaves that likes  the difficult and  rocky hilllsides and crevices of the North African and Mediterranean region. No one really wants to go out and pick ‘em but they are always glad they did. It is one of the only remaining wild foodstuffs and is rarely cultivated even to this day. If allowed to bloom, the flowers are a radiant white tinged with pink, with long purplish stamens.Usually, however, they are plucked when they are still buds, and they are nipped early in the day when they are still tightly closed and before the blistering sun unfurls them. They are then preserved in various ways: pickled in white wine vinegar; bottled in brine; or packed in coarse salt. 

The capers are graded by size, providing some more opulent culinary-speak.  The smallest are the non-pareils, and then, in ascending order, there are the fines, the capucines, the surfines, the capotes, and finally the gruesas (the Spanish word for ‘thick’).  Of late, caperberries have become popular.  They are the fruit of the caparis, the equivalent of the rose hip on the rose, and are generally preserved in white vinegar.  Their bulbous body and elegant elongated stem make them a special garnish for salads and sandwiches, or a tray of piquant hors d’ouevres,  and they could certainly be a spiffy olive replacement in your martini, should you partake. 

The pungent caper’s ancient Provencal name was tapena, giving the title to a wonderful Mediterranean condiment, tapenade. To make about two cups of tapenade, chop together two cups of pitted Nicoise, Kalamata or oil-cured olives( the oil- cured approach is the most intense), one clove of garlic and four tablespoons of rinsed capers.  You may, if you must, use the food processor, but please don’t over-process.  Add the juice of one small lemon, and then about a half cup of extra virgin olive oil very gradually, while whisking,  as is you were making a mayonaisse or vinaigrette.  Serve with crudities, cherry tomatoes, hard boiled eggs and a sturdy country style bread. A perfect early summer repast. You may have noted the we advise “rinsed” capers.  This is largely a matter of taste, but we like to remove some of the excess salt or domineering vinegar, and we do the same with brine-cured olives. (Give it a shot.)  Rinsing in cold water removes a bit of the sharpness.  It is imperative that you soak and rinse capers that are packed in coarse salt, if you happen upon them.  These are thought to be the best by culinary elitists…we remain egalitarian.  They do maintain a bold “caper-ness”, if you will, not being bathed in brine or vinegar, and there is a certain vegetable crispness.  In the larger sizes (we carry a salt-packed capote) you can feel the little, leafy layers of petals with the tip of your tongue.  They must be soaked for ten or  fifteen minutes in cold water (some people repeat the process) and then allowed to drain. You don’t need many to enhance a simple, herby omelette or a piece of grilled salmon. These capers don’t have an extensive shelf life,once opened, as the salt tends to absorb moisture and the buds spoil if this happens. Look for pristine white salt with no tinges of yellow, which indicates some moisture absorption.

A neat trick is to saute whatever capers you happen upon in a little olive oil before adding to your salad or entrée—it definitely kicks ‘em up a notch. (Where did that come from? Eek.)

There are caper elitists who sneer at any caper larger than a non-pareil (‘without equal’ in French), but we think all the sizes are useful. Certainly the non-pareil , beloved by the French, makes the most elegant garnish for smoked salmon. The capote, however, is perfect atop a  mustardy deviled egg, and doesn’t get lost in another pungent Mediterranean relish, caponata. The larger grades also maintain their identity in puttanesca sauce, that racy concoction of tomatoes, olives, hot red pepper, anchovies and dubious etymology that is some people’s favorite red sauce. Like, mine.  Recipes for puttanesca abound, but we can offer a few suggestions: 1) Use large capers; 2) If you indulge in that piquant little fish, the anchovy,don’t hesitate and go for the full  amount asked for in the recipe—they melt away magically in the sauce and provide an intriguing, non-fishy nuance; and 3) serve the sauce over orecchiette, as the capers have a whimsical way of tucking themselves into the little pasta “ears”. A treat for the tongue. We advocate a bit of whimsy this, or any, time of year. (You can certainly leave out the fish and up the caper quotient and still be happy).

 A deep and mysterious Sicilian pasta sauce is sarde, a fusillade of flavor containing sardines, tomatoes, parsley, capers, pine nuts and raisins. The Silcilians are not shy.

More voluptuous verbiage? The caper is intrinsic to several culinary classic sauces, all as racy  and piquant as their names imply.  How about ravigote or remoulade?  Gribiche or Grenobloise?

Puttanesca?  Piquant, we think,  and  seductive (e.g. “Ravishing ravigote, my darling, and a glorious gribiche. Don’t ever stop…”).

It’s  Spring now.  Buy pink tulips. Open the windows. Say  “Grenobloise” a few times.

Make something for supper, perhaps with a Mediterranean kick, that’s  as capricious as the breezes and showers of April.  Watch for  the robins.  You knew they’d be back.

Our grocery department has exceptional organic non-pareils. We have salt- packed capotes and the elegant caper berries over in specialty foods. Come visit and ask for recipes should you so desire.