Porrophage

by Gustav

The leeks I am rinsing are slender cylinders of oniony understatement and color. These tender young specimens are all opalescent white at the base, rising through an infinite spectrum of chartreuse up to the deep jade of the flags, or upper leaves. They open easily as I check for sand or grit, some of them curling magically in the cold water. I’ve split them lengthwise, starting just above the root end and proceeding up to the verdant flags, most of which I have cut off and relegated to the compost, though I know people who savor the more cabbagy flags sautéed and stirred into their pilafs or grits. Not cutting all the way through will hold them together during the braising ahead. The simplest of braises, just butter and water, no intrusive flavors challenging the delicacy tonight. I will eat them alone with some crusty rye bread, a little more good butter, and a smattering of sea salt and cracked pepper. I have poached an egg on occasion and perched it atop the bed of leeks, but tonight I am quite content with the little symphony of green and white and gold on its coarse brown raft. It seems a perfect autumn supper.

Suave and understated, the leek is the Allium family’s under sung member, at least in this country. In Europe, however, Allium Porrum has long been esteemed, and some of the culinary world’s classic concoctions rely on them. Of the Allia, they are the subtlest and easiest on the digestion. The Egyptians, having discovered a wild variety, cultivated them attentively, bred a new, thicker stemmed variety, and immortalized them on their tomb paintings. With its slender stem and angular outcropping of flags, it somehow looks Egyptian, stylish and spare. The ancient Romans respected the leek far more than they did onions or garlic, savoring leek dishes and reserving the coarser Allia for seasonings. The Roman gastronome Apicius, in the one surviving cook book of his times, gives four recipes for leeks, mentioning garlic only twice, and then only used in tiny quantities. The poet Horace’s favorite pasta dish was dressed with leeks and chickpeas, for what that’s worth. Aristocratic Romans, in particular that whack-a-doo despot Nero, believed that the leek increased the sonority of the voice, and Nero drank copious amounts of leek broth daily, earning him the title of Porrophage, or leek eater. We don’t know if his ravings were more sonorous as a result, but apparently the leeks did nothing for his fiddling or attitude. It was probably the Romans who deemed the leek ‘the asparagus of the poor’ because back then things gastronomic were pretty tightly intertwined with socio-economic status. Leeks are highly esteemed in northern Italy and Greece to this day.

The Romans probably introduced the leek to Britain, and subsequently to the Welsh, who made it their own emblematic vegetable. Those enigmatic Welsh. There are stories of a battle between them and the Saxons in the seventh century, the Welsh wearing leeks in their hats to differentiate them from their foes. They won the battle. Hopefully they were sporting the slender wild variety of leek that we know as ramps, or perhaps the ramson, a variety of wild garlic, and not the thick-stemmed leek that we know today. Leeks can grow to some gargantuan proportions if not harvested, and there are contests in Wales to see who can grow the most colossal. They winter over well, if well banked, but the core becomes pithy and tough if not harvested as soon as they start to grow again in spring.

Curmudgeonly playful Steve, our man over in the produce department, grows the tenderest of young leeks, little masterpieces of white and jade, with regal names like “King Siegfried” and “Imperial.” Such young specimens often require only a ten minute braise. It was not an easy year for leeks up at Steve’s farm in Crown Point. The floods up there this spring turned his hillside leek trenches into little canals, but somehow his tenacious little leek roots held their ground, and we’ve been savoring the resilient results since early September. They are as delicate and flavorful as any we have ever tasted. Leeks, as they grow, are earthed up, or hilled, with soil to keep them white and cylindrical. This blanching, which prevents photosynthesis in the lower stem of the leek, is also done with Belgian endive and asparagus. Soil can splash up with the rain, lodge in the leaves, and then be driven back into the leaves when it rains again, making the leek notoriously gritty unless the farmer is scrupulous. Steve’s leeks, at least the ones I have been braising lately, have had not one speck of grit or sand, perhaps because he had a dry spell, but we prefer to think that it takes a tough hombre to make a tender, grit-free leek.

Once you happen upon a good bunch of leeks and clean them, the sky’s the limit as to their applications. They add a certain depth and finesse to myriad dishes, and have a way of unifying the other ingredients.

In my old, haute culinaire days, I of course had to make many vats of Vichyssoise. This most elegant cream soup is a rarified relative of the sturdier Potage à la bonne femme, leek and potato soup. (Even that is sometimes called Potage Parmentier, and sometimes Soupe Gauloise, according to Escoffier. Oh well). Anything cooked à la bonne femme connotes, in the culinary world, the ability of the “good wife” to make do with what was in the garden or barn or stream with frugality and savoir-faire. Her “potage” would contain only potatoes, leeks, water or broth, and salt. The urbane Vichyssoise was actually invented not in Paris but by Louis Diat, a Frenchman cooking in the 1930’s at New York’s Ritz Carlton. He finely puréed and strained the basic Bonne Femme, chilled it, and laced it heavily with cream, serving it with a soigné garnish of chives. Diat was a native of Vichy, and remembered his mother cooling her leek and potato soup with milk. Kicking that up a bit, and cooling it, he arrived at the suave classic we know today.

Leeks are high in long chain carbohydrates, giving them a slightly mucilaginous texture that will gel a braised leek as it chills. This texture is a decided plus for soup makers, as it will thicken slightly, as in the Welsh Cock-a-leekie and the French Pot-au-Feu, both wonderful winter meals in a pot. Leek flags can also be wrapped around herbs and tied, creating a most resourceful bouquet garni and contributing a bit of texture and flavor to your soup or stew.

Both austere and sumptuous applications of leeks are noted in two current food-world best sellers. Mireille Guiliano, in French Women Don’t Get Fat, advises a humble weekend leek purge and jump-start to weight loss with her ‘Magical Leek Soup (Broth)’. She merely covers her leeks with water and simmers until tender. She drinks the resulting elixir all day on Saturday and Sunday, eating the flesh of the leeks dressed only with olive oil, lemon juice and salt and pepper for her meals. The low calorie, highly nutritional leek, with the added benefit of mild diuretic properties, is a good start to a new dietary regime, or whenever you need to shed a little avoirdupois, apparently. Mlle. Guiliano’s little book is filled with compelling recipes and observations advocating a celebration of the pleasures of eating well again, after the long siege of faddish dietary regimes. Not at all a "diet" book, it seeks to elicit a new pleasure in well thought out cooking and eating. For a more sybaritic approach, look to Marlena de Blasi’s best selling A Thousand Nights in Venice, the romantic idyll about an American chef falling in love with, and in, Venice. I don’t know about you, but a romantic novel with recipes sounds pretty tasty about now. Ms. De Blasi offers a really indulgent gratin of leeks, mascarpone, grappa and nutmeg, strewn liberally with Parmesan and baked in a hot oven for about a half hour. I followed her advice using Steve’s leeks and our imported Mascarpone, and was rewarded with an irresistible little dinner, served only with a salad of chopped cherry tomatoes and the last of the globe basil, splashed with a little balsamic vinegar. Senora bakes her gratin in one big earthen ramequin or in little individual dishes as a nice side dish for big winter meals.

I used to make a lot of opulent leek dishes, too, like leek and goat cheese tartes in a crisp, thyme-scented crusts, or quiche with leeks, wild mushrooms and Gruyère. (Get in the habit of adding a little dried herbs to your savory crusts- you will not regret it.)   The leek has a great affinity for cheese- more so, we feel, than the onion does. The refined Northern Italians blanch them with a little melted butter, strew them with Grana Padano or Parmagiano Reggiano, and run them under the broiler 'til they are a burnished gold. A favorite at my house years ago was a Ramequin au Poireaux- a sort of crustless quiche cum casual soufflé. It’s merely some béchamel sauce enriched with eggs and Gruyère, surrounding a layer of sautéed leeks (or mushrooms, spinach, asparagus…) All this you layer in a heavy casserole and bake at a high temperature for about a half hour. The ramequin puffs and browns gloriously, and all you need is a salad and maybe a baguette.

Keep in mind that cold poached leeks with an herby vinaigrette, perhaps punched up with some little hot red peppers, makes an excellent side dish. And that a bed of leeks under a piece of broiled salmon or sole makes a very soigné little dinner. That’s the only time that I would want black dinnerware. Put on some Chopin. Or not: put on some Aaron Neville or Louis or Branford, and toast New Orleans, America’s eternal capital of food and music.

Our recent penchant for all things Catalan naturally led us to our new favorite “Romesco” sauce, that splendid scarlet amalgam of red peppers, almonds, breadcrumbs, chilies, garlic and a river of good Spanish olive oil. The Catalans are so fond of this sauce that in spring, when the calcots (a variety of leek-sized green onion) are ready, they have a festival celebrating the calcots and the sauce. Can’t blame them one bit. You can very successfully substitute leeks for the calcots. “Food and Wine” magazine ran an issue on Spanish food last winter, and paired their leeks Romesco with crumbled Garrotxa cheese. Can it possibly get better than that? Romesco sauce will brighten those leaden days ahead- when the rain is driving against the window and you have spent the morning splitting wood, your only company the omnipresent blue jays and the occasional Coltrane passage wafting from the house…

 Ask us in cheese for a good Romesco recipe this fall. We have all the ingredients here at the Co-op for this and any of the other dishes cited above. All the chevres, mascarpone, Gruyère and Grana. Good olive oil from around the world. Butter from Vermont and France. And, do yourself a favor and get some of our produce department’s leeks-Steve’s, til they run out, or others. Served austerely or indulgently, they deserve your attention. And please remember to toast the Big Easy, whatever you’re doing for dinner.