Side

These are Rome’s other artichokes. Softened rather than crisped in their oil bath, they are of an extravagant goodness.

It was nearly eleven on Saturday and Fernando was standing under the open roof in the rain, tender, silvered glissades of it plashing quietly, as it has for two thousand years, onto the black and white marble of the temple floor. He, not minding, stood directly in the puddle, its depths caressing the tops of his shoes, looking up at the sky like a child in wonder, the water settling in fine mists on his cheeks and eyelids. He turned fifty that morning in the Pantheon. His spiritual birthday thus celebrated, he pronounced that his carnal festival was to be solemnized in not less than six of his preferred ostarie/trattorie/ristoranti. Fernando wanted to eat artichokes. More, he wanted an artichoke crawl—a critical journey up and down the vicoli (narrow streets), an earnest search for great, golden-green, crisped Roman roses—as many of them as he might vanquish in a day and its evening in a half dozen genuine houses—we were in search of the one perfect carciofo alla giudia. Ten years ago, I might have propelled him into the arms of the trattoria da Giggetto, when I was still convinced of the authenticity of its cooking. Sidled up as it is to the edge of the Portico d’Ottavia, perhaps it was only the taberna’s majestic old neighbor that wooed me. Fernando had his own ideas. At midday, we made quick aperitivi e antipasti visits to Arancio d’Oro in Via Monte d’Oro and La Campana in Vicolo della Campana, taking only one or two artichokes and a glass of white wine. We would settle in at Agata e Romeo in Via Carlo Alberto for a proper lunch that would start with another of the little beauties. The evening’s gallop would open at Tram Tram in Via dei Reti before a stint at Il Dito e la Luna in Via dei Sabelli, where we would crunch on more fried thistles. Our palates veneered in stainless steel, our bellies convulsing, plumped, we brushed sea salt and crisp freckles from our lips and our chests and stepped at last inside the dimmed sanctum of Piperno in Via Monte dei Cenci. Murmuring something to our waiter about not having much appetite, he assured us that he would carry to us only those plates that could titillate a dead man. He started us with a salad of puntarelle—a thick-bladed wild grass collected in the Alban hills— glossed in sauce of anchovies. Then came the misty comfort of stracciatella, chicken broth scribbled with a paste of egg and pecorino. Expert by now, able to whiff their very presence from twenty meters, we knew then the artichokes were only moments away. He set them down, clucking over their beauty, assuring us their salty vaporousness would coax our hunger. He was right. We continued with la coda alla vaccinara—oxtail stew—abbacchio—roast suckling lamb—a few crumbles of a hard, piquant pecorino pepato—peppered pecorino—a soft brown pear, and sealed it all with a great fluff of roasted chestnut mousse that we ate with small silver spoons.

This potato and bacon gratin was created by Rob Chalmers, a chef de cuisine at Lucques who had a great love of food and a big Boston attitude to go along with it. When he first told me about this gratin, I thought he was joking. That much fat in one pan might put even me over the edge. But lo and behold, bacon, potatoes, and cream really do taste good together!

This recipe was perfected by Brian Wolff, our lovably obsessive-compulsive chef de cuisine at Lucques. He developed it using our cornmeal of choice from Bob’s Red Mill. If you’re using a different polenta, the cooking time and quantities of water might be a little different. The most important thing to learn from this recipe is the technique. Keep adding a little water at a time throughout the cooking process. There are only a few ingredients, so the cook makes all the difference. Watch carefully, and let the polenta tell you when it needs more water. And most of all, stir, stir, stir!

White asparagus, ramps, and morels are the caviar, foie gras, and truffles of the vegetable world. Simply sautéing them together in brown butter and serving them with creamy polenta is one of my favorite ways to enjoy these edible trophies of spring.

When I was growing up, my dad and I had an ongoing asparagus arrangement: I would cut off the tips of my asparagus spears and trade them for his ends. While most asparagus eaters like the tender tips best, to this day I still prefer the fibrous-textured stalk and would happily swap tips for ends if anyone offered. In this simple first course, asparagus is grilled, then layered with prosciutto and dressed with mustard cream. I hope it’s delicious enough to disappear before your guests have a chance to debate which end is better.

Every time I make this flageolet gratin, I think about my first days at Chez Panisse. Everything went smoothly the first week. It seemed my studying—I had read La Varenne Pratique cover to cover and was working my way through Larousse Gastronomique—had paid off, until one of the cooks asked me to go and get a bag of “flageolets” from the storeroom. All of the blood rushed to my face. Too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know what he was talking about, I scurried away, hoping for divine intervention. In my panic, I spotted a French cookbook and quickly read that flageolets were dried kidney-shaped French beans. I found the beans in the pantry, wiped the sweat from my brow, and rushed back to my station. Saved— until the next time!