I never met a root I didn’t like
This week, I fall for a root vegetable just in the nick of time, and make a recipe for endive and Bayonne ham gratin, plus a winter market haul.
Early in December, I dropped into Taupinette & Cie, my favourite ceramics shop in Pézenas, to pick up Christmas presents for my nephew Angus and his fiancée, Olivia. The owners Jean-Luc and Nathalie and I fell into a conversation about food, as we often do. I suppose when you spend your life making plates and bowls, it’s natural to have an interest in what goes on or in them.
‘You should go over the road to Crèmerie Clerc to see if they had navets de Pardailhan,’ Nathalie said.
‘To see if they have what, now?’
‘They’re from here. I’d never heard of them either before I met Jean-Luc.’
But I love a root vegetable with a past. I was committed.
And so I crossed the Place de la République to the pretty, green-awning’d grocers to seek out these special turnips. There they were, in a crate in front of the shop, the most aggressively mediaeval-peasant-looking roots I’ve ever met. They’re long, gnarled and black skinned, more like the black radishes I used to buy at my Turkish greengrocers in Hackney than the neat, round, purple-and-white turnips I’m used to buying here. But I love a root vegetable with a past. I was committed.
As I stood there looking at them, a man walked up beside me, clearly on the same quest. I asked him how to cook them.
‘Fry them, in olive oil or duck fat, for longer than you think. Just before the end, dust them with a little icing sugar in the pan to caramelise them a bit.’
Straightforward. Though obviously, as a food nerd I then lost most of the afternoon to learning about this prized turnip, how it’s grown, how to prepare it and cook it.
Navets de Pardailhan are only grown here in the Hérault, on the plateau between Saint-Chinian and Saint-Pons de Thomières. It’s cooler there, in the Haut Languedoc, than it is down here among the vines and olive trees and the turnips are said to soak up the mist through their leaves. They were harvested abundantly before World War II – 500 tonnes a year – but then fell out of favour after the war as so many fled the countryside for jobs in towns and cities. Today, only 15 growers remain. In the way of these things, in recent years these special turnips have been rediscovered by gourmets in search of the special, rare and unusual. It’s a proper heritage root and even has its own growers’ association. I am hoping for a guild, a festival, possibly a parade where everyone dresses as gnarled, black roots complete with leafy bonnets. I’ll report back.
They’re planted in August then harvested from late November to mid-January and have delicate flesh which tastes a little of hazelnuts. They’re used in stews, soups and gratins, but most usually as my fellow shopper described – peeled, cut into fat batons and fried, then sprinkled with a little sugar. It’s important to cut them lengthways, with the fibrous grain.
I did as I was told, fried them in olive oil, sprinkled on the icing sugar, then drained them on kitchen paper and ate them quickly with some flaky sea salt. They were so good, crisp outside and fluffy inside, and all the more special because I know the season’s over now and I’ll have to wait almost a year to eat them again. It’s like falling love with a sailor on shore leave and finding out he’s due back at the dock first thing in the morning.
I have a dilemma here. I’m writing about something you probably won’t be able to find where you are, but sometimes I imagine you might like to know about the special things, the flavours of here. And who knows? Perhaps one winter you will find yourself here, just a girl, standing in front of an unpromising turnip, and wondering what to do. Now you know.
THIS WEEKEND
Mechoui leg of lamb
I’m going to share a recipe for a slow-cooked leg of lamb inspired by the North African celebratory dish, mechoui lamb. My version is flavoured with cumin, garlic, coriander and other delights and cooked very, very slowly until it’s falling off the bone. We’ll have enough for lunch, plus leftovers for the week. Can’t go wrong.
Endive gratin with Bayonne ham
In place of a recipe for the navets de Pardailhan, I bring you endive. True confession time. When I bought these in the market, I had every intention of making a reviving winter salad from them. But then it has rained for two solid days, the skies are grey, it’s – for here – bitterly cold. So instead, I wrapped them in Bayonne ham, tucked them under a blanket of cheese sauce and baked them. This is a great meal on its own with a green salad and some bread, and it works very well as a side dish with a roast.
Serves 6
50g butter, plus a little more for greasing the dish
6 endive, about 120g each
1 tsp light brown sugar
2 tbsp white wine vinegar
6 slices of Bayonne ham or Parma ham
For the cheese sauce
40g unsalted butter
40g plain flour
500ml whole milk
100g Emmental or Gruyère cheese, grated
60g crème fraîche
A few gratings of nutmeg
For the top
60g Emmental or Gruyère cheese, grated
3tbsp fresh breadcrumbs
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Lightly butter a gratin dish which is just large enough to fit in the endive cosily. Heat the oven to 180C/160C Fan/Gas 4.
Trim the ends of the endive (not so much that they fall apart, just enough to remove the dry part of the stem) and remove any damaged leaves.
Melt the butter in a large frying pan over a medium-high heat. Add the endives, sprinkle on a little salt and sauté until golden brown on all sides, about 5 minutes. Turn the heat down a little, sprinkle on the sugar and add the vinegar then turn the endive over in the mixture. Put a lid on the pan (or a large plate, if your pan doesn’t have a lid) and cook for 5 minutes. Remove the lid and cook until there’s almost no liquid in the pan and the endives are gently caramelised. Remove from the heat, and when the endives are cool enough to handle, wrap each one in a slice of ham. Arrange them in the prepared gratin dish.
Make the cheese sauce. Melt the butter in a saucepan and then sprinkle on the flour, stirring for a couple of minutes with a wooden spoon to cook out the flour. Remove from the heat and slowly pour in the milk, stirring constantly, until you have a smooth, creamy sauce. Return to the heat and simmer gently, stirring, for 5 minutes until the sauce has thickened. Remove from the heat, sprinkle on the cheese and stir until it has melted into the sauce. Stir in the crème fraîche and season with salt and pepper. Grate in some nutmeg – I like about ¼ tsp, you might like more or less, so add some, taste it and keep going a bit if you would like more.
Pour the sauce over the endive. Sprinkle on the cheese and breadcrumbs and bake for 30-35 minutes until golden and bubbling. Let it cool for a few minutes before serving.
Market haul 9 January 2024
This week’s market haul comprises: Coriander, parsley, pears, Comté cheese, pâté, ham, peppers, bananas, celery, Brussels sprouts, salad onions, lime, potatoes, avocados, baguette, boule, lemons, endive, bouchées à la reine (a big vol-au-vent filled with creamy chicken and mushrooms) for lunch, Pardailhan turnips, sand carrots, apples, shallots, tangerines.
Another fabulous recipe to try. I have not heard of this root vegetable so thank you for sharing.
Really intrigued by the Navets de Pardailhan. I'm not too far from where they're grown so I'll keep an eye in my local veg shop!