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Roman Virtues

Puntarella Salad with Anchovies and Seville Orange

I have been asked many questions about my involvement

with Odeon Cinemas’ luxury ‘movies with meals’ project,

the Lounge. One of the most intriguing is the notion that

I might try and theme the meals in accordance with some

of the films. This would present a challenge. Some films

might be comparatively easy: The Artist could have

something French, light and airy – quenelles, perhaps –

and The Iron Lady would undoubtedly feature halibut as

she seemed to be looking forward to it so much. I daresay

I could come up with something for W.E. (cold fish?)

although Shame and Warhorse might well prove more

problematic. The one complete shoo-in would be a

puntarella salad with Coriolanus.

I discovered the strange – but beautiful – puntarella

some twenty years ago. I tore off a stem to eat it raw,

but promptly spat it out in a mouth-puckering state of

disbelief. Untamed, it is about as bitter as chicory can be.

It needs a bit of handling. The outside leaves should be

blanched, then dressed with olive oil and lemon, and

served with roast meat. The stalks are addressed as salad.

These must be soaked in cold water for a couple of hours,

which has the merit of making the shoots even crisper

while also drawing out much of their bitterness.

The traditional dressing for puntarella – rarely strayed

from in Rome – is an aggressive mix of chopped

anchovies, white wine vinegar and olive oil, but one that

I find addictive. That combination of bitterness, salt and

sour is typically Roman and one can imagine it being

chomped by a bunch of centurions two thousand years

ago as easily as in a restaurant in Trastevere today.

Coriolanus would have regarded it as a little dainty,

perhaps, but enjoyed it nevertheless.

I was going to commend this traditional fare to you

– well, I still do – but I happened to have a few Seville

oranges and debated whether to partner them with the

puntarella. The question was whether the oranges were

just bitter like the salad, thus compounding the felony,

or complementarily sour, like the vinegar. In the end, I

made both the traditional salad and the version below.

There is a simple test on these occasions: which one did

the extraordinarily greedy (and skinny) photographer eat

and finish, concluding that whereas the zest of the orange

is indeed bitter, the juice is sour?

21

January