Annie & Alison: A Food Blog

Before making this recipe, I had no idea what radicchio, endives, or chicories were. I couldn’t pick them out of a line-up if I tried.

Okay, now I’m imagining a bunch of vegetables all standing in a long line and making small talk with each other...

Celery: “Ey Tomato, why you gotta be so short?”

Tomato: “Don’t make me get red in the face!”

Cucumber: “Hey there, gourdgeous!”

Gourd: “Well you’re lookin’ mighty cuke yourself!”

Radicchio: “Endive, why are you so bitter?”

Endive: “I could ask you the same question!”

Radicchio: “Is it because we’re both in the chicory family?”

Endive: “Could be… but what’s chicory ever done to you?”

I’ll stop. But honestly I did have to Google these leafy greens to know what I was searching for. And good thing I did because neither radicchio NOR endive, both of which belong to the chicory family, are green!

This may be one of the more aesthetically pleasing salads I’ve ever assembled, but sadly that didn’t mean it was the most tasty. Both radicchio and endives are quite bitter, which means I would personally pair them with a vinaigrette that’s on the sweeter side for balance. Instead, this recipe calls for an equally bitter dressing made of olive oil, lemon juice and mustard. For Jordan, the bitterness was simply too overpowering and he chose not to eat it.

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The dressed leaves are topped with anchovy bread crumbs and raw egg yolks. Now, if you read the Kimchi-Braised Pork essay, you’ll know that raw egg yolks are not my thing, so it would be no surprise that I skipped them here, too.

Homemade bread crumbs, on the other hand, are most definitely up my alley, and will never be skipped if I can help it. These bread crumbs have an added twist: before adding the freshly pulsated crumbs to the frying pan, several anchovies and some olive oil are cooked down into a paste, which then soaks into the crumbs. This gives them an extra umami; a slightly fishy but wonderfully salty edge that makes them contribute more than simply adding texture. I really enjoyed this crumb recipe twist. However, a slightly fishy bread crumb paired with a very bitter salad, is not my ideal combination.

Would the called-for addition of egg yolk have changed my mind? I don’t think so. Looking back, I do think the fix could have been as simple as adding a bit of honey or sugar to the vinaigrette. I did eat my full plate of salad, but I can’t say it was enjoyable. Nevertheless, there are several more, what Alison calls “knife-and-fork” salads, left to make, and I have hope that I’ll find success with at least one of them. I mean, they’re from Alison Roman. How could I not?

40 recipes cooked, 185 to go.

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Alison Roman is the slightly older, cool girlfriend I wish I had in college.

Allow me to elaborate with a story about lentils. It was a cold, January night, and I was invited to eat dinner at a friend’s college apartment. She was a Senior, I was a Sophomore. I felt very cool as I left my dorm room to skip out on cafeteria food. Shortly after arriving, I learned that we’d be eating lentils. I nodded excitedly, while inwardly racking my brain… I had no idea what lentils were. She would now begin to prepare our meal, she announced with an air of nonchalant authority. Her first step was to chop an onion. How grown-up it all sounded. I wanted to watch her up close. She took a dull bladed knife and began sawing her way through the onion’s middle. Quickly, I began to feel an odd stinging sensation in my eyes. The more I watched her, the more intense the pain became as it spread to my nose and throat. It was a foreign feeling, and it scared me out of my wits. What was happening to me? I began shedding tears. She looked at me and said “The onion’s making you cry. You should go in the other room.” The instruction sounded strange but I didn’t question her. I spent a few minutes in her bedroom as the burning sensation slowly left, all the while asking myself what just happened. That was the first time I ever cried over an onion.

But back to lentils. By the time I emerged from the bedroom, my friend had moved on to sautéing the onion and boiling a pot of lentils on the stove. We chatted a bit as I watched her intensely, trying to appear chill. She drained the lentils over the sink and poured them into the pan full of onions. After just a few minutes of pushing them around, with a few added dashes of salt, our dinner was ready. I didn’t know what to expect. I especially didn’t expect I’d be eating a bowl of practically flavorless, mushy green pebbles. For a brief moment, I wished to be eating rubbery pork tenderloin and green beans in the cafeteria. But then I figured that this was a good growth opportunity for me. I had to learn what real adults cooked eventually. I’d be there soon myself... For the next few years, this was my impression of lentils - soft, flavorless pellets, destined for a melancholy meal.

That friend didn’t know what the heck she was doing with lentils. Maybe I should chalk it up to a lack of experience, and she’s learned better by now. Alison Roman, on the other hand. Now there’s a friend I wish I had in college. She knows quite well what to do with lentils…

To hell with only a white onion and salt alone. Give me shallots, garlic, and burst cherry tomatoes! Give me a pool of olive oil and black pepper. Give me black lentils instead of green. Give me a hot skillet and time to get the grains all crispy. Give me red onion slices marinated in lime juice and fish sauce. Give me tender parsley. Give me a fried egg and chile oil! THIS, friends, is how to eat lentils.

There’s so much more I could say about lentils. So many more anecdotes, stories, existential questions. Alison has a lot of lentil recipes, so I’ll reserve these for later. Spread the love, so to speak.

Served with Ali Slagle’s Ginger-Lime Chicken.

30 recipes cooked, 195 to go.