Recipe below: Asparagus with Anchovy Parmigiano Breadcrumbs
For many people asparagus tastes like grass. Like grass but sweet. I guess I’d somewhat agree, but what does this even mean exactly? Fresh mown grass, or cooked grass? Lawn grass or wild grass? Grassy is something people say when trying to describe the tastes of many green vegetables. It’s sort of like when people say that cheeses or mushrooms or dairy products taste nutty. I’ve even heard people say that particular nuts, almonds for instance, taste nutty. Which means I guess, that they taste likes other nuts, and that all nuts taste similar—which they don’t. Describing the taste of food is hard. Food writers struggle with it all the time. The frustrating thing is that you can’t convey a taste without comparing it to something else. How do you get around that? This spring I’ve been trying to concentrate on the taste and smell of asparagus. It’s hard. I mean green asparagus, not white or purple, which are variations I don’t find at spring farm stands. Raw asparagus has no smell, and its taste registers only a faint sweet bitterness for me. But cooking it brings out all kinds of tastes. Grassy? Maybe. But for me, I now realize, asparagus tastes like a cross between artichoke and broccoli. I’ve settled in on that description for now.
And what about asparagus pee? That aroma is really something special. I look forward to it every spring. It never fails me. It’s asparagusic acid that causes it, a chemical unique to asparagus and commented on since the dawn of the vegetable. The acid gets broken down in your gut into sulfur. Sulfur itself can smell disgusting, as in heavily cabbage-laced fart, but to me asparagus sulfur isn’t nasty. It’s a kind of sweet sulfur. It’s a marker of spring for me. And did you know that about 30 percent of people can’t smell their asparagus pee? The medical explanation for this is that some people break sulfur down better than others, leaving little left to smell. I have another theory: Some people just smell things better than others. I think I’m a super smeller.
Asparagus with Anchovy Parmigiana Breadcrumbs
1 large bunch medium-thick spring asparagus (1 pound or a little more), the tough ends trimmed
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
5 or 6 oil-packed anchovies, minced
1 small clove fresh spring garlic, minced
¾ cup panko breadcrumbs
¾ cup freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese
½ teaspoon sugar
The grated zest and juice from 1 medium lemon
8 or so large thyme sprigs, the leaves lightly chopped
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Blanch the asparagus in a pot of boiling water for 3 to 4 minutes, depending on its thickness. You’ll want it left a bit crunchy, since it will briefly cook again in the oven. Scoop the asparagus from the water into a bowl of ice water to cool it and bring up its green color. Drain it well on paper towels.
Preheat the oven to 450 degrees.
In a medium skillet, heat a tablespoon of olive oil and the butter over medium-low heat. Add the anchovies and the garlic and briefly let them melt and release their flavors into the oils. Turn off the heat, and add the breadcrumbs, the Parmigiano, the sugar, the lemon zest (but not the juice just yet), and the thyme, seasoning with salt and black pepper. Mix everything well. The crumbs should be moist. If they seem dry, add a little more olive oil.
Place the asparagus spears in a baking dish with enough room to spread out a bit. Some overlap is fine. Drizzle them with a little olive oil, the lemon juice, and some salt, turning them around in it to coat them lightly. Sprinkle the breadcrumb mix more or less evenly over the asparagus, leaving the tips and bottoms free from crumbs. Bake until the crumbs are golden and crisp, about 8 minutes or so. Serve hot or warm.