Coriander leaf acquired taste

Press, 5 December 1989, Page 13

Coriander leaf acquired taste

Food & Fable

by

David Burton

Sitting down to lunch in a trendy cafe near London’s Covent Garden a few years ago, I was puzzled to find on the table not two but three little mills.

One held the usual black pepper, the other rock salt, but the third, I was intrigued to discover, contained coriander seeds.

This I passed off as a minor English eccentricity, until some time later I happened to read in that irreverent yuppie bible, “The Official Foodie Handbook,” the following passage on laying the table:

“In the middle is a Kremlin of little mills, clear plastic or wood, which contain: rock salt, black peppercorns, and coriander; three colours of peppercorn (black, white, and pink) and allspice; coriander alone. (Not garlic salt.) These are the original satanic mills.”

So somebody, at least, was taking these guys seriously. And so perhaps we should, for the flavour of coriander seed, which is simultaneously pungent and sweetish, makes it sufficiently versatile to be sprinkled over anything and everything, from the strongest game sausage to delicate fish, chicken, pork, lamb, cheese, rice, potatoes, eggs, not to mention cakes and confectionary. Coriander leaf, of course, is an entirely different story, being very much stronger and something of an acquired taste. Some, such as the French writer Louis Lagriffe, have made most unsavoury comparisons: "Fresh coriander is endowed with a very agreeable penetrating odour, so strong that it makes you sleepy, at the same time that it recalls the smell of the bed-bug.” This bed-bug business goes right back to Pliny, who coined the name coriandrum from the Greek koris, a bug. Having had the dubious pleasure of sharing a bed with these creatures in a sleazy Turkish hotel, however, I fail to recall an aroma of coriander (and I only wish such a sweet scent had emanated from those sheets.)

The whole point of the comparison, I believe, is not the smell of the leaves, but the appearance of the immature seeds, which really do look like little bed-bugs. Since coriander is native to the Mediterranean, it is not surprising to find it in Greek cooking, particularly that of the Cypriots, who bring us Afelia, a pork dish so charming in its

simplicity: cubes .of pork are first marinated in red wine, then removed and fried in butter while the marinade is reduced in another pan. Finally, the pork and reduced wine are combined, and crushed coriander seed is added to taste, along with salt and pepper. That’s it!

The other great Greek dish which always includes crushed coriander seed is vegetables a la grecque. With its customary chauvinism, Larousse Gastronomique calmly informs us that the culinary designation “a la grecque” rarely indicates an original Greek recipe, which in the case of vegetables a la grecque, is complete nonsense: the dish is well known to the Greeks, it is just that they refer to it simply as marinated vegetables (lahana marinata). The trouble with this recipe, especially when applied to a single delicately flavoured vegetable such as mushrooms, is that all that cloying fennel, thyme, and parsley detracts from the pure flavours of coriander and bay leaf. Here is a simplified version, better, I believe. Coriander Mushrooms Partially fill the kitchen sink and swish 200 g button mushrooms about in the water to wash them (this beats wiping each one laboriously with a damp cloth), then slice each into quarters (leaving the stalks intact). Grind >/ 2 ts P coriander seeds in an electric coffee mill, blender, or with mortar and pestle (ready-ground coriander is good only when bought very fresh; the flavour very quickly evaporates away). Heat 4 Tb olive oil in a frypan and add the coriander and mushrooms. Sprinkle over salt and ground pepper and add 4 to 5 bay leaves (these are essential to the dish and are best straight from the tree, crumpled in your fist to bring out their flavour). Fry for a minute, then cover the pan and fry for no more than three or four minutes, so that the mushrooms are still quite firm. Sprinkle the mushrooms with the juice of a lemon, then transfer them, along with their juices, to a bowl. Allow to cool to room temperature and pluck out the bay leaves just before serving. The dish keeps for several days in the refrigerator.