It was an Italian friend here in Barcelona who catalyzed my recent obsession with bitter flavors.
Like most rocinating beings on this planet hummungulus, I was not born a lover of bitterness.
Science says it’s an evolutionary protection. So as not to poison yourself with some toxic plant, for example.
But it’s also true that no one wakes up after a hangover, a breakup or a hard day at work and goes to the bakery to ask for an endive. People that sweet sweet sweet life of me-honey.
On the other hand, if you like bitter and don’t like those who don’t like bitter, bitter is you. Life is bitter or life is sweet, you choose. Susana, how bitter. Anyway, how much bullying vocabulary with O Amargor, amaro, yellow, sad, bilious. Bitter has a bad reputation, poor thing.
(bilious: “inclined to anger, bad temper” – as it appears in Google and in old medical-psychiatric-alchemical textbooks)
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So I was talking to this Italian friend the other day, and she kind of inspired an epiphany on the subject.
Simona comes from a pueblo in Veneto, the same origin as part of my family. She’s a bouya cook. The following conversation took place in Spanish, because both she and I only speak Portuguese and Italian from duolingo:
— Fuck (that’s me, who speaks “fuck” in any language). So does that mean purple endive and radicchio are not the same thing?
– No. Radicchio is much more bitter than endive. And he enchants me (with Italian vehemence). We Italians love the bitter taste. We have bitters, Campari, Fernet, Amaretto, many types of radicchio. But the Spaniards, no. That’s why there’s nothing bitter here. It doesn’t even have chicory.
I was thoughtful. By cosmic coincidences, the next day I was talking to the Italian woman from the organic stall at the market next door. And she confirmed: give up finding radicchio, chicory or any bitter vegetables around here; It’s not the local taste.
Then I discovered a thousand fabulous little things.
In summary, that radicchio belongs to the chicory, artichoke, endive and endive family. That there are a thousand types, with denomination of origin, and that I was possibly confusing the precocious variety of Treviso (somewhat common in Brazel) with the purple endive. I found it strange that the endive was so much less bitter than I remembered.
In Barcelona, with luck, you can find radicchio in specialized markets like La Salumeria, in Poblenou, or the famous Boquería market.
In addition, in large Spanish supermarkets, the maximum amount of green bitterness comes, in general, from a bag of arugula or endive – which, by the way, have a less spicy and bitter flavor than the ones I remember having eaten in Brazil.
And the endives, which I am absolutely madly hopelessly in love with, with its smooth bitter-sweet taste and crunchy texture.
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Well, it’s not fair to say that Spaniards don’t like mild bitterness. Especially at the time of ̶e̶ ̶e̶m̶b̶o̶r̶r̶a̶c̶h̶a̶r̶s̶e̶ do worm or vermouthwhich is what they call the midday happy hour.
The star drink of the hour vermouth it’s, duh, vermouth, basically a wine steeped with herbs.
The most popular formulas are, guess what, of Italian origin (see brands like Martini and Cinzano), but since the 19th century Spain has gained stars in the vermouth pantheon, with brands such as the Catalan Yzaguirre and a thousand others large, small and artisanal throughout the country. In 2021, the Basque vermouth Astobiza won the international “Oscar” for vermouths in the semi-sweet category.
Among the dozens of alchemical ingredients, seeds such as cardamom (from the ginger family) and herbs such as wormwood (also traditionally used to make absinthe) give the drink its characteristic bitter and aromatic flavor.
In short, vermouth is like a Spanish catuaba, sweet-bitter paka, like life. A danger.
In Spain, the bitter taste also figures discreetly in non-alcoholic beverages such as bitter kas, a neon red gassy thing that became popular in the 1960s in Spain and is now considered grandma’s drink (in fact, I remember coming here years ago and to observe with interest the señoras on bar terraces drinking phosphorescent potions).
In fact, the drink was so popular that even today some people mayors (aka more experienced :)) they call refreshments in general “kas”.
For the rest, honorable mention for universal beer and gin and tonic, an omnipresence in deep parties of young people and mayors here and elsewhere. Tannins, quinines. Among Spanish gins, my absolute favorite (not that I’ve tasted many, but this was passion at first drink) is the Galician Nordés, with its floral and fruity touches.
(more on the history of worm in another column!)
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Returning to the endive: did you know that it is actually a chicory root grown in the dark? That’s why it’s so white. And that’s why it was also important as food during the wars here in Europe, when many people had to make a living in bomb shelters.
It is not by chance that the bitter taste has been associated with various healers since time immemorial. It’s good for the liver, it’s good for digestion, it’s good as a depurative and invigorating tonic (whatever this means) in general.
Every culture has its bitters in the form of digestive liqueurs, syrups, poultices, teas. See my mother’s carqueja tea, which was the most horrible and blessed thing in the world. Or the Swedish bitter (generic name for concentrated potions with natural things tanned in alcohol); or Maria Treben’s bitters, which is said to have resurrected the alchemical recipe for Paracelsus.
My current craving is making homemade bitters for multiple uses. I’m a fan of angostura, I even put it in sparkling water. I’m already gathering cardamom seeds, juniper berries, gentian root, cocoa and coffee beans, bat legs, gecko tail from Cuenca. If you have tips, recipes and stories out there, please share :).
