Bitter is beautiful. Greens and beans for grown-ups

The marvelous novelist and food writer Laurie Colwin once cautioned against serving rapini on a first date. (Although one might argue for its salubrious winnowing effect.)

In my own home I watched a dinner guest assiduously remove every piece of radicchio from her salad. Since then, I’ve tried not to serve bitter greens to guests unless I know they “get” them.

I have a particular love for the chicories, the bitter lettuces, which include radicchio (red, pink, green and speckled varieties), endive, escarole and dandelion greens, not to mention all the dark leafy varieties of chicory the Italians consume, like dente de leone, spada and the strange, crunchy, not-so-leafy, many-lobed bulb called puntarelle.

There are also the bitter brassicas like rapini and its milder cousin, spigarelli; plus kale; collards, turnip and mustard greens, which all get their bitterness from glucosinolates, natural chemicals that evolved to defend the plants against insects, herbivores and diseases — yet fail to deter us humans with a taste for strong flavors.

The bitterness in chicories comes from the chemical compound lactucopicrin or intybin, which is their natural defense against disease and predators — and is also said to be a faint sedative and mild pain killer. It’s in the white “milk” one sometimes sees when cutting lettuce and its bitter counterparts. When I was a kid, my next-door neighbor, a woman from Sinaloa, Mexico, told me that she boiled lettuce leaves, cooled and strained the liquid, then fed it to her babies to get them to sleep.

Of course, once they can make their preferences known, children usually reject bitter greens. These strong, leafy vegetables are clearly an adult taste, though not every adult likes them. But many of us have come to appreciate, even to crave, such bitterness in tolerable doses; the way we like dark chocolate, black coffee, IPAs, quinine drinks, not to mention serious novels and movies with not-so-happy endings.

And how do I like my bitter greens?

Beans and greens! The long simmered with the quickly sauteed! Cranberry beans and dandelion greens. Cannellini beans and escarole. Chickpeas and rapini. And on a hot summer day, there’s fresh arugula with white beans and cherry tomatoes. Together in a bowl or plate, beans and greens have enough complexity and umami to please carnivores and vegetarians alike.

One of my favorite preparations is large, dried limas cooked to a cloud-like softness with one or more bitter greens.

There is something luscious yet edgy about the marriage of large, soft, creamy limas with chicory’s compelling, addictive bitterness. (Think gentle Jane Eyre and surly Mr. Rochester! Spirited Lizzie Bennet with aloof Mr. Darcy!)

All told, a saucy, dynamic, compelling mix.

After bitterness, a little sweetness is in order. Something in keeping with the rustic, adult pleasure of the entree. Perhaps a simple tart, like the one I had years ago in the cafe of the Louvre — yes, that Louvre. I forget what savory dish I ate for lunch, but I will never forget the only dessert on the menu that day: tarte a l’ananas.

1

2

1. Michelle Huneven’s pineapple tart comes out of the oven at L.A. Times Food’s test kitchen. 2. The finished pineapple tart. (Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

Ananas? Was that what I thought it was?

Pineapple? Really? In a tart? This was new to me. OK. I’d give it a try.

The tart’s crust was barely there, just a buttery whisper under the fruit. The pineapple, thinly sliced, was caramelized in spots. Baking had concentrated its sweetness and tang so that this small wedge packed a blast of bright flavor. Unforgettable.

It proved easy to make, and just the right, sunny riposte to those big, soft limas and intense bitter greens.

The marvelous novelist and food writer Laurie Colwin once cautioned against serving rapini on a first date. (Although one might argue for its salubrious winnowing effect.)

In my own home I watched a dinner guest assiduously remove every piece of radicchio from her salad. Since then, I’ve tried not to serve bitter greens to guests unless I know they “get” them.

I have a particular love for the chicories, the bitter lettuces, which include radicchio (red, pink, green and speckled varieties), endive, escarole and dandelion greens, not to mention all the dark leafy varieties of chicory the Italians consume, like dente de leone, spada and the strange, crunchy, not-so-leafy, many-lobed bulb called puntarelle.

There are also the bitter brassicas like rapini and its milder cousin, spigarelli; plus kale; collards, turnip and mustard greens, which all get their bitterness from glucosinolates, natural chemicals that evolved to defend the plants against insects, herbivores and diseases — yet fail to deter us humans with a taste for strong flavors.

The bitterness in chicories comes from the chemical compound lactucopicrin or intybin, which is their natural defense against disease and predators — and is also said to be a faint sedative and mild pain killer. It’s in the white “milk” one sometimes sees when cutting lettuce and its bitter counterparts. When I was a kid, my next-door neighbor, a woman from Sinaloa, Mexico, told me that she boiled lettuce leaves, cooled and strained the liquid, then fed it to her babies to get them to sleep.

Of course, once they can make their preferences known, children usually reject bitter greens. These strong, leafy vegetables are clearly an adult taste, though not every adult likes them. But many of us have come to appreciate, even to crave, such bitterness in tolerable doses; the way we like dark chocolate, black coffee, IPAs, quinine drinks, not to mention serious novels and movies with not-so-happy endings.

And how do I like my bitter greens?

Beans and greens! The long simmered with the quickly sauteed! Cranberry beans and dandelion greens. Cannellini beans and escarole. Chickpeas and rapini. And on a hot summer day, there’s fresh arugula with white beans and cherry tomatoes. Together in a bowl or plate, beans and greens have enough complexity and umami to please carnivores and vegetarians alike.

One of my favorite preparations is large, dried limas cooked to a cloud-like softness with one or more bitter greens.

There is something luscious yet edgy about the marriage of large, soft, creamy limas with chicory’s compelling, addictive bitterness. (Think gentle Jane Eyre and surly Mr. Rochester! Spirited Lizzie Bennet with aloof Mr. Darcy!)

All told, a saucy, dynamic, compelling mix.

After bitterness, a little sweetness is in order. Something in keeping with the rustic, adult pleasure of the entree. Perhaps a simple tart, like the one I had years ago in the cafe of the Louvre — yes, that Louvre. I forget what savory dish I ate for lunch, but I will never forget the only dessert on the menu that day: tarte a l’ananas.

1

2

1. Michelle Huneven’s pineapple tart comes out of the oven at L.A. Times Food’s test kitchen. 2. The finished pineapple tart. (Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

Ananas? Was that what I thought it was?

Pineapple? Really? In a tart? This was new to me. OK. I’d give it a try.

The tart’s crust was barely there, just a buttery whisper under the fruit. The pineapple, thinly sliced, was caramelized in spots. Baking had concentrated its sweetness and tang so that this small wedge packed a blast of bright flavor. Unforgettable.

It proved easy to make, and just the right, sunny riposte to those big, soft limas and intense bitter greens.

The marvelous novelist and food writer Laurie Colwin once cautioned against serving rapini on a first date. (Although one might argue for its salubrious winnowing effect.)

In my own home I watched a dinner guest assiduously remove every piece of radicchio from her salad. Since then, I’ve tried not to serve bitter greens to guests unless I know they “get” them.

I have a particular love for the chicories, the bitter lettuces, which include radicchio (red, pink, green and speckled varieties), endive, escarole and dandelion greens, not to mention all the dark leafy varieties of chicory the Italians consume, like dente de leone, spada and the strange, crunchy, not-so-leafy, many-lobed bulb called puntarelle.

There are also the bitter brassicas like rapini and its milder cousin, spigarelli; plus kale; collards, turnip and mustard greens, which all get their bitterness from glucosinolates, natural chemicals that evolved to defend the plants against insects, herbivores and diseases — yet fail to deter us humans with a taste for strong flavors.

The bitterness in chicories comes from the chemical compound lactucopicrin or intybin, which is their natural defense against disease and predators — and is also said to be a faint sedative and mild pain killer. It’s in the white “milk” one sometimes sees when cutting lettuce and its bitter counterparts. When I was a kid, my next-door neighbor, a woman from Sinaloa, Mexico, told me that she boiled lettuce leaves, cooled and strained the liquid, then fed it to her babies to get them to sleep.

Of course, once they can make their preferences known, children usually reject bitter greens. These strong, leafy vegetables are clearly an adult taste, though not every adult likes them. But many of us have come to appreciate, even to crave, such bitterness in tolerable doses; the way we like dark chocolate, black coffee, IPAs, quinine drinks, not to mention serious novels and movies with not-so-happy endings.

And how do I like my bitter greens?

Beans and greens! The long simmered with the quickly sauteed! Cranberry beans and dandelion greens. Cannellini beans and escarole. Chickpeas and rapini. And on a hot summer day, there’s fresh arugula with white beans and cherry tomatoes. Together in a bowl or plate, beans and greens have enough complexity and umami to please carnivores and vegetarians alike.

One of my favorite preparations is large, dried limas cooked to a cloud-like softness with one or more bitter greens.

There is something luscious yet edgy about the marriage of large, soft, creamy limas with chicory’s compelling, addictive bitterness. (Think gentle Jane Eyre and surly Mr. Rochester! Spirited Lizzie Bennet with aloof Mr. Darcy!)

All told, a saucy, dynamic, compelling mix.

After bitterness, a little sweetness is in order. Something in keeping with the rustic, adult pleasure of the entree. Perhaps a simple tart, like the one I had years ago in the cafe of the Louvre — yes, that Louvre. I forget what savory dish I ate for lunch, but I will never forget the only dessert on the menu that day: tarte a l’ananas.

1

2

1. Michelle Huneven’s pineapple tart comes out of the oven at L.A. Times Food’s test kitchen. 2. The finished pineapple tart. (Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

Ananas? Was that what I thought it was?

Pineapple? Really? In a tart? This was new to me. OK. I’d give it a try.

The tart’s crust was barely there, just a buttery whisper under the fruit. The pineapple, thinly sliced, was caramelized in spots. Baking had concentrated its sweetness and tang so that this small wedge packed a blast of bright flavor. Unforgettable.

It proved easy to make, and just the right, sunny riposte to those big, soft limas and intense bitter greens.

The marvelous novelist and food writer Laurie Colwin once cautioned against serving rapini on a first date. (Although one might argue for its salubrious winnowing effect.)

In my own home I watched a dinner guest assiduously remove every piece of radicchio from her salad. Since then, I’ve tried not to serve bitter greens to guests unless I know they “get” them.

I have a particular love for the chicories, the bitter lettuces, which include radicchio (red, pink, green and speckled varieties), endive, escarole and dandelion greens, not to mention all the dark leafy varieties of chicory the Italians consume, like dente de leone, spada and the strange, crunchy, not-so-leafy, many-lobed bulb called puntarelle.

There are also the bitter brassicas like rapini and its milder cousin, spigarelli; plus kale; collards, turnip and mustard greens, which all get their bitterness from glucosinolates, natural chemicals that evolved to defend the plants against insects, herbivores and diseases — yet fail to deter us humans with a taste for strong flavors.

The bitterness in chicories comes from the chemical compound lactucopicrin or intybin, which is their natural defense against disease and predators — and is also said to be a faint sedative and mild pain killer. It’s in the white “milk” one sometimes sees when cutting lettuce and its bitter counterparts. When I was a kid, my next-door neighbor, a woman from Sinaloa, Mexico, told me that she boiled lettuce leaves, cooled and strained the liquid, then fed it to her babies to get them to sleep.

Of course, once they can make their preferences known, children usually reject bitter greens. These strong, leafy vegetables are clearly an adult taste, though not every adult likes them. But many of us have come to appreciate, even to crave, such bitterness in tolerable doses; the way we like dark chocolate, black coffee, IPAs, quinine drinks, not to mention serious novels and movies with not-so-happy endings.

And how do I like my bitter greens?

Beans and greens! The long simmered with the quickly sauteed! Cranberry beans and dandelion greens. Cannellini beans and escarole. Chickpeas and rapini. And on a hot summer day, there’s fresh arugula with white beans and cherry tomatoes. Together in a bowl or plate, beans and greens have enough complexity and umami to please carnivores and vegetarians alike.

One of my favorite preparations is large, dried limas cooked to a cloud-like softness with one or more bitter greens.

There is something luscious yet edgy about the marriage of large, soft, creamy limas with chicory’s compelling, addictive bitterness. (Think gentle Jane Eyre and surly Mr. Rochester! Spirited Lizzie Bennet with aloof Mr. Darcy!)

All told, a saucy, dynamic, compelling mix.

After bitterness, a little sweetness is in order. Something in keeping with the rustic, adult pleasure of the entree. Perhaps a simple tart, like the one I had years ago in the cafe of the Louvre — yes, that Louvre. I forget what savory dish I ate for lunch, but I will never forget the only dessert on the menu that day: tarte a l’ananas.

1

2

1. Michelle Huneven’s pineapple tart comes out of the oven at L.A. Times Food’s test kitchen. 2. The finished pineapple tart. (Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

Ananas? Was that what I thought it was?

Pineapple? Really? In a tart? This was new to me. OK. I’d give it a try.

The tart’s crust was barely there, just a buttery whisper under the fruit. The pineapple, thinly sliced, was caramelized in spots. Baking had concentrated its sweetness and tang so that this small wedge packed a blast of bright flavor. Unforgettable.

It proved easy to make, and just the right, sunny riposte to those big, soft limas and intense bitter greens.