Leaves with Attitude

One Saturday morning in late February, several years ago, I was cruising the farmers market, looking for an interesting fruit or vegetable. I wanted a treat, but I wasn’t finding much. Late winter is not a good time for vendors of produce.

An elderly woman had occupied one of the stalls. She was selling only one vegetable, a green with sawtooth leaves that sprouted small broccoli-like flowerets. I asked what it was and she answered, “Chinese broccoli.”

 “Chinese broccoli,” I’ve noticed, is a catch-all name for any green that takes well to stir-frying, but as it was only 50 cents a bunch, I bought one. At home I searched through my cookbooks and found a drawing in the Chez Panisse Vegetables that matched my Chinese broccoli exactly. It was broccoli raab; a recipe with penne, garlic, and Romano cheese was included. 

I took one bite of the concoction and fell under the spell of broccoli raab. It’s bitter, spicy, pungent, and powerful. Nothing like its tame namesake, broccoli raab lets you know you’re alive.

Since that day, whenever I find broccoli raab at the market, I make the pasta dish. And whenever I see it on a restaurant menu—nearly always as a side to smoked pork or sausage—I order the entrée that includes it. I’ve grown it, too, with limited success. It’s very picky about timing, and the bugs love it as much as I do.

It’s probably not surprising that Italians, with their unabashed zest for eating, introduced broccoli raab to the United States. Brothers Stephen and Andrew D’Arrigo (of the Andy Boy dynasty) started cultivating it in the early 20th century. It now grows in California, Arizona, New Jersey, Ontario, and Quebec and is sold around the country under a host of names: rapini, cima di rapa, Italian turnip (broccoli raab is a distant cousin of the turnip).

Broccoli raab is sometimes available in a regular supermarket; if you can’t find it, try specialty markets or Italian grocers. It’s available year-round, but it’s best in late fall, winter, and early spring. The flowers should not have opened, and the cut end of the stalks should be green and smooth. If you like your vegetables to bite back, go for bunches with big leaves.

Like most people with a strong personality, broccoli raab won’t get along with just any other food. If it’s not the star, it must be accompanied by other brisk ingredients. Spicy Italian sausages and smoked meats will stand up to its assertiveness, as will potent seasonings such as extra-virgin olive oil, vinegar, pungent cheese, and hot pepper flakes.

It won’t take just any treatment, either. Boiling it is the culinary equivalent of a lobotomy—it loses all its punch, becoming insipid and gray. Broccoli raab is best when sautéed in oil.

My desire for other vegetables has waxed and waned over the seasons, but broccoli raab remains a delicacy. That day in the market I had hoped to find an agreeable fruit to toss into a gallette. Instead, I found a vegetable with a big attitude. Perhaps it was the serendipity of it all, but I fell in love.

Broccoli Raab with Penne

1 large onion

8 cloves garlic

2 bunches broccoli raab (1-1/2 pounds)

extra-virgin olive oil

red pepper flakes to taste

salt to taste

3/4 pound penne

red wine vinegar

Romano cheese

Put a large pot of water on to boil. Add the pasta and stir, drain when it’s done, then set aside.

Meanwhile, thinly slice the onion and garlic. Wash the broccoli raab, cut away the stems, and chop the leaves and sprouts coarsely.

Cover the bottom of a large sauté pan with the olive oil and sauté the onion over high heat. When the onion has begun to brown a little, add the garlic, pepper flakes, and salt. Toss, then add the broccoli raab and a splash of water. Lower the heat and cook until  tender, stirring or tossing frequently.

Taste the broccoli raab and add seasoning as needed. Splash on additional extra-virgin olive oil and red wine vinegar. Add the freshly cooked pasta to the pan and toss. Serve with grated cheese.