Venetian-Style Artichokes

Elizabeth David has a recipe called Carciofi alla Veneziana in her brilliant book Italian Food that had immediately captured my attention. I had just bought the book and I was flipping through the vegetables section – as I often do with most of my recipe books – looking for nothing in particular but rather some kind of cooking inspiration, and stopped at the sight of the word ‘Venetian’. The recipe is short and simple, yet it sounded unfamiliar to me, a Venetian. I was intrigued.

The unfamiliarity might derive from the fact that in my Venetian family artichokes were somewhat disregarded. I believe my mum didn’t particularly like them, or just didn’t know how to prepare them, or maybe couldn’t be bothered to clean them. Most likely it was a combination of the three, which made the appearance of artichokes spare and rare on our table. Admittedly, as a child I didn’t love them either, possibly because of the way they were always, unmistakably presented to me: steamed, cut in half, with a bowl of oil and salt for dipping. Their colour, a shade between dark green, kaki and grey, was very unappealing.

At any rate, I ate them, I had to. So I watched my parents tackling them, trying to copy their technique – detaching one leaf at the time, starting from the outer layers, dipping each in the seasoning bowl, then scraping the pulp with the front teeth, and throwing the fibrous remaining on the plate. Repeating these same movements and gestures mechanically, almost ritually, again and again, until they reached the most inner, tender leaves, which could be eaten whole. Finally, the heart, pale green and creamy, sweet in a strange way. By the end of the meal, the plate was covered in grey-ish leafy ruins, the seasoning bowl emptied and slightly oily and messy. It seemed like so much effort for so little food.

No other ways of making artichokes made their way to our kitchen: neither raw, nor stewed, braised, in risotto, in pasta or frittata, and certainly not pickled or fried. I had no knowledge of the existing different varieties of this thistle, and certainly not of the regional differences, or the traditional, local way of eating them. Throughout the years, I ate them a handful of times, always at restaurants, always away from home, usually while travelling, often in Rome. The memory of my first fried artichoke alla Giudia (or Giudea), eaten at Nonna Betta in the Roman Jewish ghetto, is ingrained in my memory – the sight of it arriving to the table, the more-ish crisp outer leaves shielding a sweet, melting core. The flavour, the texture – what an epiphany. It came on a plate of its own, elegant in its sad, decadent beauty. It was a flower after all. Prepared this way, with its ‘petals’ wide open, you could really tell. This was the moment I fell in love with artichokes. I then ate them raw in salad with oil, lemon and Parmesan, and I ate them in Vignarola. Roman dishes, never Venetian, and most remarkably, never home-made.

It wasn’t before I learned to choose them, clean them and cut them, that I finally started to cook them at home. This might sound hilarious to most seasoned cooks, but few things seemed more intimidating to the young, inexperienced cook I was (and still am) than artichokes. I had no idea what to do with them, I had no idea what to look for when buying them. I lacked the tools that made what I thought was a fairly expensive purchase worthwhile. I think I tried to cook them once when I was at university. I likely didn’t clean them properly, thus producing a bowl of stringy, chewy mess that forced me to reach for the fibrous bits in my mouth with my fingers multiple times during the meal. It was huge failure, big enough to convince me to give up.





Then, all of a sudden, the whole world of artichokes opened up to me again. I moved to London and started to work for a fruit and vegetables company. I started to have access to more knowledge, more information, more variety – funnily enough, all the artichokes came from Italy. It was new, unexplored territory for me, but I had the basics, and felt I could finally be brave. Once I learned how to clean them and prepare them (by watching a chef, then reading the brilliant chapter on artichokes in Jane Grigson’s The Vegetable Book), I had the confidence to experiment with different recipes. I started with the raw artichoke salad, made with the most tender winter spiky artichokes from Sardinia or Liguria, thinly sliced and dressed with plenty of good oil and lemon, perhaps topped with shaved Parmesan or pecorino. I then moved to cooked preparations: spring vignarola with peas and broad beans and herbs, frittata, risotto.

Jane Grigson’s thoughts on artichokes I find fascinating. “The artichoke above all is the vegetable expression of civilized living, of the long view, of increasing delight by anticipation and crescendo. […] It had no place in the troll’s world of instant gratification. It makes no appeal to the meat-and-two-veg mentality.” Likewise, it makes no appeal to the timid cook, to the impatient and shy one. It takes some bravery, it takes some skill. It’s not one for the courtesy-salad lot. Grigson’s general points to tackle an artichoke are also great if you are, like I was, new to the matter. She suggests soaking them in a bowl of salted water for an hour or so prior to preparation to get rid of traces of dirt and possible insects. Acidity is another key point she strikes: you’ll need plenty of lemon juice, or in the absence of it, some wine vinegar, to stop the artichokes from blackening after you cut them. You can either prepare a bowl of water with lemon juice where you’ll submerge the artichokes until ready to use (especially if you are prepping many of them) in the ratio of 2 tablespoons of juice to one litre of water; or you can simply rub a cut lemon over every cut surface. I find rubbing the knife particularly useful too. As for the prepping itself, I always remove the outer leaves until you find those which are pale green and light purple. I trim the stalk 3 cm from the base and peel it to reveal the white part. I remove any remaining piece of the outer leaves still attached to the base with a small serrated knife, then trim the ends at about 1.5 cm from the top. Finally, I cut the artichokes in half and remove the choke, if present. Cut this way, artichokes can then be halved or quartered, or turned upside down and sliced thinly for salad.

Jane Grigson, perhaps like Elizabeth David, made her first acquaintance with artichokes at in Venice, where apparently they have been growing this thistle for five centuries. It’s funny how I, instead, made my acquaintance with them in London. Since my discovery, however, David’s artichokes ‘alla Veneziana’ have been a recurrent dish in our house in the past months, and are likely to come back again and again as we leave the season for spiky artichokes and enter the season for mammole – the globe artichokes of Roman fame – a versatile variety which can be used for this recipe too. The recipe is utterly uncomplicated, straightforward and generic in the best possible way. It infuses the reader and cook with a sense of empowerment – s/he needn’t seasoning measurements and cooking times. If one has learned how to deal with artichokes, s/he probably knows how much salt to add to the pan.

The original recipe calls for a mixture of olive oil, white wine and water as a liquid for braising the artichokes. I, after a few experiments, have found that a splash of while vermouth instead of the wine adds a pleasant sweet note; when the cooking liquid reduces, the sugars in the vermouth caramelise and give way to a slightly sticky brown sauce that is one of the most delicious things I had in a long time and demands to be mopped up with plenty of bread. You can, then, top them with some fresh herbs if you like: nepitella (calamint) à la Pellegrino Artusi; or simply fresh mint. I like to serve this artichokes with some good aged cheese (or mozzarella, or burrata!) alongside a big pot of good boiled beans drenched in oil, but I can see them working very well with some lamb or veal, too.

Carciofi alla Veneziana

A quick note on buying artichokes: look for those with very tight leaves, and with a firm texture from the base all the way through. It’s always a good thing when they come with a longer stem and the leaves – it’s a sign of freshness.

serves 2 

6 spiky, roman mammole (globe) or violet artichokes 

1 lemon

2 tbsp olive oil

A splash of white vermouth or white wine

60 ml (1/4 cup) water

Salt and pepper

Fresh mint leaves (optional)

Using a small serrated knife, halve the lemon and squeeze some juice on the blade. To prep the artichokes, remove the outer leaves until you find those which are pale green and light purple. Trim the stalk 3 cm from the base and peel it to reveal the white part, plus any remaining bit of the outer leaves still attached to the base. Finally, trim the ends at about 1.5 cm from the top. Cut the artichokes in half to remove the choke, then cut into quarters. If you are working with particularly small violet artichokes, you might want to leave them cut in half. At every passage, rub the cut parts of the artichokes with lemon to prevent discolouration.
Heat the oil in a large skillet, and once hot, add the artichoke quarters. Fry for two minutes over medium heat, stirring often. Pour in the wine or vermouth and allow to evaporate. Finally, add the water, reduce the heat and cover. Allow the artichokes to braise for about twenty minutes, then remove the lid, turn up the heat and and let the liquid reduce until only the oil remains and you have a sticky light brown sauce on the bottom of the pan. Season with salt and pepper to taste, and serve with some fresh mint leaves if you like them.


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Per chi mi legge dall’Italia, da questo mese mi potete trovare su Cucina Corriere con la mia nuova rubrica ‘Dal Mercato alla Tavola’, una serie mensile che tratta un ingrediente di stagione e i modi più semplici e gustosi per prepararli, senza spendere troppe ore ai fornelli. Il primo articolo parla proprio di carciofi, con anche una ricetta per prepare un’insalata facile e originale.