Celeriac

I’m pretty sure that celeriac didn’t exist before the turn of the millennium. Yes, we had celery (how else would we have made stock?) but it’s chunky cousin had yet to work its way into common usage.

Back in the early 2000s couscous was exciting and Jamie Oliver was still naked. However, we were at the beginning of what would be a fairly momentous period of change in the British food scene.

The era of celeriac.

Suddenly, celeriac soup was a thing. That little independent cafe you’d been frequenting for cake and latte probably had a lightly spiced version on their lunch menu. Soon, celeriac gratins appeared and wodges were shouldering their way onto trays of wintry roast vegetables.

Celeriac seems more like a growth than a root; bulbous and almost sinister, metastasising into soups and mashes like a wintry tumour. It’s earthy but fresh, with a delicate fennel-like brightness, plus there’s a background nutty note that begs for buttery caramelisation.

So, what do we do with it and what do we drink with it?

If you’ve set foot in a wine bar, chances are you’ve seen celeriac remoulade on the menu, where lemon juice and mustard are used to add punch to the subtle flavour of the raw root. Not wanting to be prescriptive (but in the spirit of what grows together goes together) I’m going to pick up those fresh top notes by steering you towards unoaked Chablis or Bourgogne Blanc, both of which often carry a cool stoniness that leans into delicate fennel or anise flavours.

In mash and soups I find myself looking to the Spanish grape Xarel lo - it often seems to have a starchy weight to its mouthfeel that plays intriguingly with the celeriac’s texture. Throw some toasted nuts on top and you might want to switch it for a lightly oak aged example.

That spiced soup that your favourite café served actually makes for an interesting pairing study. It’s important to consider curry powder’s contribution (a lactone called sotolon is the important player here); it brings caramel, a different sort of earthiness, a sweet herbal edge and maybe a bit of wood - all are all what I’d consider bass notes for pairing. From the wine I want texture, but also a rich earthy salinity to really magnify deeper flavours. Since the setting is quite casual, I’m serving a glass of fino sherry, or, if it’s particularly wintry and they have it, a dry amontillado. The same dish somewhere posher and I’d suggest a white with a decent amount of oxidative ageing; Lopez de Heredia’s Vina Tondonia (or Gravonia if you can’t get the big brother) would be high on my list, though a Vin Jaune from the Jura would certainly win you additional wine geek points.

Unbeknownst to us, while we were happily gratinating our roots, Rene Redzepi in Copenhagen was going one step further. His shawarma comprehensively recontextualised celeriac. Now it was the hero vegan kebab filling; smoky, full of Turkish spices and quite wonderful. This being a shawarma we’re obviously serving it with crunchy red cabbage, and probably a decent dash of chilli sauce bringing vinegar and heat. Both are potential stumbling blocks for wine, so embrace the volatile acidity. Go hard with a zero sulphur white - something Slovenian or North Eastern Italian - with a little bit of skins and a lot of lift. If you’re looking for something fresher, the slight toasted almond note that Welschriesling brings means there’s plenty of central European blends that’ll fill the brief equally well.