Rhubarb
One of the nicest things about the steady climb out of winter is the way that colour seems to return to the world; snow drops, purple irises, the specially bright green of grass’ new growth.
There seems to be a pact we make with the early and late season produce whereby we accept that if we get one thing, we’re not going to get another. Not for these cold half days the fully realised pleasure of a perfectly ripe peach: these are the days of rhubarb. Pale pink and possessed of a wicked, sharp sense of humour, it’s acid tongue can be the life and soul but time and place are crucial.
Many of us have grown up with rhubarb as dessert, with custard or in a crumble, and indeed a healthy hand with the sugar goes a long way to mollify its sourness. In this respect it reminds me of Mosel Riesling: it’s delicious, but seemingly always pushing to see how much sharper it can get away with being.
Both Mosel Riesling and rhubarb have a certain liminal quality to them; an understanding that if you go any further north or any earlier in the calendar you may as well abandon all hope of deliciousness.
They’re also both a little bit misunderstood. Quite apart from the fact that rhubarbs’ early season champions are all from Yorkshire (a clear sign of moral hazard) it’s a divisive vegetable; many children are put off it courtesy of overly austere desserts terrorising their underdeveloped palates.
Mosel Riesling on the other hand often suffers due to its sweetness. The almost puritan drive for wines that are dry at all costs (we’ll skip the grams of sugar that commercial wine brazenly smuggles into the ‘dry’ category) means that too often the balanced sweetness of the Mosel’s best is turned away long before it has a chance to give full account of its evident qualities.
Another, happier affinity they share is with pork, specifically its fat. I feel like there’s a certain German imperative that all Rieslings must shine with smoked sausage. Jesting aside, they really do. The palate coating qualities of the fat take just enough of the bite out of the wines’ acid for the rest of its characteristics to dazzle. Suddenly we see a creaminess to the minerality, grey slate manifesting almost as marzipan, tropical fruit flavours ripening and spicy top notes turning seductive rather than being just intellectually appealing.
Rhubarb too comes alive with pork; it’s a superb chutney ingredient, adding electricity to a charcuterie board. My favourite way to eat it is as a wonderfully sour sauce for roast pork belly - apple sauce for grown ups. The sort of grown ups who can appreciate the delicate balance of sweet and sharp in their Prum Kabinett. The sort of grown ups who’ll find they’re always welcome at my table.
Deep fried Iberico pork chop with hot and sour rhubarb pickle.
Deep Fried Iberico Pork Chop with Hot and Sour Rhubarb Pickle
800g rhubarb, chopped into 1cm pieces
2 lemongrass stalks, finely sliced
10 red chillies, sliced into thin rings (seeds included)
200g ginger, peeled and finely sliced
A small amount of caster sugar
2 bone-in pork chops, fat trimmed off
Flour, to coat the pork chops
1 egg, beaten
Panko breadcrumbs
Combine the rhubarb, lemongrass, chilies and ginger in a bowl, then transfer to a sterilised jar (I use a kilner).
Ferment for about 2 weeks in a 5% salt solution (for every litre of water you need 50g salt).
Spread the flour on one plate and season well with salt. Beat the egg on another plate or shallow bowl, and cover a third plate in panko.
Flour, egg and crumb the pork chops. Prepare oil for deep frying (180C).
Fry each chop until golden brown on each side - around 5 mins per side. Drain on kitchen paper.
Take as much of the rhubarb pickle as you’d like to serve and add sugar to taste - it should be slightly sweet but still nice and sour. Serve with the fried pork chops.