I first met the method not in reference to children. (Any female paediatrician will tell you mothers’ teeth are ground down from their determination NOT to smack their ghastly ungovernables.) I came across it with cucumbers - those small intensely-flavoured Persian ones. They were on the menu in a Sichuan mom-and-pop eatery, broken open by a violent smack with the flat of a meat cleaver then soused in a spicy-sesame-peanutty-garlicky-Asian sauce that transformed them. We ordered a second dish.
It’s a method, I thought, that shouldn’t be restricted to cucumbers. So I tried it out with radishes.
I am not a mere fan of radishes. I am a fanatic, the same word but more avid. But not a fan of all radishes. French Breakfast, those long, slender variations, smash (that violence again) the red globes out of the park.
French people honour radishes in ways I don't fully understand. Delivered at a brasserie to munch while you contemplate the menu, they come with a basket of bread, a saucer of salt and a chunk of cold butter. Comment? C’est quoi, ça? What’s the job of butter here?
The long French radish is the one to use in the parsley, radish and goat’s cheese salad recipe I give you here. They taste no different from the globe. They just look more beguiling when shaved. The 17th century English diarist and gardener, John Evelyn, would have objected to my recipe, considering radishes best “eaten alone, with Salt only, as conveying their Peper in them.” Still, the compilation makes a good side for upcoming barbecued meats.
They weren’t a new vegetable to Evelyn. The English have been eating radishes for over 1000 years. There are records of them popular in Ancient Rome, Greece, and Egypt, where if your daily employment was to build the pyramids, you were distributed some of them in your rations, along with cloves of garlic. (Do not fear that these were all they were fed. Archaeological evidence shows their diet included a substantial amount of meat, with 4000 pounds of beef, lamb, goat - pig, even - slaughtered daily. Fish, beans, lentils, and fruit were also identified.)
When I lived in Moscow and went on (rare) occasions out to a restaurant, we would be presented with an impressive leatherette menu as thick as a phone directory. While we pondered what to eat, to distract us from the fact we were well aware of that none of the extensive dishes would be available, we were brought a platter of greens from Georgia. The valiant republic, not the US state. Among bouquets of fresh coriander, purple basil and dill were nestled a scattering of little radishes to quell the privileged foreigner’s objection to yet another Potemkin deception.
Radishes have long been believed to clear the taste buds and to stimulate the digestion for the food to come. There was, too, the suspicion among some they held even more power. A feast of the radishes grown in copious quantities on its estate was held annually at Levens Hall, a stately home worth visiting for its fanciful and bizarre topiary garden if ever you find yourself in England’s south Lake District. Then in 1888, the celebration was terminated by then owner, Captain Josceline Fitzroy Bagot, for fear the riotous behaviour of the participants who were invited to fill up with the radishes and crisp Haverbread oat cakes to soak up the vast amounts of Morocco Ale they also consumed would spoil his chances of election to Parliament.
If you forget to eat the bunches of radishes you’ve bought at market and they’ve become squeezable, just trim and drop them into a bowl of cold water filled with ice cubes and two hours later they will have revived. Their leaves are also edible.
Another good salad-pairing for radishes is a Middle Eastern one. Thinly slice radishes and peeled oranges, then halve or even quarter the orange slices to reduce them to a size to better match the radishes. Authenticity calls for salt to be sprinkled over just before serving along with lemon juice. I also dribble over olive oil but that’s not authentic and sometimes I add fine slivers of the whites of scallions and a spare handful of toasted almond flakes. But that’s even less authentic. I might even go all out, chuck over some cured black olives and tuck a few slices of Parma ham through the tumble, add some roughly chopped flat-leaf parsley for green, to make a starter to serve with flatbread.
Meanwhile, back at the smashing, this is the best possible treatment for globe radishes, in my humble opinion. (Don’t you, too, HATE the current over-enthusiasm for turning emotive phrases into soulless acronyms? Words communicate.)
Top and tail a bunch of globe radishes. Wash and dry them. Lay them out on a chopping board and bash each one with a rolling pin, just enough to split them open, not enough to reduce them to a pulp. Scrape them into a large bowl. The recipe for the marinade is loose. You prefer more acid? Add more vinegar. Sweeter? Add more sugar.
Put into a lidded jar:
1 finely grated garlic clove - size and number depend on your enthusiasm
2 tablespoons light soy sauce
salt to taste (optional - as salt always is but sometimes soy alone just isn’t enough)
3 tablespoons rice wine vinegar (regular vinegar will substitute)
2 tablespoons sesame oil
1 tablespoons sugar, more if you like
1-2 teaspoons red chili pepper flakes depending on your affection for heat
2 tablespoons toasted sesame seeds
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh coriander/cilantro (optional) or
1 tablespoon finely chopped green scallion stalks (optional)
Shake up all but the last 3 ingredients vigorously in the lidded jar, then pour over the radishes and set them aside to marinate for at least 30 minutes. Sprinkle over the sesame seeds, coriander/cilantro or scallion greens and serve to eat with a cocktail or standing at the kitchen counter or with a barbecued steak. Or in the bath.
Will be making this as soon as possible (but not ASAP).
I have a special affinity for radishes — more so after I learned the root for “radical” is “radix,” which also gives us “radish.”
All from the lowly radish. Gives way to new ideas about free radicals! First we need to massage our kale and now we need to smack our radishes? Think I’ll pass on this one and stick with thinly slicing them on the mandolin. I did, however, enjoy the delicious conversation.