Wild asparagus in Sardinia! Incredibly delicious and free!

It's finally asparagus season again! In Sardinia, you can get it for free. It costs nothing, really! You just have to search for it and find it, and the early bird catches the worm. So, grab a quick Italian breakfast at the nearest bar, then head out into God's beautiful, free nature! The search is typically Sardinian:

The best spots are the paths leading from my holiday home into the hinterland. They are lined with blackberry bushes. This is where I find them, the little green stalks that seek their way to the light under the protection of thorny bushes: five to fifteen edible centimetres long at the tip, only slightly thicker than a straw, but rich in asparagus flavour. Five grams of concentrated flavour per shoot, incomparable! ‘You call this asparagus?’ asks my brother-in-law Wulf, who is new to Sardinia, disappointed and dismayed. When I announced that we were going asparagus hunting, he probably thought of white, waterlogged spears from German farms. ‘Of course it's asparagus, try it!’ Indeed, at first glance, there is little resemblance to the product of the same name grown by German farmers. But the aroma! Every millimetre of these small green stalks contains the power of metres of their visually superior Germanic brothers! Wulf admits this too when he tries the raw sample I offer him.

After an hour, we have collected about three hundred grams, and I decide that's enough for today. ‘So little?’ Wulf grumbles, ‘It's not worth getting up early for.’ I leave his objection unanswered and pull him behind me, back to the next bar. It's important to know that the Italian bar is the hub of all Sardinian life. ‘Trovati?’ asks the barista, and I triumphantly hold up my cuff. Wulf would have liked to sink into the ground at the audacity of boasting about such a modest haul, but the barista relieved him of his embarrassment with a clear ‘Belli, complimenti’. (It's important to note that asparagi are masculine, so ‘beautiful asparagus’ is ‘asparagi belli’. The barista was therefore paying me a “compliment” about my find.) Salvatore from the next table naturally asks where I found them. I give an evasive answer. Who reveals ‘their spots’?

As is fitting, there is a second Italian breakfast as a reward. After an early morning cappuccino with croissants, now a ‘cafè corretto’ for me and my brother-in-law Wulf. He complains about the addition of grappa to his espresso, which he considers far too early, but then drinks it with visible pleasure; because it was quite cold ‘in the asparagus’. Despite the bright sunshine. It's 20 January! An Irish coffee Sardinian style warms us up! You have to know that the night before, we had lit the Sardinian spring fire in honour of St. Anthony with the entire village and, as a result, still had some minor alcohol metabolism problems. Wulf would have preferred to stay in bed rather than get his hands pricked by blackberries.

However, my brother-in-law was completely reconciled with his fate when Salvatore, who happened to be present, took over the conversation and explained to us that there was only one ‘correct’ way to prepare this delicious vegetable. ‘L'unica ricetta vera’, from ‘Mamma’, of course. This was followed by a lengthy lecture on asparagus in general and asparagus in particular, and because it is almost impossible to explain anything dryly in a Sardinian bar, a ‘vinello’ was ordered to accompany it. Vermentino, of course, in anticipation of the asparagus. (For non-Sardinians: this is a typical Sardinian white wine, reminiscent of Riesling in its complexity.)

That's Sardinian life! Southern European light-heartedness! Having time and being able to talk to each other! That's it: not the anonymity of a coffee house visit, where you hide behind your newspaper and only open your mouth to drink, but being part of a community. People come and go, everyone smiles, exchanges a few words and says ‘Cincin’. Time doesn't pass quietly, but it passes easily and lightly. That's how it passes on this January morning, too, because of course Efisio from the neighbouring table has heard Salvatore's lecture. He admits that his recipe isn't bad. He doesn't want to criticise it, for heaven's sake, but actually the way his mother prepares ‘Asparago selvatico’ is a much more ‘elegant’ way of approaching this vegetable. His lecture lasts until 12 noon, a few more Vermentinis are circulating, and when a third asparagus connoisseur, Andrea, threatens to join in, I interrupt the discussion, referring to urgent business, mainly for my brother-in-law's sake.

However, I do not wish to withhold the results of our academic discourse from the interested reader:

The pointed-leaf asparagus is an evergreen, climbing semi-shrub that has been harvested as a vegetable on the island for centuries from the end of January to the end of April. It can be found in the midst of fragrant scrubland, small eucalyptus forests and along the wayside. The spears of wild asparagus are tender and thin, but first you have to spot them in the bushes. At first glance, the asparagus shoots look more like wild vegetation or weeds. Only the tips are broken off, and only as far as the stems have not yet begun to become woody.

Salvatore's asparagus dish is a simple omelette. To make it, the asparagus is sautéed in olive oil in a wide pan, just long enough to keep it al dente. No blanching, no boiling. The aroma is preserved 100%! Pour the eggs, beaten with water or milk, over the top. Stop cooking when the eggs are not quite set. Sprinkle with a little Pecorino cheese. Done! (Of course, the omelette is seasoned with a little salt beforehand.) Salvatore prefers to serve it with ‘Pane Carasau’, but unfortunately this is difficult to find in our part of the world.

Efisio naturally had to contrast the simple recipe with a sophisticated one. That's what the unwritten laws of bar culture demand. He therefore swears by his mother's chicken-based sugo, which is served with the typical Sardinian pasta ‘maloreddus’. To make it, his mother takes chicken legs, from which the toes and calluses have been carefully removed. These are immersed in tomato sauce and simmered on a low heat for several hours. Right at the end, the finely chopped asparagus is added and simmered for another 20 minutes. Then the chicken legs are discarded, the sugo is mixed with the pasta and plenty of Pecorino cheese is sprinkled on top.

I have tried both recipes and give them both the rating ‘excellent’. Yes, I also took the story about the chicken legs seriously and can say that I have never made a better chicken sugo. (Since it is difficult to get chicken legs in Germany, I also tried it with chicken giblets. The result is a clear victory for the legs. So if you have the opportunity to buy them, e.g. in Chinese shops, go for it!)

For the sake of completeness, I should mention that every tomato sauce needs parsley, garlic, carrots, onion and celery as a base. Of course, peperoncino, basil, bay leaves and cloves can also be used. However, when it comes to all these ingredients, less is more. This is in stark contrast to olive oil, where the ‘more is more’ principle clearly applies. Use it generously! If you simmer all these ingredients over a low heat until you have a creamy sauce rather than tomato concentrate, you've almost done everything right. Just remember that the main ingredient in all pasta dishes is pasta in some form, to which a ‘sugo’ is added to round off the flavour. So be careful when adding the sauce! Don't drown the simple, beautiful taste of good pasta with too much sauce, as is unfortunately all too common in our part of the world! Bon appétit!

With a Sardinian ‘Adiosu’, I bid you farewell for today.

Joachim Waßmann