A buttery chicken picatta salad with all the goodies
Plus, if there are any unloved capers camping out in your fridge, I've got some tips to find those sharp, briny gems - which add sparkle to so many dishes - a delicious home.
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I didn’t meet my first caper until I was in my 30s. Sad but true. I knew they existed because my school friend Kirsty’s sophisticated parents kept a jar of them in their fridge. But I had no idea what those wrinkled olive-coloured things that resembled tiny stones could possibly be for.
My formal introduction came at an English wedding, where the smoked salmon starter arrived dotted with a few; they tasted a little funky, herbal and salty with a light kiss of heat, but palatable enough. However, my relationship with capers didn’t develop in earnest until I got to know Georgio Locatelli and his Spaghetti with Anchovy and Tuna dish.
The recipe appeared in the January 2003 issue of the Observer Food Monthly magazine. How do I remember this? Because I still have the page I pulled out and kept in a folder, even though I’ve probably made the dish literally a hundred times and can now cook it with my eyes closed.( And, as I’ve just discovered, it’s been available online all this time.)
It’s a classic Italian pasta dish that’s easy and vibrant and delicious - the main ingredients are just spaghetti, tuna, tomatoes and basil. But if we ever run out of capers, my household has learned to its dismay that the dish just isn’t the same without them.
Capers add a jolt of perfumed brininess, a pop of salty tang, a little bitterness. With oily fish like tuna, they cut through the fattiness, but they also enliven muted flavours. They’re punchy, but they don’t overpower. Just as Nigella is known to carry a bottle of Tabasco in her handbag in case of culinary emergencies, I think keeping a tiny jar of capers about your person would be a similarly good idea. They boost the flavour of everything.
What actually are capers? They’re the flower bud of the Capparis espinosa bush, picked before they open and pickled in vinegar, which develops the bitter flavour. (If the bud is left on the plant and left to flower and then fruit, it becomes a mellower-tasting caper berry). They’re cultivated in Provence, where Roquevaire is the caper capital, as well as in Italy, Spain and other parts of the Mediterrean.
Capers come in different sizes, and there’s much debate (apparently) about which is best. The small non-pareil is much feted (perhaps because they’re pricey, due to the fact they’re tiny and therefore painstaking to pick). Other experts argue the larger ones are more intensely flavoured.
There’s also debate about relative merits of salt-packed versus brined capers. Most enthusiasts say salt-packed have a pleasingly firmer texture and better flavour, while the ones pickled in vinegar have had some of their flavour washed away. When cured in salt, effuses Harold McGee in On Food and Cooking, "the caper bud undergoes an astonishing transformation: its radish and onion notes are displaced by the distinct aroma of violets and raspberries!" I’m not sure I get the violet and raspberry notes, but I agree the salted are tastier (as long as you rinse the little blighters well). But to be honest, I’ll take them any way they come.
Because they grow across the Med, capers are found in an array of Mediterranean dishes, and are often paired with equally salty and punchy ingredients like anchovies (hard agree that this is a good thing). They’re found in fiery pasta alla puttanesca, and take no prisoners in gutsy black olive tapenade. They’re also integral to salsa verde and its many herb-flecked variations, including my own endlessly useful green sauce.
But capers also work beautifully with gentler flavours like mayonnaise (tartare sauce), butter (see my recipe below), egg dishes (including egg sandwiches), as well as potato salads - they bring them to life with zing.
Classic fish dishes are often paired with capers, too, including skate with capers and black (or brown) butter - the sweet flesh is a perfect backdrop for the punchy sauce.
Fried capers had a moment a couple of years back and I still make them occasionally, but to be honest, it’s a something I mostly forget to do it. It’s very simple. Just pat the capers dry (do this thoroughly) and fry in olive oil until they crisp up and burst. Basically, scatter over everything.
My recipe this week is an adaptation of the classic chicken picatta: a fried escalope of chicken, served with a butter, lemon and caper sauce. Its origins are disputed; some say it was born in the Italian south, others insist it was invented in the US by Italian immigrants (from the south). To add to the vagueness, the French also have a version, made with veal.
In my dish, I make a classic chicken picatta with lots of velvety sauce, which I use to dress a green leafy salad studded with lots of good things: black olives, marinated peppers and garlicky croutons. The golden-fried chicken is sliced and added to the salad, with more of that buttery caper studded sauce spooned over the top. I pile everything on a platter and get everyone to tuck in and help themselves. It’s stunningly yum.
Have a great weekend.