As a child of Italian immigrants, I have always thought that the hidden delight of savouring artichokes was “our” secret as most other South Africans then had no idea what they were and even today many only know artichokes as those in tins or bottled hearts that sometimes grace an almost authentic pizza or are served as part of an antipasto platter.  

Much the same as growing up in the Sixties, when not only were we aware of apartheid, but we also had our very own “‘apartheid”.  We were the immigrant “Ities” who, alongside the “Porras”, the Greeks, the Polish and even the Chinese (yes, the nuns at the convent were quite rebellious in defying the government’s ban on Chinese and coloureds attending their schools) were considered outsiders and mocked for the strange things we ate. This from the prim and proper English kids at our school to the rough Afrikaans “ducktails” who hung out in the streets of our neighbourhood, we were the odd ones out.  

Perhaps my belief that no one, except us, enjoyed the delights of artichokes goes back to those school days when at break we opened our sandwiches and fell foul to ridicule as we had everything but peanut butter and jam, marmite or fish paste on our sarmies. The sight and smell of roasted garlic pork or leftover vitello tonnato on our sandwiches was greeted with turned-up noses and disgust. 

Inviting friends over to our house was torture if my mother happened to be cooking  il bollito (boiled meats served with a delicious salsa verde) or liver and onions à la Veneziana or, God forbid, trippa (tripe) and polenta! The horror on their faces as they turned up their noses; I wished then, more than anything, that I wasn’t Italian!.

But I had a more serious problem on my hands when they came over… and that was keeping them away from one of our back rooms in the yard where my father kept rabbits. An old fashioned patriarch who didn’t like children much, he banned us from cuddling the rabbits as they were only good for one thing – to be skinned on a Saturday so we could enjoy coniglio alla cacciatora.  

So we formed our own “food fraternity”, enjoying each other’s rich cuisines as we found a haven in each other’s kitchens. We understood what it was like to be different; we appreciated the delicacy of the grilled sardines of the Portuguese family next door; the fall-off-the-bone lamb roast or taramasalata of our Greek friends, recognised that the pierogi of the Polish family was a close relative of our very own ravioli or tortellini and marvelled at how our Chinese friends expertly picked up their Peking duck or dim sum with their chopsticks. We were, in fact, a unique league of foodie nations.

The one and only friend who loved our food was our next door neighbour who was from a very typical South African/English family – complete with cook and houseman in his crisp white shorts and shirt with a red stripe down the side who was summoned to bring in supper by a ringing bell. Their rather large family of eight ate later than we did, so their youngest daughter came to play around the time we had supper. She loved my mother’s homemade pasta, greedily licking the Marsala sauce of the veal scaloppini from her plate.  

I, in turn, would then go over to her house as they always had pudding – typically it was jelly and custard, peaches and cream or malva pudding.  Dessert in our house was reserved for Easter or Christmas when a splendid tiramisu was made or zabaglione served with finger biscuits. I loved those English puddings and the trade exchange we had going was a win-win for both of us. Sadly, I had to contend with her older brothers who used to chase and tease me with the chant, ‘Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Italian girl’.

But back to the artichokes that take over our lives each October. An ancient vegetable beloved by the Greeks and the Romans, Greek legend has it that the artichoke owes its existence to the philandering Zeus who, on a visit to his brother Poseidon, spotted a gorgeous girl, Cynara, bathing on the beach. He fell madly in love, seduced her, made her a goddess and took her back with him to Mount Olympus. Not happy to be away from home, Cynara sneaked home to visit her family which infuriated Zeus who, in a fit of temper, tossed her from Olympus and turned her into an artichoke. Hence, the scientific name for artichokes is Cynara cardunculus. The prickly reputation of the artichoke manifested itself when Italian Renaissance painter Caravaggio found himself in jail for attacking a waiter at a restaurant over how to distinguish a plate of artichokes – some cooked in butter, others in oil.

But it was the Romans – in Roman times and in Italy today – who see the artichoke almost as their national flower (it is in fact the flower of a thistle variety) as it brings with it both agony and ecstasy. National Geographic published a fascinating article on the history of artichokes which traces its origins, its legends and the writings of Pliny the Elder in first century Rome, of its medicinal benefits which included curing baldness, strengthening the stomach, freshening the breath and as an aphrodisiac which resulted in the conception of boys. The Romans ate them pickled in honey and vinegar and seasoned with cumin. 

After the fall of Rome, it was the Arabs who picked up this prickly delicacy and introduced it to Spain but it was the indomitable Catherine de’ Medici who arrived in France from Florence at the age of 14 to marry the future Henry II, who turned the lowly artichoke into a gastronomic delicacy. Not knowing what she would find in France, she and her court crossed the Alps, bringing with them her cooks, products and her favourite recipes. 

Credited with introducing the use of cutlery in the form of the silver fork to the French, it is recorded she introduced them to the magical properties of the artichoke of which she was very fond which, given its over-sexed reputation, shocked the more conservative French. From there artichokes spread throughout Europe and England and were said to be much loved by Henry VIII – no doubt adding to his virility. The modern term artichoke is thus a mish-mash from the Arabic al-karsuf, morphing into the Spanish alcarchofa, the Italian articiocco and the English artichoke.

The agony of the artichoke is in its preparation. To go to that much trouble to wrestle with those tough outer leaves, trim them, soak them in lemon water and then prepare them is madness but, like an aphrodisiac, we can’t resist, drawn to that tender heart that does in fact tingle your taste buds, gives you a boost of fibre, folate, vitamins C and K, lowers blood pressure and bad cholesterol, is a diuretic, has antioxidant benefits and is just plain addictive. And if you believe the Romans is good for your sex life.

It all starts with a phone call. To Carreira’s Fruit & Veg market on Republic Road in Ferndale to be exact. “Have they arrived yet? Why not? How many do you have left?” Once you’ve picked up the first box from them, you’re already stressing about whether they will still be on sale the next week. Remember, they are only available in October and you’ve only got a few weeks to indulge. We will never forget the one year we picked up our box of 50 artichokes from a tower of boxes that reached up to the ceiling, only to go back the next week and they were all gone. Who, I asked incredulously, is also eating artichokes?  

Marco Rubani and his sister Lisa Matthews of Toscana Herbs and Fresh Produce grow artichokes, kale and unusual vegetables and herbs on the farm where they grew up in Muldersdrift, close to the Cradle of Humankind. Their artichokes have long tapering leaves and a deep purple colour. The problem is in the preparation. As an Italian, we are ruled in the kitchen by the region we come from, and how our grandmothers and mothers prepared dishes. No two regions in Italy, even if they lie side by side, make dishes the same way. In our household, my husband’s family are from the Friuli-Venezia Giulia region and my family from Piemonte – worlds apart in how you make everything from a classic lasagne to the perfect risotto.

While there are many easy ways to cook artichokes the Italian way – from boiling them and then serving them with a vinaigrette, to roasting them in olive oil, wine, garlic and herbs to deep-frying them the Roman-Jewish way – I was taught by my mother that the only way to enjoy this heavenly food of the gods was to stuff them.

So stuff them we do… which can take forever. First you need to take off a layer of the outer leaves, cut the tips off the tops and trim the stalks, – which are in fact almost as delicious as the hearts – to add to the pot.  While the artichokes soak in lemon water you prepare the stuffing. Finely chop slices of prosciutto cotto and prosciutto crudo di Parma (cooked ham and Parma ham) with thyme, sage and oregano, add parmesan, asiago or pecorino Romano, garlic, seasoning and bind with an egg.

Then comes the laborious task of stuffing the artichoke, starting from the inside and working to the outer leaves.  You then place them in a heavy pot, brown them in olive oil until the bottoms sizzle and caramelise and then add white wine. Once evaporated, add stock at intervals and cover to simmer. This takes a couple of hours and towards the end of the cooking, the juices reduce to form a rich gelatinous jus infused by that unique artichoke flavour combined with the saltiness of the cured hams and cheeses.

Finally, as history has shown, we get to the ecstasy part of enjoying this ancient delicacy. Served with a simple risotto alla Milanese (Italian Arborio rice with saffron) or tossing some tagliatelle in the rich artichoke sauce, or simply with fresh, crusty bread, this is a meal fit for Zeus, for Caesar, for Catherine de’ Medici, Caravaggio… and all lovers of this prickly thistle! DM/TGIFood

Giuli Osso is the owner of GO Communications.