Brussels sprouts and the brassicae

I’m cutting crosses into the base of Brussel sprout stems. We’re deep in the crook of winter, the trees are bare and morning mists hang heavy, lifeless and cold. I don’t really know why I cut little crosses, it’s just what Mum taught me years ago while preparing Christmas dinner. Could it be an old Christian superstition, like Cubans pouring lime juice into sauces in the shape of the cross? Could it just be to help the sturdier stem cook quicker? Who knows. I carry on cutting the crosses.

For me, sprouts were the first seasonal vegetable, long before I really understood the concept. The knobbly wands were harbingers of Christmas, their tight bulbs sporting Douglas fir livery; Team Northern European winter arriving en masse for the festive season.

While I’ve always loved them, they’re probably the most divisive of vegetables - one wonders how many childhood meals were spoiled by the insistence that children finish their bitter mini-cabbages. Spare a thought for them though, the bitter glucosinolates contained within are more unpleasant to underdeveloped palates - we might as well enforce double espressos as chasers. Incidentally, the bitterness is concentrated in the stalk and leached by the cooking water.

More generally there’s a whiff of poverty about Brassicas. Not only is ‘brassic’ a synonym for skint, there’s the much maligned cabbage soup. It was all that Charlie Bucket ever ate (at least until he got to The Chocolate Factory), and the much hated staple of many 80s diet plans.

The Brassicas also evoke a certain dowdiness: no matter the amount of butter applied there’s no hiding chilly earthen origins. That’s probably the case with all the winter food gap staples, although it hardly lends excitement to anticipation of their arrival.

I feel like we don’t think to pair with sprouts because too often they only appear as a side, whereas we fetishise the turkey, pandering to its triumphant blandness.

When you free sprouts from their role as a side kick, things get more interesting. Fried rice with sprout and preserved mustard greens would work well with a Mosel Kabinett; add some smoked bacon lardons and switch to a crunchy black currant-packed Dolcetto, or a slightly too-juicy-to-have-on-its-own Valpolicella. Great fun.

I don’t know when I first noticed charred Hispi cabbage appearing on menus, but it’s certainly proliferated, showcasing as it does the Brassica family’s ability to turn gloriously nutty as it flirts with burning. Suddenly we appreciate the cabbage’s texture and tang along with a savoury verve - a completely different set of considerations when it comes to matching wine. Heavy lees-contact Pet Nats, creamy Pinot Gris or oxidative Jura whites would all work a treat.

Want to make sprouts even more exciting? Ferment the shit out of them. They make a great kimchi, which, unsurprisingly, changes the pairing game quite a bit, too. Sprout-chi pancakes go surprisingly well with a ripe New World Sauvignon Blanc - add some blue cheese to the party for a toastie and suddenly that almost overripe Condrieu comes into play.

Sticking with fermented cabbage, it’d be rude of me to not give a nod to the Alsatians (the Germans too, but Alsace always seems to be ignored) and their choucroute. Happy mounds with braised pork knuckle and an Edelzwicker. Nothing overly flashy; stick with a Brasserie-appropriate wine, and the combination of Pinot Gris’ texture and the Gewurz aromatics (both kept in check by the acidity of Riesling) is pretty much exactly what’s needed (assuming you’re not on the beer).