Joe Ray

May 29 , 2005 - Agence France Presse

Much of the magic of cooking and eating asparagus in France is in the anticipation. As spring turns into summer, the legume makes its way up from the Mediterranean onto Parisian markets until finally the eagerly awaited home-produced spears are ready to be snapped up.

The seasonal delight that asparagus brings is shared in French hearts with only two other delicacies: spring’s gariguette strawberries and the first perfect oysters of the fall.

Both should be consumed with champagne, the latter preferably in the front window of a fancy brasserie, to appreciate the full effect.

At home, the French often prefer to do asparagus minimally, savoring its freshness and simplicity and leaving the elaborate stuff for nights out at their favorite restaurants.

Marabout, one of the best-known French cookbook publishers, put out a book on elaborate ways to prepare it, but they must have already realised that “Le Petit Livre de l’Asperge” would be more eye candy than anything else.

Mark Singer’s restaurant, La Cave Gourmande, is an asparagus lover’s destination on the outer rim of Paris in the 19th district.

A Philadelphian by birth, the 35-year-old has a resume that reads like a laundry list of some of France’s best-known restaurants.

“The first article that came out about La Cave Gourmande was about asparagus,” he said with a grin, while flipping open a bulging folder of press clippings.

Sure enough, there he is, with a bit more hair on his head, in the pages of a magazine better-known for compromising shots of celebrities on far-flung beaches than for its culinary profiles.

Singer seemingly has a botanist’s knowledge of this most delicate of vegetables.

First, he divides French production of asparagus into three main areas: the Rhone Valley, known for its “semi-wild” asparagus that grows among the grapevines, the Landes region (near Bordeaux) with its “enormous” white asparagus, and the Loire Valley’s dirt mounds where their white asparagus grows.

Singer has things he likes about the offerings from each region, but warns against the “wild” asparagus showing up in Parisian markets that looks a bit like light green, puffed-up wheat stalks.

“You can do all sort of fun things with them, like tie the stems in knots, but they have absolutely no flavor at all,” he lamented.

Like Singer, the French take their asparagus very seriously. Though the legume has Mediterranean origins, the French season for it is particularly short: March through June in a good year, less in years with quirky spring weather like this one.

“The season is very short,” said Singer, “especially when you have to wait the whole year for something so tender and flavorful.”

Singer certainly enjoys doing up his asparagus a bit at La Cave Gourmande. His current favorites include a half-breaded white asparagus served with cactus oil and a different plate where asparagus tips are wrapped in his homemade wild boar ham then sauteed with snails and mushrooms.

Like most French, however, his eyes light up most when he’s talking about the simplest presentations.

For real wild asparagus he says “don’t peel it, don’t do anything, cook it, but not too much, then heat it in a warm vinaigrette and throw in some almonds or some grated hazelnuts.”

He also has a soft spot for the way his mother-in law cooks it, “she boils the asparagus in salty water until it’s tender then serves it hot with a real mayonnaise with egg whites folded into it.”

At this point, his voice trails off and his eyes drift toward the horizon, as he seems to imagine the flavors.

Is he disappointed with the end of the French asparagus season approaching?

“Nah,” he said flashing a new smile, “we’re on the runway for the first wild mushrooms of the season.”