Memories of Artichokes

souvenirs from Rome

My little Opinel paring knife slices through the meaty Castelvetrano until it hits the pit: I’ve cut down the olive vertically, before I make another cut equatorially around the pit, pushing the olive’s rich flesh off of the pit completely into a small bowl. I do this about two dozen times, processing enough butter olives to make a briny and succulent tapenade, adding artichokes, capers, garlic, lemon juice, salt, and some sort of spice — smoked paprika, chili powder, cayenne, or cumin. 

This tapenade is a summertime staple in my fridge. It’s a spread that I crave when the humid heat quells my appetite. Not requiring the stove or oven, it’s something that I’m willing to prepare on the hottest, muggiest days. Pitting the Castelvetrano olives is the most laborious part, and this is something that need not be done in a mad rush; it can be done standing over the counter or sitting at the table, either way accompanied by a glass of something cold and refreshing. A languorous pace, if the weather is steamy enough to force a slowing-down, works just fine. 

I first ate artichoke tapenade five years ago, in Rome. My sister and I arrived in the city a day before our parents. After checking into the Airbnb we’d found for the night, in Rome’s Aventino neighborhood, we wandered to the Tiber for a drink and a snack, and continued to meander and acquaint ourselves with the city. Diverting from walking alongside the river, we found ourselves with the Colosseum in sight; gigantic and rotund, a focal point in the city center, its looming mass has a way of seeming closer than it really is. 

Our wanderings eventually took us into Monti, I think — or maybe Esquilino – down a small street somewhere northeast of the Colosseum’s hustle and bustle. One turn off of a main street, and then another turn to descend a bit below the high street’s level, we entered a trattoria, ready to sit and eat a full meal after our late afternoon-into-evening walking. Wine was ordered, and to start the meal, artichoke tapenade was served with crusty toasted bread. The tapenade’s cool, pale green color was what first caught my eye: It denotes a gentleness, something unassuming yet delicate, precious even. My first bite confirmed those observations: The flavor and texture is at once light and rich, the fat from the olives offset by a hint of lemon juice and brine. After my first afternoon in Roman heat and humidity, as I was just beginning to fall in love with the controlled chaos of Rome’s streets and the satisfying simplicity of Roman cuisine, it was the perfect thing to eat.

Artichokes are a hallmark of Roman cuisine: springtime, at the peak of the artichoke harvesting season, is a common time to prepare ‘carciofi alla romana,’ artichoke hearts braised with a blend of garlic, parsley, calamint, and lemon.

In English, we’ve borrowed the word “souvenir” from French, in which language it translates to mean nothing commercial, but simply, “memory.” 

Two weeks after eating the artichoke tapenade in Rome, when I was back home in Madison, I was eager to find a recipe for something similar. I wanted to keep those memories — of the artichokes, of seeking shade as we walked, of street stalls filled with produce I wasn’t used to seeing, of sipping cold water from public drinking fountains — alive by recreating the dish in my own kitchen. Artichoke tapenade, my Roman souvenir. 

A small market stand in Rome. I was too focused on enjoying the artichoke tapenade that no photos exist of that dinner.