One of my favorite things about food is how it can so easily be associated with a memory. A charred hotdog with mustard and I’m back on Silver Lake in Angola, Indiana. A Taco Bell Mexican pizza (back at last!) and I’m having dinner at my dad’s for the first time post-divorce at the age of 5. And radishes have always been connected to my grandfather. When I was growing up, a trip to my grandparent’s house wasn’t complete without my grandpa offering me a radish sandwich — and me ultimately declining. I didn’t understand the appeal behind dirt-tasting/peppery radishes smothered in cold butter and smashed between two pieces of soft Hillbilly bread. It felt weird and incomplete.
I’ve been home for the last week visiting family — enjoying the beginnings of a midwest summer (which, I can’t lie, is pretty cute). The other night my mom and I sat on the porch around a bottle of wine, talking about food (like mother, like daughter). Specifically, our favorite food from childhood. Her favorite summertime snack? A radish sandwich. She shared how much of a treat it was when my grandpa would make her one. He’d slice the radishes just right and super thin, so they’d lay perfectly flat on the bread; his engineer brain. At that time, it was always white bread from Maloley’s, a local grocer. He’d smear a thin layer of sweet butter on the bread, and finish with a sprinkle of salt and pepper. With the first bite, he’d let out a triumphant “ohhh yaaaa,” the soft bread getting stuck to the roof of his mouth, just behind the top front teeth (and you all know what I’m talking about).
I used to do everything with him. Fish. Shoot arrows. Sit on the roof. That’s my favorite memory with him. We’d watch the fireworks; stare at the stars. And we didn’t need to say a word.
Would you eat a radish sandwich on the roof?
(Laughs) No. But I sure would’ve if he offered.
My grandpa would tell you he grew up eating radish and butter sandwiches because his family didn’t have any money; it was a popular Depression-era meal. What he didn’t know was he was actually indulging in a French classic. Bistro menus all over France will often feature an appetizer of radishes with butter and sea salt. It’s simple and subtle, and now that I’m an adult with a more understanding palate, very satisfying.
The key comes in balancing the spice of the radish with fat and salt. As is usually the case with simplicity in cooking, success (and flavor) comes from the quality of the ingredients. Fresh and crispy radishes stored in cold water. Good European-style butter, which has a higher butterfat content, thus a richer taste and texture. And excellent flaky sea salt, preferrably Maldon (just make the investment; it’s worth it).
There’s a delicious world in which you take all of this and add heat to it. When roasted at high heat, radishes become sweet and juicy, and their spicy edge mellows out slightly. Toss radishes in enough olive oil to coat, and season with salt. Arrange in an even layer on a baking sheet and roast in the oven at 400F until the radishes are tender and lightly browned. Toss the crispy radishes with melted butter, and finish with lemon zest, flaky salt, and a drizzle of good olive oil.
Maybe you love the spice of radish and want more of it. As they’re from the same family, tossing radishes with stone ground mustard doubles down on that hot flavor. Temper it with honey and olive oil and lemon, and bring some funk in the form of anchovies (relax). It’s vibrant and pungent - and maybe too much - but it works, and works well.
But sometimes a simple radish with butter and salt is just enough. My mom recounted it like it was the most delicious sandwich in the world. And while it maybe wasn’t (sorry Grandpa), it meant something. I watched her face light up as she connected how he cut the radishes, to the nostalgia of Maloley’s grocery store, to the two of them watching Saturday morning cartoons, to summer nights on the rooftop. Food is love.
I feel guilty for all the radish and butter sandwiches I turned down as a kid. It took me 20+ years to get it, but I’ll never decline one again. My grandpa recently started making his with peanut butter. Weird, sure.
But he might be onto something.
LEEK Recipe Club
For all the written LEEK recipes, including these Radishes w/ Mustard and Anchovy, head to the Recipe Club!
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