Radicchio

Let me tell you about radicchio, and about that bitterness everyone argues over.

That sharp, almost tannic bite is simply what radicchio is. Bitterness is not a flaw to fight here. It is the whole point of the leaf.

Choose it with your eyes and your hands, not with guesswork. The head should feel heavy and tight for its size, the leaves close and firm, not splayed open like a tired rose. The color should be clean red-violet with crisp white ribs — no limp edges, no slimy sheen, no sour smell when you bring it close.

Some people say radicchio is only for salads, raw and cold. No! Throw the halved head on a hot grill and listen — it hisses, the edges curl and char, and the kitchen fills with a smell closer to roasted chestnuts than to a salad bowl. Cut it open and the inside has gone soft and silky, and the bite that made you squint in the salad bowl has mellowed into something rounder, almost sweet at the core. That misconception leads a cook to only ever shred radicchio into a bowl, get one sharp, one-note result every time, and decide they "don't like it" — without ever tasting what fire does to those same leaves.