Baked asparagus

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'In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.' It's a long time since I was a young man, so my thoughts turn to other things...

French asparagus is now in the shops. For me, that means asparagus every week over the next couple of months (and strawberries for pudding), to make the most of it. Many years ago, in Cambridge, a friend served it to me baked and dredged with parmesan, and that's how I've cooked it most often ever since.

It could hardly be called a 'recipe' as there's nothing to it. I use a bunch of green asparagus per person, for generous portions as a starter.

You could probably use two bunches for three people, or even for four if you serve some Parma or San Daniele ham with it, or if your plan is to use the asparagus as the side dish to a main course.

I cut off the bottom half of the stalks; maybe a bit less if they aren't tough. The discarded stalks can (and often do) go into a cold asparagus soup.

I lay the asparagus in a baking dish, roughly in a single layer, and brush it generously with olive oil, as it's nice to have some asparagus-flavoured oil to mop up with bread. I sprinkle it fairly sparsely with coarse sea salt.

And then I bake it for half an hour at 200°C.

As soon as it's out of the oven and still sizzling, I add plenty of grated parmesan, which immediately starts to melt on and into the hot oil, so bread is needed. 

And that's it.

This works best with French asparagus, in my experience at least. I've done it with cheaper, Spanish asparagus, but the texture isn't as luscious and the taste can be relatively watery.

As a reminder, and for the pleasure of it, here's Proust on asparagus:

'Mon ravissement était devant les asperges, trempées d’outremer et de rose et dont l’épi, finement pignoché de mauve et d’azur, se dégrade insensiblement jusqu’au pied,-encore souillé pourtant du sol de leur plant,-par des irisations qui ne sont pas de la terre. Il me semblait que ces nuances célestes trahissaient les délicieuses créatures qui s’étaient amusées à se métamorphoser en légumes et qui, à travers le déguisement de leur chair comestible et ferme, laissaient apercevoir en ces couleurs naissantes d’aurore, en ces ébauches d’arc-en-ciel, en cette extinction de soirs bleus, cette essence précieuse que je reconnaissais encore quand, toute la nuit qui suivait un dîner où j’en avais mangé, elles jouaient, dans leurs farces poétiques et grossières comme une féerie de Shakespeare, à changer mon pot de chambre en un vase de parfum.'

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