Some say that of all the alliums, the sleek leek possesses the most beauty and character. It’s the mildest one, anyway, a model of subtlety, with a flavor that’s complex and savory. Too long for my crisper drawers, the leek’s long base is ghostly pale from being hidden from sunlight like endives and white asparagus. Its majestic blade-like deep green top leaves grow up and out in interwoven layers like irises, as if between two panes of glass.

Although some call the leek a “scallion on steroids” it’s not just a big green onion, but its own vegetable, a gentle giant. It brings depth and another layer of flavor to a soup or stew, with or without its coarser cousin, the globe onion.

Around this time of year I find myself longing for leeks. Often they hibernate in the garden, ready whenever the ground softens some to yank out of the garden. One winter not long ago, when I was pretty new to gardening, and especially new (after years of container shade gardening) to gardening with real dirt and sun, I planted some tiny shoots that promised to grow up to be a variety of leek that would overwinter well. And they did. All winter I pulled fat leeks from the garden, delighted to have a taste of summer in the white wintertime. I used those leeks with wild abandon, with no thought of the cost, for soups, stews and simple side dishes.

Leeks are the vegetable mascot of Wales. Each March 1, St. David’s Day, as well as at international rugby matches, some patriots sport leeks on their caps or lapels for Welsh pride. Purportedly this stems from a sixth century battle against the Saxons when soldiers were directed to wear leeks in their helmets to cut down on friendly fire (actually sword slashes).

More recently, leek size laws set down by the European Union, ironically on St. David’s Day in 2002, incensed some Welshmen who resented being told how to grow or sell their leeks. But in spite of the fierce Welsh allegiance to the vegetable, for centuries it wasn’t a part of the cuisine. You would find it here and there in the stewpot or in the rustic winter farm dish called “cawl.” In Gilli Davies’ The Very Best Flavours of Wales (Gomer, 1997) she offers a recipe for Anglesey eggs, with potatoes, hard-boiled eggs and cheddar cheese sauce, and another for leek parcels stuffed with goat cheese, walnuts and raisins and dressed with honey and walnut oil. She puts young leeks in a casserole with cream and strong cheese, and gives recipes for a leek, bacon and cheese soufflé with mushrooms and a leek pesto with baked salmon.

Leeks marry well with salmon and other fish, with chicken essences like in the Scotch cock-a-leekie soup that may include barley and fattened prunes, with pork in any form from bacon to prosciutto to ham, and most certainly with lamb. Whenever I pen a column I compel myself to rush out and buy whatever I am writing about; this week I bought three leeks for $2.99 a pound. With two of them I made some braised lamb shanks, the leeks going well with the sweet local meat. But by the time the lamb started to fall off the bone, the leeks were overcooked and almost slimy. Next time I’ll chop them more finely, so they add flavor more than texture, or maybe cook the tops with the lamb the whole time, taking them out at the end like a bay leaf.

Often leeks are sold in bunches of three or so, usually different sizes, making it hard to choose some that match so they’ll cook in synch. But the three that I just bought were sold by the pound instead, so I was able to choose three the same. They were also very clean and sand-free, so maybe were grown hydroponically.

I haven’t decided what to do with the remaining leek. I will either sauté it in butter and add it to mashed potatoes, or make a small eggy tart, or a little bit of soothing leek-potato soup.

Leek and potato together in soup are classic, one version the French potage parmentier remembered fondly by New York chef Louis Diat as a breakfast food from his boyhood in France. In the early part of the last century he added cream and chilled it, creating a new classic, vichyssoise. The birth of this elegant dish increased leeks’ popularity and price. Leek and potato soup is good hot or cold, embellished with watercress or chive or bacon, with the leeks and/or the spuds totally pureed or chunky. Some leek soup makers leave out the dairy, and some add milk, cream or crème fraîche. The soup doesn’t need improvement beyond these variations, but some chefs add saffron or curry powder, too.

Leek and eggs is another classic pairing, sometimes with cheese and/or crust. The French--who call leeks the asparagus of the poor--love their leek tarts and quiches. The flamiche aux poireaux is ubiquitous north of Paris, according to French food expert Patricia Wells, who calls it “almost a cliché” like quiche Lorraine. Her own version in Bistro Cooking (Workman, 1989) calls for ham and Gruyere. The Italians--who call leeks the asparagus of winter--put them in their frittata di porri.

In Greece they like leeks in savory tarts as well, often with a flaky phyllo crust, sometimes adding meat, yogurt or cheese. You’ll find lots of Greek leeks. They’re mad about them, putting them in cornbread with cheese or in a stew with fish or dried fava beans. According to Diane Kochilias in The Glorious Foods of Greece (William Morrow, 2001), Greeks eat fried leeks as faux fried fish during Lenten times. In Thrace and Macedonia they put leeks in sausages made of pork, beef, hot and sweet paprika. Along with peppers and nettles, leeks are among the best-loved Macedonian vegetables. They mix them with mashed potato to make fritters, or stew them with prunes or quince.

The humble but elegant leek enhances other vegetables like spinach, asparagus and mushrooms. There’s little better than braising them whole in butter, stock or red or white wine, then topping with a gratin of Parmigiano, or a sauce like vinaigrette, béchamel, hollandaise, mousseline (hollandaise poufed with whipped cream or egg whites) or merely melted butter.

Be cutting edge by cutting them into long thin strips and deep frying them for the trendy crispy garnish called frizzled leeks. Or wrap them in bacon or prosciutto or just oil, and then grill them.

Any vegetable that is blanched is expensive because of labor costs. So I don’t buy leeks as much as I’d like. They’re a luxury item, so throwing out all the green parts, as many recipes instruct, seems wasteful. I retain all but the deepest green bits, and even those are great for flavoring broths.

Pass up limp leeks, and get rid of any dirt by cutting them in half lengthwise before rinsing, completely or just at the bottom if you want to leave them whole. If you will be chopping them rather than cooking them whole you can just soak and drain the chopped pieces instead.

Sometimes I do still grow leeks in my current garden, but as crops go they are labor intensive, all that digging, hilling, blanching, thinning and weeding. They are hard to grow from seed, so I buy plugs that look like skinny scallions, sometimes hard to find. This year, due to my own neglect, my winter leek crop consists of one lame pencil-sized specimen, and I may call it quits.

But somehow or another I will find a source for leeks. In the Old Testament, when the Jews wandered from Egypt after the exodus, leeks were one of three things that they missed the most.

Roman Emperor Nero (37-68 A.D.) couldn’t do without his daily ration. His people called him Porrophagus because he ate leeks every day--either in oil or broth, sources vary--for eloquence and clarity of voice.

Like Nero, I’m hooked on leeks, too.

Jennifer Brizzi | P.O. Box 48 | Rhinecliff, New York 12574 | U.S.A.

jenniferbrizzi@yahoo.com

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