According to Greek myth, Dionysus, ancient god of wine and cheer, conjured merriment with his giant fennel scepter. The guy was onto something. With its cool, crowd-pleasing crunch and ephemeral licorice flavor (not to mention density of antioxidants), foeniculum vulgare is a mood elevator of the tastiest type. Yet usually, all but tender layers of the fennel bulb—over half of the plant!—gets a one-way-ticket to the underworld. Tragedy. The dark, feathery leaves and fibrous, lime-hued ribs are edible, as is the obstinate core when treated nicely. These are ways to coax out their charms.
Not only do wispy young fennel stalks make stylish, greenmarkety edible swizzle sticks, but the plant’s thicker ribs are also invaluable to any at-home bartender. Make fennel-infused spirits by dropping a few frilly stalks into a bottle of gin or tequila blanco—it'll be ready in as little as a week. Or chop up and simmer the uglier trunks in equal parts water and sugar to barely cover, with a few pinches of fennel seeds for a potent fennel syrup. The plant’s Italian heritage makes it a natural in negronis and other aperitivi-based cocktails, but the syrup will also add a shot of sprezzatura to plain old seltzer with a squirt of lemon. Nonalcoholic cocktail enthusiasts can try a fennel shrub, the colonial precursor to modern soda, by steeping cut stalks overnight in vinegar, then boiling, sweetening and straining the anise-flavored elixir the following day. Dilute with soda, water, or even use in vinaigrettes.
The julienne blade on a mandoline turns fennel ribs and cores into a crunchy summer slaw I like to lavish with bacon, tahini, parsley and cracked coriander. Try it on pulled pork.
Roughly chopped like cilantro or parsley, fennel’s fine, mascara-wand fronds impart a quiet anise flavor to anything from grilled squash and roasted beets to gnocchi dough and rice pudding. Blanch off a big bunch of them as a base for fennel-frond pesto. In a food processor, pulse the fronds with a little basil and mint, grated Pecorino or Parmigiano, lemon zest and nuts—pignoli/almond is my go-to blend—and stream in olive oil. This is a good time to jailbreak your crusty-capped bottle of anisette from the back of the liquor cabinet; a good slug reinforces the pesto’s sweet, herbal flavor.
Simmered with honey, mustard seed, lemon peel and white wine, thin-sliced fennel scraps cook down into a candy-like fennel mostarda. It’s an elegant addition to any cheese plate (especially one featuring a stinky blue or aged Cheddar) and just as satisfyingly sticky standing in for the J in a grown-up version of a PB&J.
Fish and fennel have a natural affinity for one another, so save the heads, skeletons and shells of the former and fronds, ribs, core and the tough outer layers of the latter and arrange their marriage in a fennel-scented seafood stock. Bring the scraps to a boil in water just barely to cover with onions, garlic, black peppercorns, sliced lemon and bay leaves—replace the last two with sliced lime, lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves and ginger to give it a Thai accent—then simmer for half an hour and strain. Use the stock right away to make risotto or paella, chowders or cioppinos, or cool and use as a substitute for clamato in a bloody caesar or michelada. You can also reduce and freeze the stock in ice cube trays—invest in silicone ones that won’t hold the smell—and deploy a cube here and there for a concentrated boost of flavor to sauteed greens and vegetables.
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