Slugfest

Radicchio - hard to spell but worse to prepare. Which is why it's every man's favourite salad. When it comes from the greengrocer it's tied neatly in bundles, stalks all at the same end and, with care, it can be washed without losing order, and is clean enough to suggest it has been washed quite a lot all ready. So it is just about bearable to spend ages slicing it finely, finely, dark green swirls falling into the bowl, mint and garlic crushed and added, touch of salt, olive oil, shake of wine vinegar and sit back to enjoy the complimenti.

When it arrives freshly torn from the bosom of the kitchen garden it is unbearable. By the time the mud is washed off the entire mess looks as if it has been knitted into a diabolic green mat. Soaked in mud splashes and with gloveless hands the stalk ends have to be lined up together like a bunch of flowers (short intermission while we all sing a little Carly Simon, ha, that'll get a tune on your brains).

Only then can the finely, finely chopping bit start but food preparation patience has long run out, so it's a bit rough and ready, and doesn't do the dark green swirly thing in the bowl, or soak up the oil, etc. Then there is the slug difficulty.

Chopping away, mud-splattered, fingers at risk, good will spent, the eye catches a foreign body already only half its original length; the other half, finely sliced, has joined the greenery in the bowl. This requires an executive decision; what is done is done, the whole half (so to speak) goes in the bin, the other cannot be discerned, hearts don't grieve.

This must be fresh from the garden diners cry, you can always tell; it just tastes so much better, completely different. And it is the best of salads. Are you not having any?

I don't like radicchio.