Puntarelle season has started in Rome, and if you can find them north of the Alps, buy them immediately.
Pull the shoots off the head, slice each one lengthwise into thin strips and drop them in iced water for an hour until they curl up like ribbons.
For the dressing, pound 4 anchovy fillets and a small garlic clove into a paste, then whisk in 1 tablespoon of red wine vinegar and 4 tablespoons of good olive oil. Drain the puntarelle, dry them well and toss with the dressing just before serving.
Every winter someone asks me what the difference is between endive, chicory, witlof and radicchio. The honest answer: they are all Cichorium intybus (plus its cousin Cichorium endivia), and the names change depending on which side of the Channel you are standing.
The pale, torpedo-shaped heads grown in the dark from forced roots. Crisp, juicy, gently bitter. Raw in salads, braised in butter, or wrapped in ham and baked under cheese.
The Italian red chicories. Chioggia is round like a small cabbage, Treviso precoce is long and tight, Treviso tardivo looks like a firework and is the best of them all. Grill it, roast it, stir it into risotto.
Catalogna chicory shoots, a Roman winter speciality. You slice the hollow shoots into thin strips and soak them in iced water until they curl.
Technically endivia, but they behave the same in the kitchen. Escarole is lovely wilted into beans; frisée wants bacon and a poached egg.
The large-rooted varieties are dried, roasted and ground into the famous coffee substitute. More on that in the Root & Coffee section.
Rule of thumb: the paler the leaf, the milder the taste. Bitterness is a feature, not a flaw — balance it with fat, salt, acid or sweetness and it sings.