GARDEN FRESH : The Littlest Onions

Dewdrops, fresh water pearls, pears, figs and shallots all share the same graceful natural shape. Dewdrops perish with the sun. Fresh water pearls are for other people. Pears and figs are seasonal, fleeting. But shallots are ours for the plucking much of the year--sometimes oniony, sometimes garlicky, always rich and sweet and tender.

You can taste the contrast between onions and shallots when you chop a little of each and saute them in a dry skillet side by side. When raw, the onion may have been sweeter and the shallot a bit pungent. But when cooked, the flavor of the shallot is fuller, yet more refined.

I adore every child of the onion tribe, so part of me resists praising one at the expense of another. But for their elegant shape and subtlety, shallots truly are the creme de la creme of the clan. And shallots are easier to grow, mature faster and, by and large, keep longer than onions.

Although siblings of onions, shallots grow differently. They’re multiplier onions--reproduced not from seeds, as are onions, but from their bulbs, which divide. If you’ve ever planted daffodil or tulip or lily bulbs for spring, you’ll know what I’m talking about--onions belong to the glorious family of lilies.

At the produce stand, you’ll probably find a pair of shallots connected at the base. You may also find an about-to-divide shallot: What appears to be a whole shallot with its shiny rosy or coppery or burgundy or golden skin will prove to be two sleek halves pressed together, yin and yang.

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According to the cultivar, you can expect one bulb to multiply to an average of six large bulbs, or perhaps eight or 10 or more small ones. Growing shallots is like setting yourself up for a lifetime of jackpots from the garden slot machine. Just slip in a coin and realize a sextuple gain on your investment . . . which then sextuples . . . which then sextuples, and so on.

Then why, for heaven’s sake, are shallots scant and a fortune at the market? You’d think there would be passels and heaps spilling out of bins, with good cooks holding open sacks to keep the darlings from scattering onto the floor.

Jim Robison, who farms 60 acres of shallots in Washington State and who supplies shallots to some of the country’s finest chefs and seedsmen, explains that even commercial shallots need to be farmed by hand. Garlic, comparable because it’s also grown from a bulblet, doesn’t need to be set perfectly straight up in the soil; the aristocratic shallot does. Large compact heads of garlic can be harvested by machine, but so far there’s no machine that can distinguish a dirt clod from a small shallot, so the noble shallot must be dug by hand.

For those of us who raise vegetables for pleasure, a small patch of shallots is almost effortless. And one of the best parts about growing shallots is something you’ll never get from market shallots: green leaves. Like those of scallions. Yep, the shallots you buy have been dried--the raffia-like nubbins on top are tags of leaves. But shallot leaves are infinitely more flavorful than those of scallions. Like the shallot that produces them, they’re tastier and sweeter.

In temperate Southern California, shallots are ideally planted from November through February. Find a sunny spot with sensationally rich friable soil. Push a small, healthy, dried shallot into the soil, leaving one-quarter of it above ground. Set shallots (upright) six to eight inches apart, depending on their shape, and the number and size you’re hoping for.

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Robison grows just one cultivar of shallot--it’s red and longish and delectable. Shepherd’s calls it French and Lockhart’s calls it Shallot. Kalmia Farms offers more cultivars. Pear shallots--also known as Frog’s Legs--are long and large, with sweet purplish-white flesh. Gray shallots are more strongly flavored, much fancied by the French. Those called French Red are rounder in shape and smaller, but prolific. Dutch Yellow (or Yellow Dutch or Dutch) are more oniony and keep well.

You may see in a catalogue that shallots can be harvested around 90 days after planting. That’s both true and not true. It’s true if you want a scalliony sort of sprout. In fact, you can harvest whole green shallots at any point and use them in the manner of green garlic or scallions. But for dried shallots, bulblets you plant now won’t be ready to harvest until next August.

Shallots you plant in spring will also be ready at that time. Why, then, plant them now? Because you’ll give the roots a running start, which helps the bulb become sweeter--and you can harvest their incomparable greens all the time they’re growing. (But don’t decimate the leaves when you snip; harvest selectively.)

Shallots are hardy perennials, but where it’s very cold and there’s not much sheltering snow cover, wait till spring to plant. Some shallots prefer to be planted in spring, no matter where. Dutch Yellow are such. They’ve done beautifully for me through summer, but if yours should be puny by the time their leaves have started to brown in autumn, separate the bunch, put them--singly--right back into the soil, giving them a second chance. Then you can be sure they’ll be fat and sassy by the following spring.

Shallot roots, as do those of all onions, want to be kept moist but not wet. Be particularly watchful when the air is dry. When the bulbs have matured and their leaves wizened, lift the bulbs and lay them in the sun a few days to dry and firm their skins, then store the shallots, hung in a string bag, in a dark, cool, dry, airy place.

Although you won’t see much of the gorgeous bulbs in the landscape because they’re buried, shallot leaves make pleasant vertical notes in a garden border. Don’t place them up front, however, because when the leaves start to brown, they look messy.

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If shallots in the garden aren’t on your winter agenda, you can grow them indoors. Fill containers with at least eight inches of lightweight potting mix and set bulbs in the mix as above, two inches apart. Give them as much sun and light as you’ve got and keep the mix moist, but not wet. In time you’ll have greens for cooking and can harvest slender green shallots in spring.

One of the virtues of shallots is that they cook quickly. For this, and for their flavor, shallots have endeared themselves to generations of sauciers . These classical French sauce cooks have created a delectable repertoire. Some weekend when I have absolutely nothing to do (perhaps next August when the new crop is ready), I’d like to hold a one-woman shallot celebration, dipping for a time into a grand past.

First I’ll make a little beurre blanc : Simmer a splash of dry white wine with a handful of minced shallots and sprinkling of parsley down to an essence, and stir into it creamy, soft, unsalted butter, then heighten the flavor with salt and pepper and drops of lemon juice and smooth it over a gently poached sole. . . .

Next I’ll grill an impossibly gorgeous piece of beef. I’ll slather it with a sauce begun with minced shallots and a little thyme, bay and mushroom trimmings also simmered in white wine to their quintessence. This is then given body with spoonfuls of demi-glace (the glossy, intensely rich, sauce that takes a couple of days to make from veal stock, white wine, tomatoes and other seasoning vegetables and herbs--I know people who substitute good brown gravy). And finally the sauce is sweetened with butter and decorated with chopped tarragon and parsley. This fantasy is sauce chateaubriand. . . .

And on Sunday, I’ll just spoon up a delicate broth of chicken floating with shallots melted in butter, and little strips of pigeons and poached pigeons’ eggs, my way with consomme colombine.

But for now, I’d best simply replenish my store of shallot vinegar--popping a bulb into a jug of red wine vinegar. From time to time I’ll lift the cork and breathe deeply, because soon the vinegar will be shalloty perfume.

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For Thanksgiving dinner I’ve devised pop-in-the-mouth treats as an appetizer. With practically no fat. They’re unrich, since so much that’s rich will follow, and they’re the better for having been prepared a day in advance. And they probably won’t repeat anything in the menu. Even if you’ll be serving classic creamed onions with the turkey, minced browned shallots and mushrooms have a vastly different character. The recipe is easily doubled.

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Sources:

Fresh--from the market.

For planting--from the market (if you like the shallot).

By mail: Delicious red shallots through winter are available from Lockhart Seeds, Box 1361, Stockton, Calif. 95205. From Kalmia Farm, Box 3881, Charlottesville, Va. 22903; order before Dec. 1 to get Pears and Grays for planting now and Dutch Yellows and French Reds for planting in spring.

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SHALLOT-STUFFED MUSHROOMS

1/2 pound shallots, tops and bottoms trimmed 1/2 pound (1 1/2-inch) mushrooms, stems and caps snapped apart 2 to 3 tablespoons apple cider 2 tablespoons finely diced pimientos, pieces patted dry before chopping Salt Freshly ground white pepper Scant 1 1/2 tablespoons sour cream 1 bunch watercress For easy peeling, cover shallots with boiling water. Let soak. Finely chop mushroom stems in food processor. Turn chopped mushroom stems into dish anddon’t rinse work bowl. Peel shallots and finely chop in food processor.

Heat 1 tablespoon cider in large, heavy non-stick skillet over medium-high heat, swirling to coat bottom. Add mushroom caps, cups-up. Saute, shaking skillet frequently, until cups have juice inside and bottoms are brown, 4 minutes. Turn and brown rims, 2 minutes. Remove to shallow baking dish, cups-up.

Add 1 tablespoon cider to skillet and stir briefly over heat to loosen glaze. Add chopped mushrooms and shallots and saute over fairly high heat, stirring frequently, until shallots are tender and toasty-flavored, about 8 minutes. Blend in 1 tablespoon cider toward end to keep mixture moist (dash more may be needed).

Remove from heat and blend in pimientos. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Note, when seasoning, that pepper will seem magnified and salt diminished when caps are filled.

Leaving any juice, line caps with 1/8 to 1/4 teaspoon sour cream, depending on size. Heap caps with mixture, covering cream and pressing in firmly. Be sure pimiento is visible. Cover and refrigerate. A few hours before serving, finely chop watercress leaves to make 1/4 cup. Trim rest into leafy sprigs. Keep both covered.

When ready to serve, bake mushrooms at 375 degrees until piping hot, about 10 minutes. Sprinkle with chopped cress, remove to serving platter and garnish with sprigs. Makes 16 to 17 caps or 6 to 8 servings.

Each serving contains about:

48 calories; 62 mg sodium; 1 mg cholesterol; 1 gram fat; 9 grams carbohydrates; 2 grams protein; 0.65 gram fiber.