GARDEN FRESH : Bay Watch

Hold bay leaves in your hand, then quietly shut your eyes and listen closely. Can you hear the cheers of ancient Greeks? They’re crowning another hero or poet with a wreath woven of ancestors of these leaves.

Laurus nobilis. Noble laurel. The tree is also called true laurel, bay laurel and Greek bay. The word bay, derived from Old French baie , refers to the small, purply black berries on the tree.

In this part of the world, even nursery people occasionally substitute the California bay--sometimes called Oregon myrtle or, mistakenly, bay laurel--for sweet bay. Both trees are vigorous and beautiful, and the leaves of both are long, slender, fragrant and blue-gray-green. Put them side by side and you’ll see that a sweet bay’s leaf is firm and shiny, the California bay’s duller, almost spongy.

The difference in taste is dramatic. The ancients’ sweet bay is a blend of smoke and sage. Chew on a fresh California bay and your mouth will be dazed with a pungency that amounts to something like clove overlaid with pine. One herb book says that California bay is “often substituted” for sweet, but that would be possible only after the leaves have dried--they become mellower, the opposite of what happens to sweet bay.

Irma Mazza wrote in her ahead-of-its-time 1947 collection, “Herbs for the Kitchen”: “Use bay leaves with a degree of diplomacy worthy of a European envoy, for they are powerful. Use a half leaf, or a third, but never a whole leaf unless you are entertaining an army.”

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Assuming Mazza refers to dried bay leaves--generally considered three times more pungent than fresh--most recipes nearly 50 years later commonly call for at least one whole leaf. And no armies (thank heaven) in sight.

But I do agree with Mazza in principle. With “big” flavors now in fashion, it’s my old-fashioned feeling that herbs should enhance the flavor of a dish, not dominate it. And so, if you simmer potatoes meant for mashing in milk rather than water and add a few fresh or one or two dried bay leaves, the taste of bay will be present when the potatoes have been whipped, but it will be subtle. (You can use the richly scented milk left over for a creamy soup or sauce.)

Even so, dear Irma would raise an eyebrow.

La Mazza, whose garden was in Berkeley, also warned us not to plant a bay tree in the garden because it would grow too tall. That’s true in Mediterranean climates. A friend’s bay tree in Santa Barbara was as tall as her two-story house.

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But bays are as gracious as they are lovely. My mother’s tree in Brentwood is more than 20 years old. Espaliered against a western wall, its arms stretch six feet on both sides of the pale-gray trunk, but it’s not even six feet tall. She keeps the tree pruned by snipping off branches several times a year. She gives it lots of water and it has its feet in Southern California clay. Once in awhile the little tree has an outbreak of scale, but then it manages to toss the varmints off.

And what does my mother do with the branches she’s clipped, besides cook with their abundant leaves? She strews them through her kitchen cupboards. No bugs. Open a door for the sack of flour and the scent of sweet bay wafts past. A custom she learned from my grandmother.

My bay tree is in a pot. I keep it there because, although this evergreen is hardy to 10 and maybe even zero degrees, I’m more comfortable wintering it in the house. Here it gets morning sun, bright light the rest of the day, and temperatures in the 50s and 60s.

In spring, I set the bay in the garden where its grace strikes a classical note--it likes a sunny, sheltered spot with the respite of an hour or two of shade.

Of course, watering is different from the way you water a tree in the ground. The lightweight potting mix must drain quickly and all but dry out between drenchings.

I’ve had my bay, which is just 20 inches tall, in the same five-gallon pot for a couple of years. It would be larger in a larger pot (eventually it would stay happy in a seven- to eight-gallon pot if the roots were trimmed yearly), but I’m afraid I’ve neglected it.

Grow it. Sweet bay is a valiant tree--I imagine that’s one reason its evergreen leaves were chosen to honor the ancient heroes.

Sources: At a nursery, look for or ask to order Lauris nobilis --not look-alike Umbellularia californica.

By mail--economical 6-inch-tall plant from Sandy Mush Herb Nursery, 316 Surrett Cove Road, Leicester, N.C. 28748; 1-gallon pot from Raintree Nursery, 391 Butts Road, Morton, Wash. 98356.

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A friend wondered what a savory custard flavored with bay would taste like. Splendid idea for accompanying roast beef and lamb! I composed the custard without sugar and, for depth, added a suspicion of Worcestershire sauce and white pepper. The lightly bittersweet caramelized flavor of carrots is so good with meats that I decided to gild the custards with caramel. (Tasters in The Times Test Kitchen prefered it without the caramel syrup).

To my delight, the custard works both as a savory and as dessert. I wouldn’t take out the pepper or the Worcestershire for dessert--the tamarind, molasses, pepper and vinegar in the Worcestershire are delicate but spicy.

The caramelized syrup keeps forever in the refrigerator; add liqueur and/or shreds of citrus zest and drizzle it over ice creams and puddings. You can also use it to deepen the color and flavor of sauces, soups and gravies.

BAY LEAF CUSTARD / SAVORY OR SWEET

4 1/2 cups milk 6 (2-inch) fresh sweet bay leaves Oil 4 extra-large eggs 1 extra-large egg white 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce Freshly ground white pepper Dash salt Caramelized Sugar Syrup

Bring milk and bay leaves to simmer in heavy saucepan over medium heat. Simmer uncovered over low heat until reduced to 3 1/2 cups, about 20 minutes. Remove leaves, rinse and wipe clean.

Smooth veil of oil inside 6 (7- to 8-ounce) oven-proof cups. Set 1 leaf shiny-side-down in bottom of each cup and set on trivet in steamer over medium heat. Add hot water to come up to bottoms.

Combine eggs, egg white and Worcestershire in measuring cup. If not 1 cup, make up difference with more egg white. Turn into bowl, add simmered milk and stir until blended, beating in as little air as possible (bubbles make holes in finished custard). Slowly pour through sieve into clean bowl. Whisk in pepper and salt. Stir while pouring mixture into cups, holding leaf in place with handle of wooden spoon or chopstick.

Lay foil over cups and cover steamer tightly. Steam, water barely simmering, till metal skewer emerges clean, 17 to 20 minutes. Center should quiver slightly (eggs continue cooking out of steamer). Cover cups loosely with foil and refrigerate. When cool, cover cups tightly.

Unmold after 4 hours or next day. Scrape any custard off leaf, and pour about 1 tablespoon Caramelized Sugar Syrup over top. Makes 6 servings.

Each serving, including Caramelized Sugar Syrup, contains about:

209 calories; 194 mg sodium; 155 mg cholesterol; 7 grams fat; 26 grams carbohydrates; 11 grams protein; trace fiber.

Caramelized Sugar Syrup

1/2 cup sugar 1/2 cup boiling water, plus little more

In broad skillet, cook sugar over medium heat, shaking skillet frequently, until sugar turns golden amber, about 5 minutes. Do not allow to get darker, or syrup will be bitter. Remove from heat and cool 1 to 2 minutes.

Add 1/2 cup boiling water and stir in ring motion with wooden spoon. Cook over low heat, stirring occasionally, until hardened caramel melts. Turn into measuring cup and add water to make 1/2 cup. Refrigerate in tightly covered jar. Makes 1/2 cup.