Not long ago, I sat down with some friends to try a new restaurant called Frenchie. Of the twoentrées on offer, I chose a simple-sounding truite fumée, asperges (smoked trout, asparagus) over the too-simple-sounding salade tomates cerises. I mean, who serves cherry tomatoes in May?*

I must’ve looked puzzled when my starter arrived, because Clotilde leaned over and whispered something into my ear. “Wild asparagus,” she said, nodding to the thin shafts of bright green that were layered among their domesticated green and purple cousins.

I’d never actually seen the mythical foodstuff, but had read about it long ago it in Stalking The Wild Asparagus. Euell Gibbons, author of  what became known as “the forager’s bible,” used to boast about finding this and other edible trash growing in abandoned lots and highway ditches. Call me a princess, but I was perfectly happy to stalk from the safety of a cushiony banquette.

And so the taste: it was clean…and bright…and intensely green. Like a non-nasty version of wheat grass. And when cut into little pieces and speared along with bites of house-smoked trout and the more earthy “tame” asparagus, it provided crunch and just a little bit of “huh?” It was new (to me), but happily more than merely novel.

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