Celeriac in Layers: From Root to Leaf

Celeriac isn’t the prettiest vegetable in the garden. It’s gnarled, hairy, and usually ends up hidden in a mash or drowned in cream — a supporting act at best. But here, the root takes center stage. Every part is used: shaved, folded, crisped, blended, simmered, and strained. A whole ingredient, zero waste, nothing left behind.

The dish builds itself around celeriac “ravioli” or "raviolo" in this case. Thin pickled slices are folded into delicate *napoleon hats* as my old chef used to call them, filled with an earthy, fatty purée of fried celeriac and a brunoise glazed in balsamico reduction. Each bite leans on contrast — sharp acidity cutting through richness, texture meeting softness.

Around it, the root keeps transforming. Strips fried into golden threads add crunch and height. A broth made entirely from the scraps carries the vegetable’s quiet sweetness, and it’s split with a vivid green oil drawn from its leaves. Rustic at its core, plated with intention — acid meeting fat, root meeting leaf, a single vegetable pulled apart and put back together as if it was always meant to be the star.

Components

It started with long, thin ribbons — shaved on a vegetable slicer, punched into circles, then pickled. The scraps didn’t go in the bin; they were saved for the broth.

Brinoise - tiny cubes of raw celeriac met a hot balsamico reduction. The residual heat did just enough: not cooked through, not raw either, leaving them with a gentle bite and a glossy, acidic coat.

The purée was made from larger cubes, fried in butter until golden brown, almost tipping into burnt. Blended down, they turned into something intensely earthy, rich and fatty, the kind of flavor that anchors a dish. When the butter ran heavy, a touch of cream brought it back into balance, binding everything together.

The scraps simmered quietly in water until the broth tasted of the whole root. Reduced and thickened ever so slightly with xanthan, it became the backbone of the plate.

And finally, the green oil. Equal parts leaves and neutral oil, blended until warm — 55°C, just enough to lock in the color. Strained once, then again through a coffee filter, leaving behind a clear, vibrant oil that split across the broth like brushstrokes of paint.

Taste guided every step. Adjust, nudge, and let the ingredient speak. As Marco Pierre White said, “Mother Nature is the true artist.” You’re just there to help her work.

What began as a knobbly, overlooked root ended up as a dish with layers — acidic, earthy, fatty, crisp, and bright. Not a garnish, not a background player, but an ingredient stretched across textures and flavors. It proves something simple: sometimes the ugliest things in the kitchen are just waiting for the right frame to show their beauty.