Huge Roasted Asparagus

Listen. Asparagus. We are doing asparagus, and I am here to tell you that most of the asparagus served in this country is a DISGRACE to the spear. A disgrace. Steamed into surrender. Boiled into a wet pale rope. Limp little soldiers laying down on the plate, giving up, asking the plate for forgiveness. Vegetables should not BEG. End of discussion.

My asparagus stands at attention. SNAP. BITE. Char on the tips, blistered edges, that deep nutty browned business that happens only when fat meets a screaming hot pan — and I've had asparagus on every continent that grows it, I once watched an old farmer in the Loire pull spears out of the ground and eat one raw, didn't say a word, just chewed and nodded — and nothing, nothing in the asparagus universe beats high heat, good olive oil, and a real lemon. A real one. Not the plastic squeeze bottle shaped like a citrus. That bottle is an INSULT. Plain and simple.

And the so-called chefs out there? Most of them are afraid of high heat. They tiptoe. They roast at 350 because they're nervous, because they think they'll burn it, because their TV producer told them to play it safe. Cowards. If your chef tells you to steam asparagus, find a new chef. If your chef tells you to boil asparagus, call the authorities. Asparagus wants the inferno. Asparagus was BORN for the inferno. You give it the inferno and it pays you back with crispy tips, sweet sugary edges, and that grassy snap that makes people remember why they liked vegetables in the first place. Believe me.

Twelve minutes. Twelve. From raw spear to caramelized glory in less time than it takes to argue about what to watch. Tremendous asparagus, hot from the oven, crispy on top, lemony, salty, with a little hit of Parmesan that hits the tongue like a brass band. People will fight over the burnt tips. The burnt tips are the BEST part — the food chemists agree, I had one tell me, very smart guy, the browning is where the flavor lives. Let them fight. And there you have it.