Elisabeth Luard basks in the golden glow of the most expensive spice on the planet, and traces its history from the shores of the Mediterranean to the fields of Essex.
You don't really need much of it. A pinch of saffron, no more, is enough to gild a rice dish, to colour and perfume a stew, or to tint a broth a singing golden hue. It is just as well, since saffron is the world's most expensive spice. Its value lies partly in the fragrance, but above all, in its ability to turn everything it touches the colour of sunshine.
Saffron is the stamen of a kind of crocus, first brought from beyond its native Mediterranean shores by Phoenician sailors, roaming the seas in search of trade. Thus, the mauve blooms were planted all over the Middle East and Iberia, as well as southern regions of France and Italy; indeed, saffron is still the characteristic ingredient in Provençal bouillabaisse, Milanese risotto and Valencian paella.
Valued as a fabric dye as well as a spice, saffron thrived in England, particularly in the warm earth of Cornwall and Devon, where the Phoenicians traded with the tin miners. The sun-deprived Britons took to the stuff like ducks to the village pond, though it wasn't until the 14th century that serious production was established, in the fields around Saffron Walden in Essex. From then until the end of the 18th century, Crocus sativus was a highly profitable harvest for the nimble-fingered crokers (as saffron farmers were known) of England's eastern counties. The work was notoriously laborious, with the stamens from some 100,000 flowers needed to produce just one kilo of saffron.
Medieval housewives found saffron a blessing during Lent, giving an illusion of richness to meatless meals. In Tudor times, an infusion of saffron beaten with egg yolk was used to gild, or 'endore', roast meats served at banquets: try it yourself when roasting a chicken. The philosopher Francis Bacon advocated an liberal infusion of saffron in a syllabub as a useful pick-me-up. One man's wake-up call, though, is another man's soporific. The armies of Alexander, in the days when the Greeks ruled the eastern Mediterranean, found the flavour of Persian pilaf so seductive, the scent of the spice so sweet, its after-effects so sleep-inducing, that they refused to do battle until they had slept their fill in the crocus fields of the Anatolian plain.
In modern times, much of the world's saffron is grown on the stony plains of La Mancha in central Spain. If you take the highway south from Madrid, you can't fail to notice the shimmering lakes of purple, with the harvesters in their broad-brimmed hats, bent double among the rows. For the six weeks of the season, the precious blossoms are picked by hand, the stamens separated and spread in the sunshine till the tiny threads are dry and brittle. This is the spice. Nothing more is needed. The work is labour intensive, specialised and keeps whole villages in business. For the subsistence farmers of Kashmir, the politically disputed region bordering on Afghanistan and claimed by both India and Pakistan, the crop is a lifeline. It's also a source of pride: Kashmiri saffron has been prized for its strength and fragrance throughout the region for 2,000 years.
Its expense alone, though, doesn't explain why saffron is so precious and why such arduous harvesting is worth the effort. To appreciate its magic, experiment a little. Take half a dozen threads, rub them between your fingertips and bring them to your nostrils. The scent is elusive, fugitive, perhaps a little dusty, a hint of thyme and sage and hot hillsides. Drop the threads on a dry pan and set it over the heat, count to ten - the stuff is fragile and easily burnt - and inhale the fragrance. Better? Now drop the toasted strands in a heatproof glass with a splash of boiling water, just enough to soften them. Wait a few minutes and crush the threads with the back of a spoon. Now you're talking. The dark-red filaments leech their magic into the water, turning it the colour of ripe corncobs, a luminous gold. Inhale once more. The scent is there at last: full-blown and mature, it is the essence of summer; musky, with the fragrance of hay, the sweetness of honey, a backnote of rose oil, citrus and lemon balm.
Saffron has a natural affinity with cardamom, cinnamon, raisins, apricots, lemon zest, cream, butter, oil, eggs, fish, rice, chicken; anything, in fact, that has a flavour delicate enough to accept its gentleness. It should be kept no longer than a year, from autumn to autumn, in its little plastic container in a cool dark corner. When the sky clouds over and the snow falls, bring it out and allow it to work its Midas magic. There's the charm of it; the joy of it. In the depths of a northern winter just a knifetip's worth delivers what all warm-blooded creatures crave: the warmth and light of the sun.
'The Food of Spain and Portugal' by Elisabeth Luard is published next month by Kyle Cathie (rrp £25). To order a copy for only £23 with free p&p, call 01903 828503 or email mailorders@lbsltd.co.uk (quote code 'fsp/wfi').