Acquired Taste Part 1
Italy’s Love Affair
with Bitter

(Bitter) Forget la dolce vita: few countries embrace bitterness like Italy. Much of what defines the cuisine from South Tyrol to Sicily, from Bergamo to Ragusa, is rooted in this flavor profile—one often considered challenging compared to salty, umami, or sweet. It starts with espresso, best enjoyed standing at the bar, and continues with amaro, the bitter liqueur that no celebratory meal is complete without. Then there are the many bitter vegetables, some unique to Italy and cultivated nowhere else, as well as cheeses, chocolates, olive oils, and the citrus fruits for which the south is justly famous. Where does this love come from? And what can we learn from it?

The Journey Begins
A dish as simple as it is convincing: fusilli sautéed in romaine lettuce extract, nestled in a mussel-lupin ragout, garnished with rue leaves, oysters, and romaine. Bitterness seduces in two ways here: through the pasta sauce and the rue—a forgotten arugula relative once prized by the Romans for its healing properties.

“Bitter flavors are essential to my cooking because they reflect how nature changes with the seasons,” explains Antonia Klugmann, the creator of this dish. “Especially in my home region of Friuli-Venezia Giulia, they often form the key components of a recipe.”Klugmann’s restaurant L’Argine a Vencó, opened in 2014, holds a Michelin star. A single-story, glass-fronted building 30 kilometers east of Udine and a stone’s throw from the Slovenian border, it celebrates rare vegetables and herbs—many from her own garden or local producers—and frequently, bitter notes. “I think of radicchio paired with pork and a splash of acidity, salad enhanced with fresh cheese, or the many local cheese specialties. And what could better represent Italian cuisine than bread with tomatoes and ripassata chicory?”

In her tasting menu, the Trieste-born chef (b. 1979) pairs cannelloni with nettles and chicory, or roasted white asparagus with thyme, plum ravioli, and formaggio di fossa. She also favors eggplant—grilled or fried, then served cold with the white, more bitter-than-sour part of the lemon. “My goal is to create a different, hopefully original approach to bitterness—a complex, grown-up flavor. A chef reaches that point at a very specific stage in her personal journey.

Of the five basic tastes, bitterness is perhaps the least popular—an acquired taste. Just as children love sweets, they often loathe broccoli and the like. That’s no coincidence: bitterness can signal inedibility. Klugmann is right to call it a grown-up flavor—our appreciation for it often grows with age. And that’s a good thing, since the polyphenols in bitter foods are antioxidant, immune-boosting, and aid digestion.

Amaro on the Plate
Could the amaro principle be transferred from glass to plate? Gianluca Gorini asked himself this question, finding an answer in a dish of spaghetti dipped in gentian-infused butter, and topped with candied bergamot peel and aged pecorino for a subtle bitterness.

“For me, the combination of pasta, cheese, citrus, and bitter notes is the essence of Italian cuisine,” says the chef, who was born in the Marche region and looks younger than his 42 years. “Gentian grows in the Apennines, bergamot in Calabria—both give amaro its signature flavor.” Gorini’s Michelin-starred restaurant is located in the province of Forlì-Cesena, between Bologna and Florence, near the Casentinesi Forest National Park. Like Klugmann and Canzian, he sees a national fondness for bitterness. Besides vegetables, he cites beer, the Tuscan peasant soup ribollita, and the charred-to-almost-burnt bistecca alla fiorentina as examples. “One of the best dishes at my restaurant Da Gorini is a charcoal-grilled artichoke served with black pesto—the outer leaves must be properly burnt. I also love citrus, especially bergamot.” Italy is famous for that too.

Take chinotto, a variety of bitter orange mainly grown in Liguria and the namesake of a bitter soda with fans abroad. Or cedro, the citron, whose edible peel is perfect for carpaccio. The area around Mount Etna is known as an orange paradise, with world-class varieties including Tarocco, Moro, and Navel. Last winter, Gorini served a wild game risotto infused with orange broth, refined with orange paste and nutmeg, and topped with seared wild duck. For dessert, he roasted a lemon in butter like a piece of meat, and served it with coffee sauce and apple purée. “The bitterness came from the coffee. Think citrus and coffee don’t go together? Just imagine Sicilian lemon granita topped with espresso!”

Another typical Gorini dish: risotto made with fennel broth, lemon paste, and chamomile sauce—whose scent, the star chef says, reminds him of green mountains and spring.

Vegetables with a Bitter Edge
While bitterness has been bred out of many vegetables elsewhere, Italy protects this part of its culinary heritage. The Rosa di Gorizia—or Rose of Gorizia—is so prized in its native Friuli, near the Slovenian border, that counterfeits exist. Only a handful of producers still grow this radicchio variety, whose color ranges from pink to scarlet. It’s sown in spring and harvested in autumn. Traditionally, it’s eaten raw with borlotti beans, pancetta, or chopped hard-boiled egg—or baked into a strudel.

Asparagus also carries distinct bitter notes. Cultivated in Italy since the 17th century, it has always been treated as a full-fledged dish rather than a side, unlike in France or Spain.

The so-called “volcano asparagus” is misleading—it’s actually puntarelle, a type of chicory. The ancient Romans already appreciated its stomach-soothing and appetite-stimulating effects.

Italian cookbook author Claudio del Principe makes his favorite winter salad with it: puntarelle alla romana. He also offers a bit of produce wisdom: “Please stick with the name Catalogna when referring to the whole head. This beautifully bitter leafy chicory with dandelion-like leaves is increasingly called puntarelle by food hipsters. But puntarelle refers only to the inner shoots of the Catalogna.”

Then there’s Italy’s wonderful world of cabbage. From Tuscan-grown cavolo nero (black kale) to savoy cabbage and cime di rapa—a leafy broccoli-like green paired in Apulia with chili, anchovy fillets, and orecchiette—Italy’s brassica diversity is unmatched. Author Niki Segnit calls cime di rapa the “broccoli lover’s broccoli” in her foundational book, The Flavor Thesaurus. “Some say it’s more mustardy and pungent than regular broccoli. I’d add that it has a strong iron note and a salty hint of licorice.” It’s often paired with anchovies and Parmesan, as salt and bitterness enhance each other. Segnit, however, recommends Parmesan and the sausage specialty salsiccia with pasta.
Naples is considered a true mecca for bitter greens—so much so that some outsiders use the dismissive term mangiafoglie (“leaf eaters”) for its residents. But one could just as well say: they know what’s good.

Take endive, for example, sautéed with garlic, capers, pine nuts, and raisins. Or friarielli, a local variety of broccoli rabe. Especially in autumn, this bitter green is everywhere in Naples—on pizza, as a side dish, or stuffed into bread. Austrian author and part-time Neapolitan Tobias Müller calls it “the undisputed queen of bitter greens.” “Friarielli is so central to Neapolitan identity that it’s used as a kind of rite of passage: if a child likes this bitter vegetable, they’re considered grown up, according to local wisdom.”

That’s likely what Antonia Klugmann means when she describes a love for bitterness as a milestone on one’s personal culinary journey. Some reach it early, others later—some unfortunate souls perhaps never at all. But once you’ve learned to love bitterness, there’s no going back.