A carrot three ways — roasted, pickled, ash — no buttering about.
Spring carrots from Ørsted's garden arrive tender and earthy — the kind that don't need much mucking about. I got tired of butter years ago, so chamomile-infused oil does the heavy lifting here. Fermented pear from my mate's Copenhagen fermentation lab adds that sour-sweet, umami kick that makes you lean in with your fork.
Gently warm rapeseed oil to 50°C — it should be warm enough that your finger hovers, but just. Scatter dried chamomile into a clean jar, pour the warm oil over, cap it, and leave in a dark cupboard for 24 hours. This is patience work, not faffing about.
Scrub the whole carrots under cold water. Using a mandoline or sharp knife, slice one carrot paper-thin lengthways — these ribbons go raw into the finished plate. Take the second carrot, cut it into four long batons, toss with sea salt and a squeeze of the chamomile oil, and set on a baking tray.
Into a 200°C oven for 25–30 minutes. You want colour at the edges — caramelisation, not charring — and they should bend without snapping. The kitchen will smell like nutmeg and honey. Drain any excess oil off the tray onto a small bowl for finishing.
While the batons roast, take a small handful of raw carrot trimmings, spread on foil, and char them hard in the oven at 220°C for 8–10 minutes. Once cool, grind or crumble into fine ash. Taste a pinch — it should be bitter-sweet and distinctly carrot. Mix with vegetable ash (1:1) and a tiny pinch of sea salt.
Slice the sourdough and warm it gently. Strain the chamomile oil into a clean bowl, discarding the flowers. Season to taste — you want it fragrant, not overpowering. If it's cooled, gently warm it back to 35–40°C before plating.
This isn't a composed plate — it's a landscape. Arrange raw carrot ribbons across the centre of a large, pale plate. Lay roasted batons on top, slightly askew. Dollop fermented pear in two or three spots. Scatter carrot ash liberally. Tear sorrel leaves and scatter. Pour warm chamomile oil around and over everything — it should pool and shine. Serve with warm bread on the side.
“Don't overthink this. The plate is a carrot in three states: raw crispness, roasted sweetness, burnt earthiness. The fermented pear adds sour funk. The oil is the glue — warm, fragrant, generous. Serve at once so the raw carrot stays crisp and the oil stays warm. Bread goes on the side for soaking up the last of the oil. It's humble, but it's honest.”
First bite: the raw carrot ribbon snaps clean, then the roasted baton melts on your tongue with caramel depth. The fermented pear hits next — sour, umami, almost meaty. Then the chamomile oil coats your palate with something floral and grassy. The ash brings a final mineral astringency. By the third forkful you're using the bread to catch every drop, and you're thinking about ordering seconds.
Mineral, green, snappy — matches the sorrel and raw carrot without fighting the ferment.
Local, bitter enough to cut the oil, malty enough to echo the roasted carrot.
Make it yourself: carrot scraps, fresh ginger, wild yeast, 3 days in a jar — fizzy, funky, perfect.
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