Just Say Chantenay

Can you say "Chantenay?"

Shawn-Ten-A. 

There, I knew you could.  Miss Rogers is proud of you, even if she's not wearing her cardigan.

Now, boys and girls, who can tell me what Chantenay is?

No, not a famous pop diva; that would be Beyonce.   Not a discontinued Cadillac roadster (Allante) or high-priced wine (Santenay).  It's not even one of those perfumes that make you wish you carried a gas mask when you are stuck in an elevator going to the 40th floor behind someone who seems to have pickled themselves and their clothes with it.

No, Chantenay is a carrot.

If you've dined out in a white tablecloth restaurant lately you have probably seen it listed on the menu as an accompaniment (please, we don't say “side dish” anymore) to, oh, pan-seared scallops with pureed turnips, truffles, and crispy shallots ("excellent choice"). You salivate. This is going to be something special, something novel, something you'll want to take a picture of and share with everyone you know.

You wait with growing anticipation. When your plate arrives (please be careful, it's hot), you poke around, you find the four tiny orange cubes. You taste them. Why it's just like eating a . . . well, a carrot. A Bugs Bunny, grocery store, snack-in-a-bag carrot. Of course, it is slathered with a sauce of three parts butter, one part salt that could make a slice of Styrofoam palatable, but it is still just a carrot.

I don't have any great nostalgia for the good old days when iceberg was the only lettuce, calves' liver (shudder) was regarded as a health food, and carrots sometimes came in cans as a component of the dreaded “Mixed Veg, ” but I think I am missing the point of the Chantenay carrots. Of course I'm missing any number of things these days what with getting older and losing my taste buds, my sense of smell, and my mind (if what I read in the newspaper is correct), but I can still let my fingers do the walking and found out something interesting.

To oversimplify, because I am not a botanist or a farmer and there is no impartial fact checker here in Trouserville, there are a couple types of ordinary carrots that have been used for years by processors: Danvers and Chantenay. Yes, that's Danvers as in Danvers, Massachusetts, where the variety was introduced in 1871. Chantenay came to us from France. Both of them came from the vicinity of Afghanistan via the Netherlands.

Turns out we've been eating Chantenays for years without knowing it, but now through the miracle of marketing they can garner a premium price on the menu.  I don't find these menus entertaining at all, nor do I find the over-described and obscure ingredients anything to get excited about.  Let's just dump those Chantenays in the compost bin marked excessive complexity and meaningless choice. Right down there with purple potatoes, micro-greens,  and samphire (that's glasswort to you, Bub, a plant that anyone can yank out of the marsh for free).

Chantenays do have some interesting attributes, though.  Look at their publicity photo.  Compare them to thin scrawny supermarket carrots.   Or to tiny little baby snack-bag carrots (which I am sure I don't have to tell you are just ground-down pieces of bigger carrots.)

Actual carrots are much larger, thicker, and longer than they appear in this photo.

Now, now, boys and girls, let's stop the sniggering. 

Miss Rogers says, "Remember, sometimes a carrot is just a carrot."

For extra credit, take a trip to  The Carrot Museum.




A big Trouserville Thank-You to my talented friend Mary who called my attention to the Chantenay on the menu during a recent restaurant outing.