Thereās something a little tacky about cornichons. Theyāve been a quintessential cocktail food for decades, speared atop hors d'oeuvres and nestled within premade cold-cut platters. But theyāre one of those foods, like sun-dried tomatoes, that once held a tenuous air of luxury mostly due to good marketing, only to fade quickly into the category of passĆ© bourgeois foodstuff. Cornichons are haughty. Theyāre easy to mock. And cornichons with pearl onions? Even haughtier.
In reality, there is nothing fancy about cornichons despite their Gallic pedigree. A jar costs a few bucks and you can find them pretty much anywhere. And the fact is, they are an extremely good snack, and I am a steadfast fan, these days more than ever.
The gustatory pleasures of a fermented baby cucumber, specifically those made by the widely available French brand Maille, are manifold. Firstly, their small size means theyāre a low commitment. A whole pickle can be a wet, juicy obligation, and unless you are a monster, saving a half-eaten gherk for later is just not doable. Un petit cornichon, however, is a one-and-done bite. For a shelf-stable cucumber (when unopened, at least), they are by far the least mushy option you can find because of their small size.
And then thereās the flavor: Cornichons are typically seasoned with mustard and tarragon. Tarragon, while not as versatile as some herbs, is powerfully aromatic, making whatever itās added to seem like a fully realized food. Pearl onions are the guest stars, adding another layer of taste and texture. Through the harmony of these elements, cornichons become a complex niblet beyond what you can find in a standard-issue jarred pickle. They are a complete flavor experience that needs little else.
That being said, cornichons are great chorus members in many composed dishes. I chop them up and mix them into tuna salad, or stir them into mayonnaise alongside grated garlic to dress a bowl of steamed vegetables, akin to this recipe by Anna Stockwell. Sharing my enthusiasm, my colleague Lauren says that cornichon and pearl onion sprinkled atop a liberally buttered slice of toast is one of her all-time favorite drunk meals.
Cornichons elevate even the most crude forms of pantry cooking, especially when you have absolutely zero will to cook. At several points during this annus horribilis, I can bet that you, like me, have prepared a couple of meals in a mixed state of desperation and apathy. Sure, you might have everything to make a pot of lentil soup, but the thought of cooking is draining enough, let alone actually doing it. Many days a jar of cornichons is what makes my cobbled-together meals feel complete. No, an entire jar is definitely not a full meal, but when I am having an abject charcuterie board for dinner, made of baby carrots, grapes, and spoonfuls of peanut butter, a couple of cornichons (and a pearl onion or two) are a welcome and refined comfort.
