Tapenade is hard to miss in Southern France. Wait a few hours into any trip there and you'll start to notice it. In the midst of the small army of empty, long-stemmed glasses that were once filled with rosé, there's inevitably an array of tiny dishes filled with tapenade scattered across most dining tables. Whether in homes or restaurants, the region is filled with sophisticated French people spending all summer swiping jagged slices of crunchy baguette through thick, green, black, or red paste that you might mistake for hummus at first glance.
Tapenade's nothing new and it's not hummus-y at all. This brinier, more flavorfulProvençal classicis usually made with puréed olives, capers, and olive oil. Often there's garlic, anchovies, and lemon juice, too. But, regardless, there's always tapenade, waiting to be devoured with just about whatever you can spread it on.
It's the dip that can do anything and the sort of beautifully simple thing that you want to have on hand at all times. Which got me thinking: Why, exactly, aren't I making and eating tapenade all the time?
So I started doing exactly that. On long Sunday afternoons, I'll break out my food processor and packed quart containers of pitted olives and make tapenade for the week, spreading it on everything from grilled pieces of bread topped with a few glugs of grassy olive oil to a piece ofsimply seared fishorsteak. You can vary the type of olives you use, swapping out garden-variety black ones for the plump, greenCastelvetranothat hail from Sicily.
Or balance out all that brininess by combining the olives with sun-dried oroven-roastedtomatoes and a bit of the liquid they're packed in. The result is atomatotapenadethat's deep red and loaded with bright acidity.
Whatever you do, just make sure to pass the tapenade, okay?
