Caldo Verde

One of the most prominent culinary comforts in my life is caldo verde. It’s like an aromatic hug from my mother and grandmother, or avó for all you pork chops out there. It’s a simple Portuguese dish both in name and composition; the name literally translates to green soup. It requires very little in terms of effort, cost and specificity - except for the chorizo. You can use any kind of potato, any kind of onion and any kind of large leafy green; kale, swiss chard or collard greens. But you absolutely need chorizo, hopefully a Portuguese one but Spanish will do in a pinch (more on that later). The chorizo is what gives this soup its deep, rich flavour. You don't even need stock; the fat from the sausage gives the broth a silky, fatty component that screams comfort and its smokey, spicy flavour augments the potatoes and tempers the bitterness of the dark leafy greens. It’s not caldo verde without chorizo.

I could only find Spanish-style chorizo.... #pandemicproblems.

Chorizo is a popular flavour on many menus these days, but I’d wager most people don't know the difference between its three distinct variations. Spanish style chorizo is made with chopped fatty pork and is mixed with garlic, white wine and smoked paprika before being fully cured in its casing. Mexican chorizo is probably the most recognized version in North America; it is made up of ground meat (usually pork but you can use any meat or meat substitute you desire) and uses local hot peppers instead of the costly imported paprika. They also substitute white vinegar for the wine and, of course, lots of garlic. Most Central and South American versions of chorizo can be found either loose or in a casing, and are typically served freshly fried or grilled instead of being cured. There are dozens of variations of this sausage according to regional preferences in Spain, Latin America, Asia, Africa; in fact anywhere that the Spanish and Portuguese established colonies, there is a local version of chorizo. But I’m talking about a Portuguese soup here so that means a Portuguese-style chorizo if you can get it. You can spot it easily because it’s spelled chouriço and will say Portuguese-style on the package. It’s made with chopped pork, the fat of which is marinated in wine with paprika, hot chilis and garlic. It’s then all stuffed into casings and smoked for days, resulting in a semi-cured sausage that’s not as dry as the Spanish version.

Now before I waxed poetic about sausages there is another key flavour component of this soup. Of course garlic and bay leaves are important, but the secret star of caldo verde is marjoram.

Dried marjoram.

Marjoram is a key component not only in this soup, but perhaps all Madeiran cuisine. Madeira is a tiny volcanic island in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, about halfway between Portugal and Morocco, and it is my maternal grandparents’ birthplace. There, you’ll find plenty of fish and meat dishes cooked “Madeira-style” which usually means it has marjoram as a key flavour. Now marjoram is probably one of the dustiest of jars in your spice rack, right next to the ancient dried parsley and some mummified coriander seeds. You’ve probably used marjoram without even realizing it; dried marjoram is often a part of any mediterranean herb blend and is a key component of both herbes de provence and za’atar. It’s similar to oregano in appearance and flavour, both herbs belonging to the same Origanum genus. The plant is indigenous to Cyprus and southern Turkey and the flowering shrub symbolized happiness for ancient Greeks and Romans.

The whole gang's here.

Now for the “soupification” of all of these ingredients. In a large pot, saute the onions, garlic and chopped chorizo until everything is soft and most of the fat from the sausage has rendered. Add your cubed potatoes and marjoram and then fill your pot with water until everything is covered by at least an inch. You'll need room for the greens later. Now, as I said earlier, the fat and flavour from the chorizo give the broth enough body on its own but you can use any homemade stock to make the soup even richer, but it's up to you really. Add your bay leaves and bring to a rolling boil and cook until you can pierce the potatoes easily with a fork. Bring the heat to its lowest setting and prepare to chiffonade your greens. Roll up and slice your greens into thin ribbons; I find collard greens to be the most amenable to this technique. Add the leafy ribbons to the soup and close the lid and turn off the heat. After a few minutes, the greens will have fully cooked in the residual heat (this will depend on the green varietal you’ve used; kale takes the longest to soften). Remove the lid and sample the broth. Salt to taste and eat on a cold or rainy day.

Side note*

You can also make more of a pureed version of this soup, in fact it is probably the most common version of it. In this version you render the chorizo first and on its own. Remove and set aside, then soften your onions and garlic in the fat left over in the pot. Then add your potatoes and water. Once your potatoes are done, mash or puree to your desired consistency. You can then either add the greens and puree them into the rest of the soup, or just chiffonade them and toss in with the sauteed chorizo you set aside earlier to finish it off.