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The Case of the Tasty But Poisonous Nut


To meet Paul Schrade, a tall, white-haired 77-year-old with a gently bemused smile, you'd never suspect that he's obsessed with a poisonous nut. Mention the bitter almond, however, and the retired union organizer won't stop talking about how--on a culinary tour of Sicily in 1990--he fell in love with its powerful, unique flavor, which gives marzipan and almond milk their characteristic taste. Even after he was told that raw bitter almonds contained a form of cyanide and were illegal in the Unites States, Schrade was fascinated.

"I thought, 'European chefs make good use of bitter almonds for cooking and baking--why shouldn't we?'" he says.

Through his second career as a bakery consultant and forager for Campanile restaurant, Schrade sought to spur a revival of the ancient Mediterranean flavoring in California. Undeterred, or perhaps intrigued, by the nut's sinister reputation--spread by mystery tales in which the detective sniffed the odor of bitter almonds on a cyanide victim's breath--he sleuthed relentlessly for sources and information.

He learned that most of the original wild species of almonds were bitter, but that, as the nuts came into cultivation thousands of years ago, farmers began concentrating their crops toward sweet types, the kind grown today in California.





In the course of his explorations, Schrade found several California chefs eager to cook with bitter almonds. At the center of this informal network is Tim Woods of Echo restaurant in Fresno, famed for his zealous use of local ingredients.

Since bitter almonds are usually not available commercially, he harvests his nuts from nearby wild and backyard trees, and uses them to add a pleasing bite to the richness of bread pudding with caramel and to stone-fruit cobblers. He also shares his supplies with Sean Lippert, formerly chef of Across the Street in New York, for her bitter almond granita, and with Judy Rodgers of Zuni Cafe in Berkeley and Kim Boyce, pastry chef of Campanile, who both use the nuts to flavor panna cotta and ice cream.



In the United States, the lack of clear information about bitter almonds' legal status has squelched their cultivation, trade and use. No stores regularly stock bitter almonds, so cooks seeking them have had to rely, like Woods, on seedling trees growing wild along streams, roads and railroad tracks.

"I don't know if I should sell them or not," says Bill Fujimoto, owner of Monterey Market in Berkeley, which carries bitter almonds occasionally. "I don't leave them out on the counter. I sell them only when people who know bitter almonds ask me for some."

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