It’s probably safe to assume that I pay more attention to zucchini than the average joe, but if you had been walking by Joël Thiébault’s market stall* with me that day, you wouldn’t have missed these either: there, between the hostess-gift-worthy bouquets of fresh herbs and the off-white bulbs of hélianthi (a cousin of the Jerusalem artichoke with fewer knobs), was a basket of curvy-necked, bi-colored zucchini.
These zucchini were a little scratched, yes, as if they’d spent the morning playing in the bramble thicket, but they were thin-skinned and firm, they looked as if their bottoms had been dipped in pale green paint, and this was too pretty to pass up.
“Are they bi-flavored?” I asked the vendor, “Like Malabars?” (The Malabar is a French bubble-gum that was created in 1958, and comes in a bi-goût version — lemon and strawberry — that was hugely popular in my gum-chewing days.) He laughed and said, “Sure, vanilla and pistachio.” I bought two pounds.
Of course, once the zucchini is sliced — in my case, paper-thinly and served raw in a salad, with olive oil and a few drops of the stupendous 12-year-old balsamic vinegar that my friend Marianne gave me for my birthday — only you will know that it was bi-colored in the first place. But this doesn’t bother me at all; I like the idea that this chromatic oddity is for the sole benefit of the cook, a bit like wearing nice underwear when no one’s there to see it. (If you are intent on showing it off, however, you could opt to halve and stuff the zucchini, perhaps with two different colors of stuffing, to really get your point across.)