Somewhere in Martini-land, obviously a land far more cosmopolitan than the one I live in, bartenders are using caper berries in place of olives or pickled onions as garnish for the martini. Until just this summer, I had never even seen a caper berry, and then by some fluke, I was served them twice in the same week, in two totally unrelated dining experiences.

It was on our trip to Tofino that I first had what looked like a pickled green grape with its skin peeled off as garnish on a salad. (Do any of you remember peeling grapes with your teeth when you were younger, or was that just another eccentric Maloney thing?)

I saved embarrassing myself by reading the menu first, before asking the waiter, to discover that it was a caper berry. It was alright, although I wasn’t overwhelmed. While it tasted like a caper, I found the texture of the berry to be somewhat mushy. A few days later, it was here on Gabriola where I had a dish again garnished with this mystery berry. At first I thought this berry was perhaps just a large caper, but the distinction between them helps explain that difference in texture.

Caper buds, the things we refer to simply as capers, and caper berries, come from Capparis spinosa, a small shrub that originated in Asia, but made itself quite at home in the wilds of the Mediterranean countries, including France, Spain, Italy, Greece, and Algeria.

The most prevalent use for the plant is pickling the flower bud. In order to get the smallest, most immature bud possible, they are picked by hand in the early day, every day, which explains why some of the finest capers can be quite expensive. The buds are then immediately put into either vinegar or salt brine, or sometimes simply cured in sea salt.

The tiniest buds are most prized and a jar labelled “nonpareilles” or “surfines” is going to be more costly than ones labelled “capucines” or “communes.”

The word caper is thought to have originated from the Latin capra, meaning goat, due to the strong smell and flavour of the bud. The bud cannot be eaten raw because it is so astringent, but the curing and pickling alters this sourness giving it that addicting burst of salty piquancy.

It isn’t surprising to learn that the caper bush is closely related to the cabbage family which also includes water cress, wasabi, and horseradish. They all have that same peppery nip that makes them all so irresistible, unless, of course, you are one of those who can’t handle the bite.

The bush has a beautiful white flower that can often be spotted in the wild, but rarely in areas where capers are cultivated for sale, for obvious reasons. France and Spain are the largest producers of the pickled caper buds.

Spain also does a large amount of caper berry processing. The flower is allowed to bloom, and the fruit allowed to mature for only a few days before they are picked, not allowing the seeds inside to become too bitter and tough. The fruit are picked with stems still attached, and then cured.

Spain is probably the largest consumer of the caper berry, which is often found in dishes with olives, and is even considered a substitute for green olives. This must explain the martini thing. The flavour of the berry is quite similar to the bud, but because of the seeds and fruit pulp, the texture is softer. The caper berry has remained largely a Spanish thing, at least until this summer!

Although originating in Asia, you are not likely to find a stir-fry or a satay sauce containing pickled capers. On the other hand, it is hard to imagine the cuisine of the Mediterranean without capers, often in dishes that are intensely flavoured with olives, anchovies, and garlic. In Italy, where capers are used most frequently, many classic dishes depend upon that deadly quartet: garlic, anchovies, olives, and capers.  This includes my absolute favourite pasta sauce, Puttanesca, and Veal Tonnato, a cold veal dish with a tuna- caper sauce. Even pizza in Italy (and at our house) is often topped with capers.

The Spanish use both capers and caper berries in cold salads and seafood dishes. French cooking makes frequent use of capers in sauces for fish, such as tartare sauce, a mayonnaise-based sauce with capers and dill pickles, and it was the French who created probably the most wonderful of appetizer spreads, tapenade, a pâté of anchovies, capers, and olives.

I must use at least one or possibly two jars of capers a month. The fact that I know people who have never even bought capers is astounding to me. I can kill a whole jar on one dinner of pizza. I use them to garnish devilled eggs, and they are fantastic tossed into a pesto sauce. How can you even thing of eating lox and cream cheese without capers?

I will admit that I’ll probably never be a real fan of the caper berry; definitely a tactile thing.

I have long heard that nasturtium buds and immature seeds, with their caper-like peppery flavour, can be pickled like capers. They certainly have the right flavour, but could you imagine how many of those tiny little nuggets you would have to pick to make a single 100ml jar? I do have a recipe I’d be willing to pass along, if anyone just happens to have two litres of nasturtium seeds handy.