By Jean-Pierre Montanay
With its stalk streaked in shades of red, pink, and green, rhubarb catches the eye on market stalls, where it will stay through July. Yet this fibrous petiole doesn’t always win hearts—its tart flavor tends to divide: some grimace, others salivate. It’s no wonder this plant, whose leaves are inedible due to their toxicity, can be so polarizing—its Latin name even translates to “barbarian.”
Native to Siberia, rhubarb is known for its hardiness and resistance to the cold. It arrived in Europe in the 16th century, initially praised in France for its medicinal properties before being grown for consumption. In contrast, the British embraced it on the plate much sooner, and it deeply influenced home baking with the iconic rhubarb pie, a dessert still beloved today.
This once-overlooked stalk raised a question for fans: had it hit a culinary ceiling with crumbles and jams, or could it find a place in contemporary gastronomy? In just a few years, rhubarb has captured the imagination of a younger generation of chefs and pastry makers—drawn in precisely by the very trait that once put people off: its acidity, now seen as its greatest strength.
Officially reclassified as a fruit in 1947—after years of being unfairly treated as a vegetable—rhubarb also symbolizes the broader return of plant-based ingredients to our plates. Alice Tuyet, head chef of Faubourg Daimant, a pioneering plant-forward restaurant, appreciates what she calls its “crisp acidity and floral sweetness” in a simple recipe: a strawberry–rhubarb compote with verbena-infused whipped cream.
Versatile and hybrid by nature, rhubarb also plays well with savory dishes—pairing beautifully with chicken or mackerel. Used like a condiment, it can even be eaten raw, thinly sliced like celery, to give a tangy punch to a summer salad.
