Char, Slaw and Salt: One Bag of Sprouts, Three Ways

There's a particular smell that puts people off Brussels sprouts for life, and it happens in a pan of water. Boil them for eleven minutes, drain, serve, and you've made a small green punishment. Do almost anything else and you get something worth arguing about.

This is the project I run every November, when the first proper sprouts land on the market tables: one bag, three pans, three completely different results. It takes an afternoon, most of it hands-off, and it will either convert the skeptic in your house or at least give you something good to eat while they sulk.

First, buy the right bag

The single biggest upgrade happens at the point of purchase. A sprout that's been sitting in a net for a fortnight tastes of nothing but sulphur and regret.

At a London market in November — Ridley Road, Brixton, Borough, any of the Saturday stalls — look for sprouts somewhere between the size of a large marble and a walnut. Small ones cook evenly and stay sweet; the giant ones go bitter in the middle. They should be tight as a clenched fist, squeaky when you rub two together, and dark green with maybe a whisper of purple at the base. Yellowing leaves, soft spots or a loose, open top all mean the sugar has gone.

Buy them on the stalk if the trader has them. They keep a fortnight in a cool spot rather than four days in the fridge, they're usually cheaper by weight, and you get the little ones that never make it into a pre-trimmed bag. Expect somewhere between £1.50 and £3 a kilo loose in 2026, or £3–£4 for a whole stalk carrying a kilo and a half. Ask when they were cut — most traders will tell you straight.

You need about a kilo for the three-pan version. Get the jar going first, because that's the bit that needs time.

Pan one: the charred ones

This is the conversion recipe. It's the one I hand to people who insist they don't like sprouts, and it works roughly nine times out of ten.

Halve 400g of sprouts through the base so the leaves hold together. Get a heavy frying pan properly hot — hotter than feels sensible — with a thin film of oil. Lay them cut-side down and then leave them alone for five or six minutes. No stirring, no prodding, no nudging. You want a dark, almost black face on them.

While they sit there, mash three anchovy fillets into 30g of soft butter with a squeeze of lemon and a lot of black pepper. When the sprouts are charred, turn them, add the butter, and toss for two minutes until the anchovies melt into something glossy. Taste one before the pan leaves the hob; you'll know if it wants more lemon.

The anchovy doesn't taste fishy by the end, it tastes savoury — same trick as Worcestershire sauce in a stew. If you're cooking for someone who genuinely can't do fish, a teaspoon of miso and a splash of soy does the same job.

Pan two: raw, with apple

Shredded raw is the one that surprises people, because it doesn't taste of sprouts at all. It tastes like a very good winter slaw.

Finely slice 300g of sprouts — a mandoline if you have one, a sharp knife and some patience if you don't. Cut one crisp apple into matchsticks, leave the skin on, and toss everything with the juice of half a lemon straight away so nothing browns.

Dress it with two tablespoons of olive oil, a teaspoon of Dijon, a pinch of salt and a little more lemon. Leave it ten minutes, then fold through a handful of toasted hazelnuts and a shaving of something hard and salty — pecorino, or a decent cheddar if that's what's in the fridge.

It keeps two days in a lidded box and improves on day two, which makes it a rare and useful thing: a salad you can make on Sunday and eat on Tuesday without apology.

The jar: three days to something fizzy

The third pan isn't a pan at all. Take 250g of sprouts, halve them, and pack them into a clean jar with two teaspoons of fine salt and enough water to cover — roughly a 2% brine. Weigh them down with a scrunched cabbage leaf or a small bag of brine so everything stays under the surface.

Leave the jar on the counter, loosely lidded, for three days. Open it once a day to let the gas out. By day three it should smell sour and faintly cabbagey in a good way, and taste sharp with a light fizz. Then it goes in the fridge, where it'll hold for a month.

Eat them cold with fried eggs, chopped into a cheese toastie, or straight from the jar while you're waiting for the kettle. This is the batch that turns sprout skeptics into people who buy two stalks.

How the week runs

Start the jar on Friday night. On Saturday, char the hot pan for supper and shred the slaw for Sunday. The jar is ready Monday. One kilo of sprouts, one shop, three things in the fridge that all taste different — which is really the whole argument against boiling them into submission.

And if you've got a sprout-hater in the house, start with the charred ones. Don't mention the jar until they've finished eating.