The sort of fizzy-jelly sweet that comes coated in puckersome granules may well have been inspired by the traditional, if somewhat more hardcore, practice of dipping raw rhubarb sticks in sugar, where the sweetness reveals a glimpse of the strawberry-jam and Granny-Smith flavours that characterise rhubarb’s more amenable fruity side. Chew on, and these give way to a heavier, greenhouse leafiness, before the sugar is all gone and the unchecked sourness is apt to make you salivate and twitch around the kitchen like Thom Yorke.
In cooked rhubarb the fruitiness becomes more generic, losing ground to the thick foliage flavour. In combination with its sourness, hint of bitterness and stringy texture, these vegetal notes in cooked rhubarb make it easy to dislike.
The classic pairings of hot ginger, or waxy orange zest, originated in the pharmacy as constipation cures, not the kitchen, and to my mind taste like it, only adding insult to the injury of rhubarb at its unfriendliest.
Rhubarb does, however, famously respond to the kindness of vanilla, rounded out by sugar and dairy to make a soft custard or ice cream. In a similar vein, hazelnut, when roasted, takes on a sweet, round, buttery quality that soothes the fruit’s asperity without smothering it. The pairing is out of this world in a crumble. Put about 500g chopped rhubarb in a 1 litre ovenproof dish and sprinkle with 3 tbsp golden caster sugar. Rub 100g cold, diced butter into 125g wholemeal flour until you have a breadcrumb-like texture, then stir in 75g golden caster sugar and 75g roughly ground, toasted, skinned hazelnuts. Spoon the nutty crumble mix over the fruit, leaving no gaps. Pat down and cook at 200C for 35 to 40 minutes. Trust me: you’ll never eat a rhubarb crumble without hazelnuts again.