Little devils

I come from a part of the world where an over-pickled cucumber is considered a failure. A serious one, one might say. In Latvia, across the Baltics, and that stretch of Europe, a perfectly balanced pickled cucumber is an art form. Recipes for such well-managed pickles are passed down through generations, and even then—what the grandmother knows and does, the granddaughter might never quite master.

And then there's France, where trying a pickled cucumber called a cornichon for the first time quite literally gives you four new wrinkles on the spot, just from trying to finish that little beast. Especially if you attempt to enjoy it on its own. Not a bonne idée, at all.

The whole point of that sharp, overly vinegary punch is to cut through the fat—the much-loved richness of French cuisine. It’s there to balance what hides in rillettes, confit, terrines, cured meats, and sausages. And in that context—well, yes, that little beast does help. But only then.

Pronounced kor-nee-shon, these are small pickled cucumbers, usually just 3 to 5 cm long. And they’re not cheap—when you do manage to find them at the market (they’re often unavailable), you can expect to pay around €10 per kilo. Pickled in vinegar and seasoned with herbs—most commonly mustard seeds, pearl onions, and sometimes tarragon or garlic—they’re sold in modestly sized jars. With flavour that strong, a small jar lasts a long while. The large ones are generally for big gatherings or very strong people.

Although the practice of pickling cucumbers goes back over 4,000 years, the term cornichon and its popularity in France didn’t emerge until the 17th and 18th centuries. The word itself means “little horn”—a nod to the cucumber’s bumpy skin.

As mentioned earlier, their primary role is to cut through the richness of charcuterie, so naturally, their popularity is higher in regions where that kind of food plays a bigger role—places like Alsace, Burgundy, the Rhône, and other northern parts of France.

Traditionally made from very French cucumber varieties like Parisienne and Vert Petit de Paris, oddly enough, most cornichons today have very little to do with France. They’re grown all over the world—everywhere but France, it seems. So, when a producer does use cucumbers grown within French borders, they proudly state it on the jar—and charge a much higher price. One must pay for the shorter road, interestingly enough.

Outside of the charcuterie board, these little devils also show up alongside steak tartare, in potato salad, chopped into classic sauces like remoulade and gribiche, or stirred into a sharp vinaigrette to showcase what French cuisine is really about.

And if someone calls you a petit cornichon—meaning “silly little person”—just know it could go either way. It might be affectionate, or it might be a warning. It all depends on what you’ve done.