Vegetarian Bagna Càuda: Rebuilding a Piemonte Classic Without Anchovies
This is one of the few dishes I’ve created inspired by my past life, before I embarked on this vegetarian journey. There’s a sauce I’ve missed desperately since I stopped cooking with animal products. We used to make it at the last restaurant I worked at before beginning to cook exclusively vegetarian food. The founders were from Piemonte, and naturally, we featured their beloved regional sauce on the menu.
That sauce is Bagna Càuda.
If you’ve never encountered it, Bagna Càuda is a warm, richly flavoured dip from northwestern Italy and neighbouring areas of France. The name translates to “warm bath” in Piedmontese dialect, which perfectly captures what it is: a communal pool of intensely savoury, garlic-laden sauce kept warm at the table over a small flame.
The traditional version is deceptively simple. Just garlic, anchovies, olive oil, and sometimes butter or cream to mellow the garlic’s bite. You cook the minced garlic and anchovies together over gentle heat until the anchovies dissolve completely and the garlic turns soft and sweet. No browning, no rush. Then you pour this molten, umami-rich elixir into a small earthenware pot, set it over a candle or burner, and gather around with fresh vegetables and crusty bread for dipping.
It’s not just food. It’s a ritual, a slow evening with friends, a conversation punctuated by reaching across the table for another piece of bread, a carrot stick or asparagus dragged through that glossy, golden-brown sauce.
I’ve missed it terribly.
The Problem (And My Obsession)
Before I go any further, I should warn you: if word of this recipe reaches Piemonte, I’ll be persona non grata. My former bosses will disown me. Traditional Italian grandmothers will shake their heads in dismay. But I made peace with that a long time ago, because some tastes are worth chasing, even if it means committing culinary heresy. May the gods of the kitchen forgive me.
The challenge with making vegetarian Bagna Càuda is that anchovies aren’t just an ingredient. They’re the entire foundation. They provide the deep, oceanic umami, the salinity, the complexity, the richness that makes the sauce what it is. Remove them, and you’re left with garlic and oil. Pleasant enough, but not Bagna Càuda.
I spent years trying to crack this. Early attempts were disasters. Miso alone made it taste like Asian fusion gone wrong. Nutritional yeast turned it into something vaguely cheesy that had no business near Italian vegetables. Capers by themselves were too sharp, too one-note. I’d get close, then something would be off. The texture would be grainy. The flavour would be flat. The ocean-ness would be missing.
I must have made thirty versions over three years, each time convinced I’d figured it out, only to be disappointed when I tasted it against my memory of the real thing.
Then I stopped trying to find one magic replacement and started thinking about what anchovies actually do. They bring umami (glutamates), salt, a briny ocean quality, fermented depth, and a certain unctuous richness. No single ingredient could replicate all of that. But maybe several ingredients together could.
What finally worked was building layers. Each ingredient contributes one aspect of what anchovies bring to the dish:
Porcini mushroom powder for earthy, deep umami. Dried porcini are naturally high in glutamates, the same compounds that make anchovies so savoury.
Seaweed powder (I use kelp) for that essential taste of the sea. The iodine and mineral quality are crucial. This was the breakthrough ingredient that made everything else fall into place.
Capers for sharp, briny punch and the pickled complexity that cuts through the richness.
Chickpea miso for fermented depth and smooth, savoury body. I prefer chickpea miso over soy-based versions because it’s milder, doesn’t dominate and it’s more environmentally friendly.
Black garlic for sweet, mellow umami that adds complexity without the raw sharpness. This works alongside the fresh garlic, not instead of it. Traditional Bagna Càuda uses massive amounts of fresh garlic, and we need that characteristic bite.
The result isn’t identical to the original. I won’t claim that. But it’s close enough that when I close my eyes and dip a piece of celery into it, I’m transported back to those evenings in that Piedmontese kitchen, gathered around the pot with my colleagues after service, mopping up the last of the sauce with bread.
Vegetarian Bagna Càuda
Ingredients
For the sauce:
240ml (1 cup) extra virgin olive oil
45g (3 tablespoons) unsalted butter (use vegan butter if you want to make this fully plant-based)
8-10 cloves fresh garlic, very finely minced
3-4 cloves black garlic, mashed into a smooth paste
2 tablespoons capers, drained and finely chopped
1 tablespoon porcini mushroom powder
1 teaspoon seaweed powder (kelp or kombu)
1 tablespoon chickpea miso (white miso works too)
2-3 tablespoons double cream or whole milk, optional (for a mellower sauce)
Sea salt, to taste (but go carefully – capers and miso are already quite salty)
Freshly ground black pepper
For serving:
A colourful array of raw and lightly blanched vegetables: carrots, celery, bell peppers, fennel, radishes, cauliflower, broccoli, asparagus
Good crusty bread, torn into rough chunks
Small boiled potatoes (optional, but traditional)
Method
Prepare your mise en place
Mince the fresh garlic as finely as you possibly can. The smaller the pieces, the smoother your finished sauce will be. Use the flat of your knife or a fork to mash the black garlic into a paste. Finely chop the capers so they’ll melt into the sauce rather than floating as distinct pieces.
Build the base
Combine the olive oil and butter in a small, heavy-bottomed saucepan over the lowest heat your hob can manage. Let the butter melt slowly. The key word here is “gentle.” Nothing should sizzle or bubble. You’re creating a warm bath for the garlic to soften in, not cooking it aggressively.
Cook the garlic
Add the minced fresh garlic to the warm oil and butter. Let it cook very gently for 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally. The garlic should soften and turn fragrant and sweet, but it should never, ever brown. If you see even the slightest colour developing, your heat is too high. Lower it immediately. This slow, gentle cooking is what transforms harsh raw garlic into something mellow and almost buttery.
Layer the umami
Stir in the black garlic paste, chopped capers, porcini powder, and seaweed powder. Continue cooking gently for another 5 minutes, stirring frequently. The powders will dissolve into the oil and everything will become deeply aromatic. This is when your kitchen starts to smell like magic.
Add the miso
Remove the pan from the heat. Here’s a crucial technique: scoop out about 2 tablespoons of the warm oil mixture into a small bowl. Whisk the miso into this oil until it’s completely smooth and lump-free. Then pour this mixture back into the pot and stir well. This two-step process prevents the miso from clumping and ensures it distributes evenly throughout the sauce.
Adjust and finish
If you want a slightly mellower, creamier sauce (I usually do), stir in the cream or milk now. Return the pan to very low heat for 2-3 minutes just to warm everything through. Now taste it. Carefully, because it’s hot. Does it need salt? Remember that both capers and miso are salty, so you might not need any. Add black pepper to taste. Adjust until it tastes right to you.
Serve properly
Transfer the warm sauce to a small heatproof serving bowl or, ideally, a traditional earthenware pot. Set it over a tea light candle or small burner to keep it gently warm at the table. Arrange your vegetables and bread around it in a way that looks inviting and abundant.
How to Enjoy This
Bagna Càuda isn’t meant to be eaten quickly or alone. Gather people around the table. Put the warm pot in the centre. Let everyone reach in with their vegetables and bread, dipping directly into the communal sauce. The interactive, slightly messy nature of it is part of the charm. Keep the flame low so the sauce stays warm but doesn’t continue to cook.
Conversation should be slow. Wine should be poured. The evening should unfold gradually, punctuated by the ritual of dipping and eating, dipping and eating, until the pot is empty and everyone is satisfied.
Notes from the Muddled Chef
Temperature is everything.
This sauce should never bubble or simmer vigorously. Low and slow is not just a suggestion, it’s a requirement. Rushing it will give you bitter, burnt garlic and a grainy texture.
Taste as you go.
The saltiness can vary dramatically depending on your brand of miso and capers. Trust your palate and adjust accordingly.
Make it ahead.
You can prepare this sauce several hours in advance and gently rewarm it before serving. In fact, it often tastes better after sitting for a bit as the flavours meld.
Leftover gold.
If you somehow have sauce remaining (unlikely, but it happens), don’t waste it. Toss it with hot pasta for an instant and you will have a luxurious dinner. Drizzle it over roasted vegetables. Spread it on toast. I’ve even been known to eat it straight from the fridge with a spoon, but I won’t judge you if you’re more civilised than that.
The pasta variation.
In some modern high-end Italian restaurants, you’ll find pasta tossed with bagna càuda. If you want to try this, cook your pasta (something that holds sauce well, like trofie or casarecce), reserve a cup of pasta water, then toss the drained pasta with the warm sauce, adding pasta water as needed to create a silky coating. Just before serving, I like to add a pinch fresh yeast over the top. It adds another layer of savoury complexity that works beautifully with the other umami-rich ingredients.
You can find this dish at my restaurant, Oliveira Kitchen in Shoreditch, where we serve it as a starter. But honestly, I hope you make it at home. Bagna Càuda is meant to be enjoyed in comfortable clothes, with people you love, without anyone watching. That’s when it’s truly at its best.
A note on authenticity: I know this isn’t traditional. I know it’s not what Nonna would make. But it’s made with respect for the original, with years of work behind it, and with genuine love for this sauce that I couldn’t bear to leave behind when I changed how I cook. Sometimes the best way to honour a tradition is to find a way to keep it alive, even if that means adapting it. I hope the grandmothers of Piemonte can forgive me.
