I love a steakhouse. I don’t go for a $75 hunk of meat more than once a year — but that’s not really why I go. I am a firm believer in two things: the steakhouse meatloaf is usually the best thing on the menu and no one wants to admit it, and the real joy of the place lives in the sides — cream me some spinach, Hasselback me a potato, hand me a basket of Parkerhouse rolls still warm from the oven — and, naturally, the sauces.
Nestled among the béarnaise and peppercorn, there it is: horseradish. Sometimes whipped into a creamy spread, sometimes tucked into cocktail sauce, always waiting to sneak in a little fire. It’s never the star of the show, but I’d argue it’s the most intriguing character on the table — sharp, floral, peppery, the kind of heat that lingers just long enough to make you take another bite.
The problem is, horseradish rarely makes it out of the steakhouse. It’s been typecast as a condiment, a once-a-year flourish for shrimp cocktail or prime rib, when it could be so much more.
I’m honestly a little surprised horseradish hasn’t developed more of a cult following, given that we are living in The Spiciest Era. Everyone is obsessed with heat, from “Hot Ones” to gas-station chips dusted in ghost pepper powder. Even Ellen Cushing of The Atlantic asked earlier this month, “Why Is Everything Spicy Now?”
Several reasons exist: Thai, Szechuan and Indian cuisines, which have had a handle on heat far longer than the States, have gone increasingly mainstream, and “spicy” is one of the cheapest, easiest ways for snack companies to launch a new product. Spice has become shorthand for excitement. And yet horseradish hasn’t quite ridden that wave.
Its fire is different — not a slap-you-in-the-face blaze but a cleaner, more vegetal heat that builds and breaks gently, more like a tide rolling in and out.
Which is the beauty of it. Horseradish isn’t clamoring to burn your mouth off. It’s gentler, friendlier, the kind of heat you can fold into a Tuesday dinner without anyone feeling dared. Perfect for weeknight experimentation, and ideal for sneaking into family favorites. The steakhouse itself gives us the blueprint.
Horseradish is often at its best when it cozies up to cream, like in a traditional steak sauce, or when it mingles with tomatoes, as in a classic cocktail sauce.
We need your help to stay independent
From steakhouse to your home
For me, the first time I considered horseradish beyond its typical restaurant duties was after ordering a seasonal pasta special on a whim (shout-out Pizza Lupo in Louisville). Corkscrew pasta with spring vegetables — peas, maybe some asparagus, curls of lemon zest — topped with herbed breadcrumbs and a horseradish cream sauce. After a long winter of braises and browns, this dish felt familiar yet surprising: comforting, beige at its base, but with a spark that made my sleepy taste buds sit up. Four years later, it still creeps into my mind every March and April when I’m planning meals.
Getting started with horseradish is easier than it seems. You can go fresh, which packs the sharpest punch but requires a little courage and a good grater, or prepared, which is milder and keeps nicely in the fridge. Either way, a little goes a long way. Start small, taste, adjust and let it creep in until it feels natural.
Once you’ve got the hang of it, the possibilities open up. For creamy, yolky dishes: fold it into cheesy potatoes, swipe it into horseradish aioli alongside fries, or whisk it into a horseradish–ranch dressing for a steak salad. Add a little lift to baked potato soup, toss it into egg salad, or punch up deviled eggs.
Tomatoes welcome horseradish with equal grace. Stir it into a creamy tomato soup, spike a Bloody Mary, or whisk it into a tomato-flecked steak-salad dressing (yes, I’ve been obsessed with steak salads lately). In both cases, it’s that subtle, peppery lift that makes a familiar dish feel unexpectedly alive.
One recipe I’ve been quietly workshopping in anticipation of cooler weather is a beef-and-mushroom stroganoff with a horseradish cream sauce. It’s a little love letter to horseradish’s steakhouse roots, a wink back to that Pizza Lupo pasta, and one of my favorite fall and winter weeknight dinners to share with friends and family.
Stew beef and mushrooms sizzle in butter and herbs until browned. Then comes the magic: a pour of beef stock, a dollop of horseradish, and a swirl of half-and-half and sour cream, melting into a sauce that’s rich, tangy, and just peppery enough to make you sit up. Toss it all over egg noodles, finish with a scatter of black pepper and chives, and you’ve got a dish that tastes like comfort, cleverness and a little subtle fire all at once.
Ingredients
- 1 lb stew beef, cut into bite-sized cubes
- 8 oz mixed mushrooms (cremini, shiitake, or button), sliced
- 2 tbsp butter
- 1 tsp olive oil
- 1 small onion, finely chopped
- 2 cloves garlic, minced
- 1 tsp fresh thyme leaves (or ½ tsp dried)
- 1 cup beef stock
- 2–3 tsp prepared horseradish (adjust to taste)
- ½ cup half-and-half
- ¼ cup sour cream
- Salt and freshly ground black pepper
- 8 oz egg noodles
- Fresh chives, chopped, for garnish
Directions
- Cook the noodles: Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook egg noodles according to package instructions, drain, and set aside.
- Brown the beef: Heat butter and olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the stew beef in a single layer (work in batches if needed) and sear until browned on all sides. Remove beef from the pan and set aside.
- Sauté the aromatics: In the same skillet, add the onion and cook until translucent, about 3 minutes. Add the garlic, mushrooms, and thyme, cooking until mushrooms release their moisture and begin to brown, about 5–7 minutes.
- Build the sauce: Return the beef to the pan. Pour in the beef stock and stir in the horseradish. Simmer for 5–7 minutes, letting the flavors meld. Reduce heat to low and stir in half-and-half and sour cream until the sauce is smooth and creamy. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
- Finish the dish: Toss the cooked egg noodles into the sauce until well coated. Serve immediately, sprinkled with fresh chives and an extra grind of black pepper if desired.
This story originally appeared in The Bite, my weekly food newsletter for Salon. If you enjoyed it and would like more essays, recipes, technique explainers and interviews sent straight to your inbox, subscribe here.
