Señor Frijoles

In which my father, aka Señor Frijoles, survived the trauma of Blacklisting. Recipe: Spring Vegetable Fettucine with Fava Beans

Right out of college, my dad dabbled with socialism, communism, and—in family lore, at least—a few Mexican ladies of the night. He was idealistic, an itinerant actor who found a community of like-minded bohemians clustered around Mexico City in the late ’30s. While they waited for World War II to break out, they put on plays, drank tequila, and explored the glossy-tawdry world that, in his opinion, always seemed to make up the expatriate population in a warm Latin country.

            His last name, Binns, can sound a little like a flatulence-inducing foodstuff when it is uttered in a Spanish accent: “Meester Beans.” So, in Mexico City he quickly became Señor Frijoles.

            In the same way that insufficiently cooked beans can come back to haunt you, my dad’s youthful flirtation with communist ideals returned, in the mid-‘50s, to haunt—or, rather, curse—his life: He was Blacklisted. For about five years, he “couldn’t get arrested” in a town—New York—that was gobbling up The Next New Thing, i.e. live television, like salty-crisp tortilla chips.  Money he didn’t have was spent in a mysterious transaction to find out why he was on the Blacklist. It was eventually revealed that, simply because he had been an early member of The Actor’s Studio, he must be a “pinko.” After this decorated WW II veteran wrote a letter trumpeting his unvarnished patriotism (the hardest thing he ever had to do, he said), the phone began, slowly, to ring again.

            But I digress. We’re really here to talk about that magical fruit: beans.   

When the chilly North San Luis Obispo County winter is still in full swing, it’s the prospect of cooking a big pot of beans that makes me feel cozy and beloved. If the trees are still bare, it is dried white beans from Rancho Gordo that salve my hibernating heart. These are always accompanied by aromatic veggies like leeks, carrots, and celery; sprigs of the woodsy fresh thyme that’s just coming back through the mud of the garden; and as many cured pork products as I can get away with. (See Etto’s chiller and freezer for inspo.) In my huge, heavy green enamel Lodge pot, I sauté the vegetables and some double-smoked bacon in olive oil. Then, in go the slow-soaked beans, a ham hock, and enough chicken or beef broth and water to just cover all.  Perching the lid jauntily ajar, I encourage the broth to come to a slow simmer and then practice the art of stove-tending to keep the liquid barely shivering for as long as it takes the beans to achieve the consistency of butter—anywhere from one to three hours, depending on the beans—adding more broth or water as necessary to keep them barely covered. (Note: To turn this into Pasta Fagioli/Pasta Fazool, throw in a handful of penne or macaroni and maybe a few drained San Marzano’s, smushed, about 12 minutes before you plan to serve. I might whiz up a little Italian-parsley pesto in my mini-prep, for a bright and herbal-vegetal garnish. And plenty of California-grown Arbequina olive oil is called for here. Cue up one of my dad’s movies on the DVD—maybe “Patton,” or “Twelve Angry Men”—and I’m headed for the kind of couch bliss that makes winter bearable for this SoCal native.

A month or so later, when the leaves are making themselves noticeable on the trees, it’s fava bean time! This bean, which resembles lima beans in appearance only—not in flavor, thankfully for me—deserves far more renown than its role in Hannibal Lector’s famous feast, alongside someone’s liver and a nice Chianti.

Many people are put off by the necessary shelling and peeling process, but if you just allow yourself enough time—or the help of a friend—this task can be very meditative.  Early in their brief but celebrated season, peeled fava beans can be eaten raw, traditionally with a sheep’s cheese. Later, when the pods start to look a little craggy, the shelled and peeled fava beans should be gently cooked. 

I like them partnered with other colorful spring bounty, as in the recipe below.

Spring Vegetable Fettucine, for Six

1  ½ cups shelled fava beans (about 3 pounds in the pod)

1 tablespoon salted butter, or olive oil

1 ounce small-diced guanciale, pancetta, or smoked bacon

¾ pound small, young carrots, scrubbed, with green tops removed, trimmed into 2-inch lengths

½ pound green onions, ends trimmed, then cut into 2-inch lengths

Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

½ cup chicken or vegetable broth

½ cup crème fraîche or Crema Salvadoreña

2 teaspoons chopped fresh tarragon

1 pound (500 grams) imported dried fettuccine

If the fava beans are larger than my thumbnail, you’ll have to peel them: With your own thumbnail, carefully slit open the casing where the little “eye” is, and peel off the milky-white casing. 

Melt the butter over medium heat in a large, deep skillet and add the guanciale. Sauté until browned and crisp, about five minutes. Add the carrots, season generously with salt and pepper, and turn to coat with the fat. Add the broth, bring to a slow simmer, and cover the pan. Turn the heat down to very low and braise until the carrots are almost tender, anywhere from 8 to 12 minutes, depending on their size. 

Put a large pot of well-salted water on to boil, for cooking the pasta. Add the fava beans and scallions to the carrots; add a touch more broth if the pan is dry. Cook for four to five minutes more, until everything is tender.  Add the pasta to the now-boiling water and cook until al dente.  Add the crème fraîche and tarragon to the skillet, increase the heat a little, and simmer until slightly thickened.  Drain the pasta well and add them to the skillet with the vegetables. Toss well, taste and adjust seasoning, and serve in warm bowls.

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Four Tidbits For The Week of April 29

Brigit’s What I’m

CURRENTLY LOVING ➡️ The roses. Oh my: The roses!
THINKING ABOUT ➡️ Sicily
LISTENING TO ➡️ Today's Duolingo lesson