Fava Beans: To Peel, or Not to Peel?

Once again, it's confession time.

I love fava bean season so much that, at the first sign of the bundles of young green shoots on farmers' market tables in the spring, I get a little giddy thinking of them stir-fried with garlic and tossed with pasta and preserved lemon, or slathered with oil and roasted, served alongside a beautiful grilled, pasture-raised chicken thigh. Then there's the knowledge that in just a couple of weeks, it'll be time for the pods to start appearing, their strange, off-green, blobby exteriors revealing pale green kidney-shaped beans pillowed in a porous white cushion.

Young favas in the field, perfect for shoots.

That's about when I remember that to prepare these little beany delights, I have to strip them out of their pods, boil them in a salty pot of water, then spend what seems like hours in the tedious task of popping them out of their skins to get a paltry—albeit decidedly delicious—pile of the bright green, shiny jewels.

I know, I'm whining.

Shucked beans ready to boil and use!

But, wonder of wonders, this year my friend Nancy Harmon Jenkins, part-time resident of Italy and author of well-regarded books on Italian cuisine like Cucina del Sol and The Four Seasons of Pasta, saved me (and you) from hours of whinging.

In a post on her blog, she excoriates Americans who insist on peeling the skins from their beans:

"What a waste of time! What a waste of flavor!

"Where does this weird practice come from? I suspect from the French professional kitchen where chefs are constantly challenged to come up with new tricks and trucs to keep their enormous brigades de cuisine in operation. In Italy, where restaurant kitchens are run much more economically, no one has to dream up tasks—there are enough to go around and more.

Pasta with albacore and favas.

"But why do Americans insist on this? Every food writer except one (me) says you have to peel beans. Then they go through elaborate rigmaroles to show you how to do it. No wonder fava beans are not exactly popular despite their magnificent, slightly earthy flavor, so very different from string beans or limas. Every spring or summer I feel like climbing up in the pulpit and shouting: YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THAT—IN FACT, IT IS COUNTER-PRODUCTIVE!!!"

Which, as you might imagine, got my attention. And came in mighty handy when my neighbor called offering a grocery bag full of freshly harvested favas from his garden. Let me tell you, I never relished preparing beans more—just shuck, boil in a pot of salted water for ten minutes and they're ready!

Read the rest of Nancy's post to get her serving suggestions and more cultural trivia about these delicate denizens of early summer. For me, I used some of my neighbor's beans in a pasta tossed with preserved lemon and albacore, sprinkled with chive blossoms and chopped chives, then used the rest to make the following dip for a party. Though when everyone oohed and aahed over the amount of work it took to peel all those beans, I was torn about revealing my secret. (Psst…I did.)

Fava Bean Spread

3 c. shucked beans
2 cloves garlic
1/2 fennel bulb, cut in half, cored and roughly chopped
1/4 c. parsley, coarsely chopped
1/4 c. mint, coarsely chopped
1/3 c. fresh lemon juice
3-4 Tbsp. olive oil
Salt, to taste

Bring a large pot of well-salted water to a boil. Drop in fava beans and cook for ten minutes. Drain and run under very cold water (or ice bath) until cool.

Put beans, garlic, fennel, parsley, mint and lemon juice into the bowl of a food processor. Turn on and while its running drizzle in olive oil until puréed. Adjust lemon juice and olive oil and add salt to taste. Serve with slices of rustic bread or crackers, or on toasted slices of baguette (à la bruschetta).

Do Me A Fava…

Their color couldn't scream spring any louder. And with a delicate, earthy flavor and creamy texture, these little beans are like little nuggets of gold. Add in the labor of peeling them from their skins, and they're elevated to the level of food fit for the gods. I like them boiled whole in salted water, popped from their pods and tossed with good olive oil, a sprinkling of mint and a whisper of garlic and salt. Contributor Jim Dixon of Real Good Food likes them whizzed into a spread for bruschetta.

While favas have been cultivated for at least 8,000 years, nobody's figured out an easy way to get them out of their skins. Of course, for most of those millenia, people left the skins on the beans, and my friend Nancy Harmon Jenkins makes a good case for doing just that. [Her very funny post is well worth the read. - KAB] But other cooks I like argue convincingly that the time and labor spent is worth it.

Whether to skin your favas depends on how you plan to eat them. American farmers tend to let them get too big, but if you grow your own or can find small favas (pods thinner than your finger, with beans about a half inch long), spend a sunny afternoon acting like a Roman. Shuck the beans and eat them raw with a some good pecorino (sheep's milk cheese) and a crisp white Vermentino. Or make the classic Spring vegetable stew called vignarola. Traditional versions leave the beans unpeeled, but others [like this one from Chef Cathy Whims of Nostrana] call for naked favas.

Bruschetta with Favas & Arugula

Making a spread with favas is one of my favorite ways to get more out of the time spent dealing with them. Sometimes it's just a few ingredients, like this one with mint and garlic. But if I need to feed more than a few people, I'll add a few more things.

Start with pound of favas in their pods. Split open the pods, remove the beans and drop them into a pot of well-salted boiling water. Cook for about a minute, drain, and run some cold water over them until they're cool enough to handle. Use a fingernail to nick the skins and squeeze out the bright green bean. You'll end up with about a cup of shelled beans.

Combine them in your food processor with a cup or so of fromage blanc (or other soft goat cheese), a few tablespoons of pecorino Romano, a couple of cloves of chopped garlic, about 2 cups of arugula, a half cup of fresh mint, a couple of pinches of salt, a splash of Katz Viongier Honey vinegar and 3-4 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil. Process until you have a coarse puree, taste and add salt, vinegar or oil as necessary. Toast or grill some good bread, drizzle with a little olive oil and top with the fava spread.

Spread the News

Speaking of gorgeous greens (What? You weren't? But it's spring!), contributor Jim Dixon of RealGoodFood is dreaming of what he can do when those lumpy, spongy pods start hitting the markets in the next few weeks.

I haven’t actually purchased any any fava beans yet this year, and the local crop is still at east a month away. But favas (fave is the plural in Italian) from further south should be available. I had some at a winemaker’s dinner last week—beautifully prepared and hosted by the winemakers Jan-Marc and Barbara Baker—cooked simply in good butter.

When I have the time to sit and and shuck, parboil and peel a pile o’fave for myself, I’ll make this. Since a pound of fava pods yields maybe a cup of the edible inner bean, this spread stretches them so you don’t need to shuck quite so many.

Fava Mint Bruschetta

(Always, always pronounced brew-sketta.)

For enough for four people, start with at least a pound of pods, although another half would be better. Split open the long pods with your thumb and strip out the beans, still in their tight, pale green skins. This will take about 30 minutes if you’re fast.

Get a medium saucepan of water boiling, toss in a little salt, and add the beans. Let the water return to a boil, cook another minute, then drain and run a little cold water over the beans so you can handle them. I find the easiest method for getting the bean out is pinching the skin open at one end and gently squeezing until the bright green bean pops out. It’s fine if the beans split, and most will. Plan on another 10-15 minutes for this.

Combine the shucked, peeled fave in the food processor with at least a cup of tightly packed fresh mint, a couple cloves of garlic, a splash (about a tablespoon) of Katz Late Harvest Sauvignon Blanc vinegar (the sweet note works well with this), a long pour of good extra virgin olive oil (at least a half cup) and pinch of sea salt. Process, taste, adjust salt, oil, or vinegar and process again to a uniform but slightly coarse paste.

Toast or grill good bread (New Seasons wheat levain is my daily bread, Ken’s or other good loaf fine), spread with fava mix, drizzle with a bit more oil, and eat.

Seasonal Greens

There's something about the color green that just shouts spring to me. It happens when I see the first tentative tendrils of my white bleeding heart popping out of the ground, followed by the hostas and anemonies, and then the farmers' markets start up with garlic shoots and tender baby lettuces.

And, my obsession with rhubarb notwithstanding, there's that very short, very special moment when fava beans can be found at the markets and on the menus of many restaurants. The trick seems to be finding very fresh pods with firm, round beans inside rather than faded, floppy things that have lost their luster to too much time in transit.

Yes, there is that notorious three-step prep, but, hey, the season is short and the agony doesn't last long. Just remove the beans from the pods, boil them for a minute or two in plenty of water, then shock them in ice water to stop the cooking process. Terrific in salads or tossed with pasta, they also make a vivid seasonal risotto. I like them as a fava bean spread on fresh slices of baguette or on crostini brushed with olive oil and garlic and topped with a tiny mint leaf.

So steel yourself and get in while the getting's good. You won't regret it!