Fava Bean

This recipe is part of the Epicurious Online Cooking School, in partnership with the Culinary Institute of America. To watch it being made, and to learn how to make other Italian classics, check out the videos.

This take on a Roman vignole showcases the best and brightest of the season's bounty.

This “white” stew borrows a nonbrowning method commonly used in making blanquette de veau, one of the canons of French cuisine. In that dish, a stew of veal, onions, and mushrooms is blanketed in a creamy sauce. The meat is never browned (hence the term “white stew”); the stock is thickened with a roux and, traditionally, a secondary thickener called a liaison, made with egg and cream, making it exceptionally rich. This recipe, however, opts for springtime produce over the usual vegetables and makes the liaison optional (you can omit the egg and just stir in the cream, without tempering). To make a classic blanquette de veau, see the variation that follows.

The first place I was served fava bean pods, as opposed to shelled beans, was at Zuni Café in San Francisco. When they came to the table, I thought it was such an interesting idea, and when I tasted them I found them delicious. When you serve them this way, you want to use only tender, young, small pods, as larger pods will be tough and fibrous. If you can’t get young fave, use jumbo asparagus instead. In either case, this is a spring dish.

Look for merguez at specialty stores, or use another spicy sausage in its place.

Frozen lima beans may be substituted for fava beans; start with the second step.

You can substitute fresh or frozen peas for the fava beans. Drain the ricotta in a sieve set over a bowl for about 10 minutes to remove excess liquid. Try to find the denser buffalo ricotta for this recipe. If you use regular ricotta, the filling won’t be as thick.

This soup has a wonderful bright, fresh flavor from the greens and lots of herbs. My favorite way of cooking this soup is in a pot made of micaceous clay (see note). The clay adds flavor and the added earthiness of the favas makes it heavenly! This version is pureed, though you can leave it chunky if you wish. You can substitute fresh peas for the favas and fresh spinach for the escarole. Make sure you use a really flavorful extra-virgin olive oil for finishing.

This combination of sweet, succulent halibut and spring vegetables in a golden saffron broth is visually seductive, while the earthy fragrance of saffron, favas, and mushrooms is intoxicating! Paula Wolfert’s easy method of preparing fava beans makes this dish much easier to prepare.

Creamy evidence of how savory and seductive can be a naïve little pap made from a handful of dried beans.

This is a substantial soup classically made from fresh fava beans and a dried sort of bean/pea hybrid called la cicerchia, whose taste and texture are very like that of the fava when it is dried. This version, asking only for the dried favas since la cicerchia is not readily found in America, yields a rich, smoky flavor that is wonderful against the comfort of the warm crunch of the bread.

Not so many springtimes ago, I knew it was a Roman birthday for which I yearned, convinced that the salve of the place would soften the edges of a long sadness. Arriving crumpled and unslept on that morning, I slid my two dusty bags under the purple flounce of the bed in my genteelly shabby room at the Adriano and bolted off to the Campo de’ Fiori. I needed lilacs. I explained to the flower merchant in the market my desire to bring più allegria—more cheerfulness—to my little hotel room, that I was preparing for a sort of birthday party. He amplified the girth of the sweet-smelling sheaves I’d chosen and dispatched his helper to carry the towering bouquets through the twisting streets back to the Adriano. His field of vision completely contained inside thickets of blossoms, the porter left me to play front guard, to scream commands and admonitions back at him, staging a droll farce that could happen only in Rome. Safe inside the hotel with the lilacs, I purloined a large metal wastebasket from the reception hall, tied up its middle in a length of green silk, and installed the great, weeping blooms at the foot of my bed. I raced back to the market to fill two baskets with tiny, blushed velvet peaches still on their branches and hung them from wall sconces and draped them over mirrors and bedposts and on the roof of the dour, mustard-colored armoire. I collected breads from the forno (bakery) in Via della Scrofa, not so much to eat but for the comfort of their forms and their scents. I unwrapped the Georgian candlesticks I always carry with me from their cradle in my old taffeta skirt, threw open the shutters to beams of a rosy moon, and the birthday room was ready. I’d collected a beautiful supper at Volpetti: a brace of quail, each reposing on a cushion of roasted bread—depository for their rosemary juices—olives crushed into a paste with capers and Cognac, a stew of baby artichokes, new peas, and fava beans scented with wild mint and called, mysteriously, la vignarola—the winemaker’s wife—and a small, white, quivering cylinder of sweet robiola (fresh handmade cow’s milk cheese). I laid the feast on the dressing table, serving myself only bits of it at first. But little explosions of goodness insinuated themselves, and the quiet supper urged me into the goodness of the moment. Hungers found, strategies resewn. Happy birthday. During the time I lived at the Adriano, I went each morning to the market in Campo de’ Fiori, stopping to chat with my flower man, he introducing me to the lady with the slenderest, most delicate asparagus, which I devoured raw, like some earth-scented bonbon, and the one with the baby blood-red strawberries collected in the forests of Lake Nemi up in the Alban Hills. A ration of these beauties I vanquished each afternoon between sips of icy Frascati from my changing caffè posts along the campo. With those weeks as initiation, I might have stayed the rest of my life in the lap of that neighborhood, that village within Rome so contained and complete unto itself, and surely would never have known a single lonely day. More than she is a city, Rome is a string of small provinces, fastened one to the other by old fates.

Savory is possibly the most underappreciated herb in this country. I fell in love with it many years back when I was cooking in France. There, it’s used in the traditional seasoning mix herbes de Provence and added to all types of stews, ragoûts, and sauces. Its aroma—earthy, slightly sweet, and a little bit peppery—reminds me of the brush-covered hillsides where we played growing up. Winter savory, summer savory’s seasonal opposite, is more robust in flavor but would be a fine substitute in this recipe. If you can’t find either of the savories, substitute a combination of equal amounts of thyme, rosemary, and mint. This isn’t a difficult dish to make, but it does require some last-minute multitasking. Have your prepared ingredients—or, as we say in the kitchen, your mise en place—ready to go. Be sure that your herbs are chopped, the vinaigrette is made, the crème fraîche is mixed, and your seasonings are in reach. This dish is a great way to initiate the unconverted to the Church of the Fava Bean. The potatoes and favas are mashed together with butter and finished with pea shoots and a vibrant Meyer lemon salsa. The seared halibut goes on top with a dollop of savory crème fraîche.

Fava beans have a cult status in my kitchen, and during their short spring season, I use them as much as possible in salads, ragoûts, and salsas. Here, they are gently stewed in olive oil with garlic and chile and puréed until creamy. This fava bean “hummus” is on my list of perfect foods. Though the classic cheese served with favas in Italy is pecorino, I break with tradition and crumble feta over the purée instead. If you have any leftover purée, make an open-faced sandwich topped with arugula, shallots, a drizzling of olive oil, a squeeze of lemon, and a few shavings of pecorino (or feta). It’s the ultimate snack or light lunch.

Certain foods taste better when you eat them with your hands, like barbecued ribs and corn on the cob. This salad is the perfect way to indulge that primal urge. Use the endive leaves as scoops to gather up some olive shards, a fava bean or two, and a slice of lemon. The crisp spears explode with flavor, and before you’ve finished the first your hand will be reaching for another. Hand out forks if you must, and make sure to tell your friends that the Meyer lemon slices are for eating. They’re sweet and delicious, peel and all. Slice the olives thinly, so their intense taste doesn’t overwhelm the other ingredients. As for the dressing, gently stir (don’t whisk) in the cream to incorporate it without whipping it.

True, Fava beans are a pain. First, you have to shell the beans, then peel off their tissue-thin skins. To be honest, though, I actually enjoy prepping these beans—especially if it means getting to eat them. Simply cooked, they’re the perfect accompaniment to juicy lamb chops.

Serve with Veggie Balls (page 16)

Fresh fava beans have an extraordinary flavor like no other bean. The early beans of spring are small and tender, and a delicacy in soups, salads, and pastas. Larger, more mature and starchy favas are better suited to longer cooking and make a brilliant green purée to spread on croutons. Fava beans require a little extra effort to shell and peel before cooking, but they are well worth it. First they must be stripped from the large green spongy pods, and then each bean needs to be peeled to remove the skin.