17 June 2021
Thursday. A recipe, written down so that nobody can say I borrowed it.
Broad beans, which some people insist on calling fava, as though a second name makes them more sinister. Pod them. Blanch them for two minutes, no longer. Slip off the grey jackets one by one while listening to something with strings. This takes an hour and builds character.
Garlic, softened slowly in good oil until it smells like an apology. Lemon zest. A little mint, torn, never chopped; chopping mint is how a kitchen loses its soul. Salt. Pepper. A spoonful of the cooking water, because a sauce needs somewhere to go.
Serves six at Northbridge. Serves the guests, in theory. The guests, in practice, are always gone before the beans are, and the beans and I eat together at the head of the table with the candles burning down.
As for the wine, I will not be told what to drink with them by a film. I have chosen a white. Write that in your newspaper.
— B., your host
