Brooklyn Basil and Persistent Pintos

I ran through the door and he slapped me in the face.

He was hurt by what I said, and I never saw it coming. He grew up tough, in Brooklyn, the kind that played on the roof for fun. He didn’t know from air conditioning and upscale grocery stores. Before I opened my eyes, I inhaled him. I had forgotten how good he smelled.

He whispered, “You underestimated me, didn’t you. You had no idea what I was capable of. Look at me now, here in this apartment. I’m in my prime. You want me again.”

And with that, he made clear: basil season was here. I no longer had to be sated with whatever I could find washed, boxed, transported and climate-controlled in my grocery store. This basil was planted just weeks ago – he lived his life on a Brooklyn fire escape and was now just minutes from the soil.

Tonight, he would be a scene-stealing supporting actor to a giant ball of burrata, that milky-soft mozzarella. She sat in the center of a platter, flat-round like an underfilled water balloon. Around her were sliced plum tomatoes, and the assertive basil, now torn. Everyone was glistening with salt and olive oil.

My friends and I took turns digging our way through the platter. The burrata tasted of virgin milk, which contrasted with her texture, which reminded me of the breasts an almost-forty woman; still supple, yet substantial in the hand -- becoming more yielding with every moment. She was a perfect foil for that basil, who was at his arrogant best, and the first of the summer tomatoes, quiet and smug.

A Park Slope friend had invited me over for a pot-luckish dinner, alleging, “it’ll be a bunch of salads”. Always happy to taste and share, I offered, “I just rehydrated some beans -- they’re totally delicious. I’ll bring them!” I could hear disappointment in his silence. Beans are not the dish anyone clamors for.

And yet, I persisted. I tossed the pintos with avocado, chopped tomatoes, lime juice and baby arugula. The dish was pretty and tasty (there were some “mmmm”’s, and “how did you make that?”’s, but in the end I knew the beans remained the bastard dish.

And I was once again reminded that no matter how much I study my craft, and try to elevate the humble, Mother Nature will always kick my ass.


Pinto Beans
They’re sexier than you think.

1 1-pound bag pinto beans
1 bay leaf
an old onion you were thinking about throwing out, peeled and cut in half
a few cloves of garlic, peeled and smashed (ditto above)
½ teaspoon dried oregano
way more kosher salt than you think
cider vinegar or lime juice

1. Put pintos in a pot and cover with water by one inch. Bring to a boil; drain. Doesn’t the water seem extra-clear for some reason? I have no idea why, but I’ve always thought I was interesting.
2. Put the beans pack in the pot, rinse a few times. Cover again, now with about 2 inches of water. Add the bay leaf, onion, and garlic. Bring to a simmer, and simmer very gently, uncovered, until they are soft-firm, about 45 minutes to an hour.
3. Now here’s the key: Salt the beans from the very beginning. Add about a tablespoon to start, then taste the water after about 20 minutes of cooking. Is it bland? Add another teaspoon, then add pinches, every 5 minutes or so until that water is tasty. Remember – the water should be salty like the sea, and taste good. By the end, the water and beans will taste the same.
4. When done, add a couple teaspoons of cider vinegar, or the juice of a generous lime. Use that to balance the flavors; beans can be a bit flabby and improve with a little sour perk-up.