Turkish beans + a recipe

Like the English caff, the Turkish esnaf lokantasi (tradesmens’ restaurant) is usually a daytime-only operation where lots of tea is served. For both, the core custom is local, male and looking to get some hot food without spending a bundle. But where the former might top out at a decent plate of egg and chips, many esnaf lokantasi feature up to a dozen or more home-cooked dishes: meat stews, stuffed vegetables, slow-cooked beans and homely desserts like rice pudding. This is meant to be cooking like Turkish mothers do, some recompense for spending the day in a shop or office

Ali Baba Kanaat Lokantasi’s location directly across from the Suleymaniye Mosque in Istanbul’s Fatih district attracts some tourists, though most don’t make it past the large terrace. Inside, it’s all late ‘30s vintage (bar the steam table and the fountain serving aryan, salty drinking yogurt) with pride of place given over to the fasulye (bean pot). The beans, small and white, are cooked to a recipe from Erzican in the south—distinctively spicier, with more tomato and less meaty, buttery overtones (though some butter and lamb fat or stock definitely make their way into the pot) than those popular further north, along the Black Sea. It was recommended that I order the beans with pilau and cacik, the yogurt-cucumber mixture that can range from pourable to clotted cream-like. The pilau, dotted with pine nuts, was gently savoury, and the cacik was super-thick, a soft, sour counterpoint to the heat and richness of the beans.

Though I tend to cook from recipes rather than taste memories, my first try at recreating the beans I had at Ali Baba Kanaat Lokantasi was nonetheless a success. I made the sauce thicker, as they were intended to sit alongside lamb chops rather than on rice. And while the exclusion of lamb fat and butter was not authentic, the resulting beans were hardly abstemious.

Fasulye in the style of Ali Baba Kanaat Lokantasi

I happened to have two ingredients for this dish which might not be readily available: semi-dried white beans, podded last summer and stored in the freezer, and an open jar of a Spanish/Portuguese sofrito-like sauce called tomate frito. For the former, the best substitute would be small, dried white beans, pre-soaked overnight and, depending on age and variety, cooked for a bit longer. Any good-quality brand of chopped, tinned tomato can be substituted for the tomate frito.

Like any chilli products, Turkish red pepper flakes vary in flavour profile and heat. I think this dish should have a good prickle of chilli, but not more. I’m not sure the bay leaves are authentic, but they marry very well with most bean and tomato dishes.

The beans are initially cooked separately in order to ensure they soften properly, something which can be retarded by the acid in tomatoes.

Serves 2
Total time (excluding soaking): 90 minutes; Active time: 15 minutes

1 ½ cups semi-dried OR 1 cup dried white beans, pre-soaked if required
Olive oil
1 medium onion
Tomato paste
150 ml tomato frito OR ½ can tinned tomatoes
Turkish red pepper flakes (aci biber)
2-3 fresh bay leaves (ideally fresh)
1-2 cloves garlic
Small bunch parsley
Salt and pepper

Put the beans in a saucepan, cover amply with water and bring to a boil.

In another saucepan of a similar size, heat a thin film of oil on a medium heat. Chop the onion finely and add. Season with salt and pepper. Lower heat and sauté gently, until onion is fully soft and beginning to taste sweet. Squeeze in a few inches of tomato paste and cook for 3-4 more minutes.

When the beans reach a boil, turn down to a simmer and cover. Cook until soft but not falling apart. (In the case of semi-dried cannellini or lingot beans, this should be about 45 minutes.

Add the tomato to the onion. Refill the tomato jar/can to the same level with water and add to the pot, along with a good pinch of the red pepper flakes and the bay leaves. Chop the garlic and half the parsley and add. Season to taste with salt and pepper and cook on a gentle heat until thick and integrated, 30-45 minutes.

When the beans are ready, drain, reserving some of the cooking water, and add to the sauce. Adjust seasoning and add a bit of the reserved water if the sauce is too claggy. Cook for a further 15-20 minutes to allow the flavours to fully combine.

Just before serving, chop the remaining parsley and add. Finish with another pinch of pepper flakes.

Black beans, eggs and salsa

Along with a whole range of dishes which used multiple parts of a pig, the 90s-era Cuban diners on the Upper Upper West Side of Manhattan did potent cafes con leche and plates of scrambled eggs and black beans which were big enough to make the next meal redundant. As well as being exotic and cheap, I was told by those with experience of such things that food like this was also very good for hangovers.

For the bright young things of Brixton, who seem to suffer with the same affliction on weekend mornings, the neighbourhood’s multiple Columbian cafes—which do a comparable line in vast servings of assorted meats, eggs and beans, washed down with lots of caffeine—appear to fill a useful niche. But even for those of us whose closest experience of a late-night party is the one that takes place far too often in the apartment upstairs, beans and eggs—minus the mixed meats—is also a popular weekend meal, easy, tasty and admirably inexpensive.

Canned black beans, a rare commodity in much of the country, can be bought in any of the dozens of the small Caribbean grocers nearby. Cooked down with onion, garlic, cumin, fresh coriander and a spoonful of chipotle en adobo (still not locally available; Brixton’s Latino population is probably the largest in inner London, but it’s largely Ecuadoran, Columbian and Venezuelan rather than Mexican), they make a fudgy, mellow partner for eggs of any variety. We’ve scrambled the eggs and used the two to fill leftover corn tortillas. Though my own fried eggs are variable at best, I think that a well-made one plopped on the beans provides nice textural contrast.

Today we played with an idea from another egg dish, shakshouka, where eggs are part-poached, part-baked in a thick sauce of tomato and pepper. We cooked the beans in a wide frying pan, leaving a bit of liquid, then made indentations for the eggs. The pan was covered, and the eggs left to half-set. We finished it all with a quick grilled salsa, made from some cherry tomatoes that improbably appeared at the farmer’s market. The result was somehow far better than the sum of its (simple) parts—and far too good for those neighbours.

No formal recipe needed, but a few notes:

• I’ve found that cooking the beans on a low heat in a frying pan—rather than a saucepan—allows them to soften slightly without turning into mush. I use a good splash of water and simmer them for 10-20 minutes.
• Toasting and grinding whole cumin seeds may seem unnecessary in such a simple recipe, but it makes a real difference to the flavour.
• A bay leaf makes a nice addition to the beans.
• Orangette has a good grilled salsa recipe.

Humble Fare

At once primeval and utterly quotidian, lentils are a key ingredient of some of the world's oldest cuisines. Archaeologists have dated cultivation to the paleolithic age, while the Bible, Aristophanes and Apicius all feature the consumption of lentil stews and potages. Today, in the form of the Indian dal, and the lentil and rice dishes (including mjadarrah and koshari) ubiquitous across the Middle East, they remain a staple source of (cheap, local) protein to tens of millions daily.

For the (voluntary) vegetarians of the West, lentils occupy a similarly central role. Yet try as I did over 15+ years in their camp, I was never able to embrace this homely legume. Sludgy in colour, mushy in texture, often doused in copious quantities of harsh curry powders, lentils came to symbolise everything that was boring and abstemious about generically ethnic vegetarian fare. To be fair, the problem was something like that which I encountered with tofu. In the skillful hands of a Chinese or Thai cook, tofu was tasty, sometimes even moreish. In my own, it was bland, bereft of texture and generally to be avoided. Likewise, while the lentils served at curry houses or in the mezze dishes of a Lebanese restaurant did more than just fill the stomach, none of my own efforts in these genres merited repetition.

It was only after I began to eat meat again that I finally found a lentil that commanded respect. The Puy lentil, cultivated under AOC protection in the Auvergne region of France, possesses a delicate, earthy taste and, crucially, retains its shape when cooked. As I recall, lentilles du Puy had a particular following amongst restaurant chefs in the late 1990s, who used them as a garnish for roast fish and meat. They are most often paired with Mediterranean herbs--notably thyme and mint--garlic and pancetta (or another form of smoked pork) and simmered until soft. Loosened up with stock, puy lentils make a hearty soup; served at room temperature, they form an excellent salad, particularly when garnished with goat's or blue cheese.

At first, in a concession to my boyfriend's ambivalent attitudes towards non-animal protein, I cooked my lentils in a soupy, salty bath of pancetta, carrots, onion and thyme. The following summer I found a fantastic lentil salad recipe from Nigel Slater, calling for ample quantities of feta, red onion and mint. But by far the best--and most popular--has been a simplified version of a bulgur and lentil salad which I found in the Gourmet cookbook. My variation has eliminated the bulgur altogether, along with the shallots, carrots and celery. I've retained the toasted walnuts and fresh tarragon, upping the quantities of both and adding a final spark of acidity with lemon juice. The result is, at least to my mind, earthy, sprightly and satisfying. Humble fare it may be, but some days, you don't need anything more than that.

Puy Lentils with Tarragon and Walnuts
3/4 cup lentils
1 large handful of shelled walnuts (I'd describe my hand as relatively small; adjust accordingly)
1 slightly smaller handful fresh tarragon
1 slug (probably a good teaspoon) white wine or white wine tarragon vinegar
juice 1/2 lemon
1-2 slugs olive oil
salt and pepper

Place the lentils in a heavy-bottomed pot, cover with enough water to leave about 1 inch on top and bring to a boil. Lower to a simmer and cook, adding water if necessary, until lentils are tender but not falling apart. This should take 30-45 minutes. In the meantime, toast the walnuts either in a dry pan or a medium oven (10-15 minutes should suffice). When cool, break into coarse pieces. Roughly chop the tarragon. When the lentils are finished cooking, allow to cool slightly then mix in the walnuts and tarragon (this will wilt in the heat; no matter). Lubricate with a bit of oil, then adjust the acidity with the vinegar and lemon juice. Season to taste and serve.

Eat warm or at room temperature. Though I've never had leftovers, I'd imagine they would taste quite good as well.