All Greek to Me

The ferry trip from Italy to Greece is a blur to me now. I know the boat left Brindisi late in the evening and sailed all through the night. My friend Quaz and I slept poorly if we slept at all, trying to twist our bodies into comfortable position in our seats. We were young, on a student budget, and had opted for the cheap seats rather than the more expensive cabins. If I really strain my mind I seem to remember a rather scary boat, seats that had been recycled off an old airplane, and the fear that perhaps we weren’t on the right boat at all, that we might wake up off the coast of Africa instead. Did they still shanghai people?

We were going to Greece and I was excited. I had been in love with the idea of Greece ever since reading (and rereading) the D'aulaire's Book of Greek Myths as a child. Their watercolor illustrations brought the world of Hera and Zeus to life for me (this is still my absolute favorite gift to give any child, it's wonderful). I’m not sure what I expected to see in Greece, but I had insisted it be on our itinerary. Quaz and I had wound our way down through Italy, staying with friends in Tuscany, hiking through olive groves and vineyards, eating copious amounts of gelato in Rome, wandering the ruins of Pompeii, the teeming streets of Naples. Now we were on a boat bound for Greece.

The one thing than concerned me was our ability to communicate. Between the two of us Quaz and I function reasonably well in French, German, Italian, Japanese, and a smattering of Spanish, but neither of us spoke a word of Greek. I had dutifully bought a phrase book and tried to teach myself the basics, but at the sight of an unfamiliar alphabet my brain froze (go figure on that one—I speak Japanese). The fact that the Greek word for yes is nai, which really seems like it should mean no didn’t help my confidence level. I realized I probably wasn't going to become conversant in Greek on our brief visit. But how would we navigate, how would we communicate, how would we order dinner?

Salvation came in the form of another American we met on the boat, a student who was studying in Athens and on his way back from a winter holiday in Italy. His name has also been lost to memory, but let’s call him Brad. By the time our train from the port town of Patras had reached Athens, Brad had recommended a hotel for us to stay in and we had made plans to meet up later that night for dinner.

The restaurant Brad led us to that evening, down unfamiliar streets on sidewalks made of marble, was a small homey place with a partly open kitchen. Walking to our table Brad glanced at the pots bubbling away on the stove. “I wonder what’s good tonight,” he said, stopping to chat with the owner, a conversation that included the lifting of lids and peering into pots. Quaz and I were pulled into the kitchen as well, shown sauces and soups, vegetables and meats. It was wonderful, if a bit overwhelming. Greek conversation swirled about our heads and we smiled along and nodded when it seemed appropriate.

We ordered an assortment of dishes. Again the details are fuzzy but the one thing I remember with absolute clarity were the big white beans with tomato. When I first saw them in the pot I discounted them—they looked so plain Jane and boring—but Brad ordered them and when they arrived I was in for a surprise. The beans were soft and mild, cooked in a tangy sauce of tomato, garlic, and herbs. Simple yet perfect. They were my favorite dish that night, throughout our stay in Greece, and on a return visit the following spring.

I never did manage to poke around any other Greek kitchens after that evening, but I left Greece with a cookbook tucked into my bags and a recipe for white beans that is delicious in any language. I know they're not the prettiest things around, but don't fall into the trap that I did. They're worth a try.

And for those of you wondering where that gorgeous photo at the top is from, that's my favorite little harbor town of Chania on the island of Crete. A lovely place (at least it was in 1990, I like to think that it still is). Sitting at an outdoor restaurant on the water there with a glass of wine as the sun goes down—heaven (insert wistful sigh here).



GREEK WHITE BEANS
This is an adaptation of Fassólia Yigantes me Horiátika Loukánika, a Greek white bean dish usually made with sausage. I’ve turned this one vegetarian, though you could add two Italian or Greek style sausages, cut in slices, to the sauce before adding the beans.

For the beans:
1 lb. dried large white beans (I used cannellini runner beans from Rancho Gordo)
1/2 onion cut in two pieces
1 celery stalk, cut lengthwise and in two
1 carrot cut lengthwise and in two
1 dried bay leaf, a sprig of dried or fresh rosemary, or a few sage leaves

For the sauce:
1 cup olive oil (I used Bariani Olive Oil)
10 cloves garlic, roughly chopped
1/2 onion, chopped into a medium dice
6 oz tomato paste
1 cup chopped tomato—cherry tomatoes or large
1 tbs chopped fresh thyme
1 tbs chopped fresh parsley
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
Salt and pepper to taste
Additional fresh herbs to top—your choice of parsley, oregano, or thyme (that fresh oregano in the photo is from my window box herb garden)

Soak the beans overnight or for 4-6 hours, if desired. Put the beans in a saucepan with the onion, celery, carrot and herbs. Add enough water to cover by 2 inches. Slowly bring to a simmer over medium-low heat and cook until beans are soft but not mushy (this will vary depending on the age of your beans, can be an hour or more). Remove from the heat and let cool. Drain beans but reserve the cooking liquid. Remove the spent vegetables and herbs. Preheat oven to 300°

In a medium saucepan heat 1/2 cup of olive oil and sauté the garlic. Add the tomato puree, mixing into the oil and garlic mixture. Begin adding the bean liquid, enough to make a sauce-like consistency. Add the beans and chopped tomatoes. Add more olive oil and bean liquid as needed. Add herbs, salt and pepper to taste. Pour mixture into a square baking dish and bake for 30 minutes.

Remove from oven, let cool, drizzle with olive oil and top with fresh chopped herbs if desired.

EAT LOCAL CHALLENGE UPDATE

As part of the Eat Local Challenge I set for myself this month I wanted to invest some time into seeking out local food producers and providers. It’s been a fun process and I wanted to share two of the products I've discovered and now love. They both had a part in making this dish.

BARIANI OLIVE OIL

My friends Amy and Saverio told me long ago that Bariani Olive Oil was the best around. Saverio grew up on oil made from the olive trees on his family’s property outside of Rome, so he should know. I don’t know why I didn’t take their suggestion, but the truth is I had never been terribly picky about my olive oil. I buy extra virgin, but that’s as far as my discernment has gone (okay, the real truth is that I am a sucker for a pretty jar and the Bariani jars—dark green to protect the oil from the sun—never did much for me).

In my discovery of food blogs early this year I remember reading something Shauna had written about “Spanish olive oil so good you eat it with a spoon.” Now I have never eaten olive oil with a spoon. I came of age in the low-fat ‘80s when oil was evil; the idea of eating any sort of fatty substance with a spoon still grosses me out.

But Shauna has won my trust and the next time I was at the store I bought a bottle of Spanish olive oil, a little more expensive than my standard. When I got it home I did drizzle the tiniest bit into a spoon and taste it. It was mild and buttery. Okay, but nothing I was going to be quaffing on a regular basis.

With the Eat Local Challenge at hand I decided to try the Bariani Olive Oil. I considered two other local olive oil producers as well, Stonehouse Olive Oil (not within my 100 mile foodshed, they're about 150 miles away) and McEvoy (tempting but on the pricy side).

The Bariani family came to Northern California from Italy in the late 1980s, hoping to provide their four sons with better educational opportunities. They settled near Sacramento and, as an investment, bought some land on which were growing long-neglected olive trees. Angelo Bariani, a construction engineer, built a small press and the family began crushing oil for their own use. Soon friends were requesting the oil and they expanded their production, planting more olive trees and purchasing a giant stone crusher from Italy.

Today the Bariani family produces cold press, unfiltered, extra virgin olive oil that has earned the praise of Martha Stewart herself. From their original yield of 15 liters, production has been capped at 35,000 liters a year, in order to preserve quality. They bottle and store onsite, making it an estate olive oil, and the family still runs the business, all four sons involved. They’ve since added balsamic vinegar to their products and sell at various farmers’ markets in the Bay Area as well as through upscale grocery stores (Rainbow and Andronico’s in the Bay Area) and online. It took me a few tries to catch up with the Bariani’s, but finally I found them selling at the Berkeley Farmers’ Market (they also sell at the SF Ferry Plaza Farmers’ Market) and purchased a 500 ml bottle for $9.



When I got home I poured some oil in a saucer and couldn’t believe the green thickness of it. I smelled and tasted and was promptly knocked off my feet. If olive oil is often referred to as “grassy,” then this was the lushest, most freshly mown grass ever. The oil was dense with flavor, nothing mild or buttery about it. To be honest, I thought it might be a bit too strong in the flavor department. I capped the bottle and went off to my office to do some work.

But a few hours later I couldn’t stop thinking about the olive oil—I was craving it. I walked back into the kitchen and tasted a little bit more. This was thick and intense olivey goodness. I almost didn’t want to call it oil; it was something else entirely, more like olive juice. In the following days and weeks the cravings have not gone away. This indeed is worth eating with a spoon. I am a convert. Now I just bring it home and put it in a pretty class decanter and recycle the unappealing (to me) green bottle.



Bariani Olive Oil
1330 Waller Street, San Francisco, CA 94117
orders@barianioliveoil.com
info@barianioliveoil.com
Tel.(415) 864-1917

RANCHO GORDO

I have been buying Rancho Gordo beans for a while now, at their stall at the Ferry Plaza Farmers’ Market and also in the bulk section at Rainbow Grocery. I can tell you this, once you try them you won’t be able to go back to supermarket beans ever again. These little guys have a depth of flavor that will surprise you, and the colors and varieties are beautiful. Not only that, the packaging is way cool. And to top it all off, what other food vendor gets quoted by Leah Garchik in her gossip column in the San Francisco Chronicle:

Does the Bay Area have the artiest, best-educated, most articulate and discriminating farmers in the world? At the Ferry Plaza farmer's market, Candace Loheed overheard a customer asking a Rancho Gordo vendor whether the speckled beans he was selling would keep their hue after cooking. “No,” he responded, “they turn a tan and ecru color.”

Don't you want to buy your beans from this guy?

The seed that became Rancho Gordo was planted one hot August day in the Napa Valley when Steve Sando went looking for good tomatoes to use to make salsa. At the store he found “anemic pink tomatoes that were hard as rocks.” Not only that, they were imported from Holland, where they had been grown in a greenhouse. Steve didn’t understand why in Napa, an area ideal for growing tomatoes, his only option was bad tomatoes grown half a world away. He decided to grow tomatoes himself and sell them at the farmers’ market. Since tomatoes are a summer only crop, he wanted to branch out and carry some beans to sell through the winter.

These days Rancho Gordo specializes in beans, chilies, corn, grains, and more. Many of the products are heirloom varieties, all are what are Steve calls “New World Food,” indigenous American products. He works with two growers in the Sacramento Delta area to grow the beans and corn and makes regular trips to Mexico to search out new (though old) varieties, bringing back seeds to test out and, if successful, add to the Rancho Gordo line. Not only does he offer a delicious product, he is working to preserve traditional foods and genetic diversity that might otherwise be lost. His stand at the San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmers’ Market showcases beans in colors and varieties you’ll never see in a grocery store—and he even offers a basket of beans to play with—i.e. run your fingers through, Amélie style.



For this dish I used Steve’s cannellini runner beans, which are larger than what I normally think of as cannellini beans (they are grown on a runner vine, rather than the smaller cannellini which are bush beans). They get even bigger when you cook them, resulting in a creamy bean that is almost buttery tasting and a little nutty. Delicious! I also have a French Horticulture Bean and something called a Marrow Bean in the queue to taste. I’m looking forward to trying many of Steve’s different bean varieties over the summer in various salads, and next winter in soups. Rancho Gordo products are available at the SF Ferry Plaza Farmers’ Market (Saturdays only), at a variety of stores in Napa, at Rainbow Grocery, and online as well. Sign up for Steve’s newsletter to keep abreast of new products and varieties.

RANCHO GORDO New World Specialty Food
1755 Industrial Way, #26, Napa CA 94558
Email: info@ranchogordo.com
Tel: (707) 259-1935

I know it's probably against the Eat Local ethics and all, but if you're going to be getting your food products from goodness knows where anyway, consider patronizing these two great companies, both doing good work and providing an excellent product. And if you live in my foodshed—the San Francisco Bay Area—what are you waiting for? There's good food to be had!