White Bean Salad at Tabla with Greg

Nearly two years ago I met a man. Now, before you jump to conclusions I should say up front that this is not going to be one of those stories. Quite the opposite.

I had gone to Colorado to attend a workshop. The first morning I was sitting in our meeting room when a man with blonde hair and blue eyes walked in. I took one look at him and thought: that’s my dad.

Now, least you think I go around adopting strange men, I will tell you this has never happened before. Nor am I slighting my own father, I never really had one. My parents divorced when I was two years old and I saw my father only three times after that. He died of cancer when I was thirteen; we hadn’t spoken in years.

Despite the lack of a father in my life, I’m not the sort to adopt father figures. I have one family I am close with—sort of a second family to me—but the dad there is more like an uncle. We joke around and he teases me and tells me I work too much.

But here was this guy I thought was my dad—and more than that, I was sure his name was Peter.

When the workshop began and we all introduced ourselves, the blond man said his name was Greg (not Peter). At the break I fell into conversation with Greg and a group of other people. We talked politics and laughed and, walking back to the meeting room, I told him I had an odd urge to call him Peter.

“Well, that’s my name,” he said, smiling. “My last name is Peterson. Growing up my friends all called me Peter or Pete.”

Now how had I known that?

Over the next few days I spent a lot of time with Greg and his wife Bonnie, who was also attending the workshop. The feeling of Greg being my dad didn’t dissipate. There was something familiar about him, yet I knew we had never met before. At first I thought he looked like my real father, but photos have since proved me wrong. He and I do look as though we could be family, there is a similarity to our blue eyes, the blonde hair that grows back into a cowlick.

After the weekend I returned to San Francisco, but Greg and I have stayed in touch. He occasionally comes to California for work and, whenever we can, we have dinner together. The conversation flows as we talk about travels and work and challenges in life. In some ways it’s better than a father-daughter relationship, because there’s no complicated history. We can enjoy the things we share without the backlog of expectations, disappointments, and well-intentioned acts of failure that most family members must deal with, however much they care about each other. And every time we see each other, we discover more things we have in common. It’s a delight, like slowly unwrapping a present you didn’t think you’d ever get.

My friend Samantha says you find your family and they may not be the people you grew up with under the same roof. I know this to be true because I only met Samantha a year ago and already she feels like a sister to me—the older sister who will tell it like it is, whether you want to hear it or not. In my expanded family, Samantha is my big sister and Greg is my dad.

When I got an email from Greg saying he would be in the Bay Area for work and was I free for dinner in Marin on a Wednesday night, I immediately said yes. It had been many months since we had seen each other. We planned to meet at Tabla, a small restaurant tucked away in the back of a cluster of businesses in the less posh area of Larkspur. I grew up in Marin but have not lived there in many years. When I eat out in Marin these days, I am usually visiting old favorite restaurants. I had never heard of Tabla.

But here in this unexpected location was a little gem, a tiny restaurant that felt as if it had been lovingly put together. The menu was written on a chalkboard—something that warms my former Europe-living (and always Europe-loving) heart. Greg ordered dosa, an Indian version of the crepe, which seemed to be a house specialty. A large platter filled with white bean salad caught my eye.

We sat down and, as always with Greg, the conversation began to flow. I told him how my year had been hard, but hard in the way that teaches you things you need to know. He told me about the book he is working on, that he’s excited his son is quitting his job and going to Europe to travel. How his daughter is settling into her life and it’s a pleasure to see. At one point Bonnie called on his cell phone, before she went to sleep in Colorado, and we both said hi to her.

I ate my white bean salad—with a lovely anise flavor of fennel, mild kick of red onion, and the enduring green of fresh parsley—and I drank in the conversation. A conversation and a surprise connection with this new person in my life—a father figure who is not my father, but perhaps something better. And I relished them both.



TABLA WHITE BEAN SALAD

I decided to take a stab at recreating this salad not only because it was delicious, but also because I am trying to get over a fear of working with dried beans. I’ve never found a variety of canned cannellini beans that I’m pleased with—each one I’ve tried has been too mushy. Dried beans do require a little forethought, and careful monitoring while cooking, but now that I’ve taken the plunge I don’t think I’ll ever go back. The texture is so much better—no mush to speak of—and loose beans are smart both economically and environmentally, especially if bought in bulk.

2 cups dried cannellini beans (this will give you about 4 1/2 cups cooked beans)
half an onion
half a carrot
a sprig or two of: fresh thyme or sage, rosemary (dried or fresh), or a dried bay leaf (whatever is available and easy—use no more than two types of herbs)
1 1/4 cup fennel, cut across into thin slivers
1/2 cup red onion, chopped or slivered
5 tbs olive oil
3 tbs white balsamic vinegar
1 1/2 tsp Dijon mustard
1/2 tsp salt
freshly ground black pepper

Optional additions: crumbled feta or chèvre, tomatoes cut in medium dice. The Tabla salad did not include these, but I've added them on occasion and they are delicious

In a bowl or pot, soak the beans overnight or for 4-6 hours. Add the onion, carrot and herb(s) and simmer on a low flame until the beans are done. How long this takes depends on the age of your beans, but plan for about an hour. Watch the beans carefully at the end, testing often (a tip from the Zuni Cookbook—put a few beans in the freezer for a minute or three so you can taste them at room temp, it’s hard to judge when they are hot). When they are soft, no longer chalky but not yet mushy, remove from heat and drain immediately. If left to sit in the hot water they will continue to cook.

When the beans have cooled, mix with the fennel, red onion (I like to soak this briefly in ice water, to minimize onion breath afterwards), and parsley.

To make the dressing, whisk the vinegar and mustard together in a small bowl. Drizzle the olive oil in slowly. Add salt and a few grinds of fresh black pepper to taste. Pour over the salad and mix thoroughly. Makes two servings as a main lunch dish, four as a side.

I shouldn't have been surprised to discover, when I did an internet search on Tabla, that Sam of Becks & Posh had found Tabla long ago and considers it among her favorite restaurants (she doesn't miss a thing, does she?). Reading her posts made me like Tabla even more. Not only is the food and atmosphere lovely, there is a level of thought and consideration put into the politics behind their choices as well—a focus on fresh, locally farmed, sustainable, and seasonal produce. Definitely worth checking out if you're in the area. I will certainly be back soon (and the fact that they serve Scharffen Berger Brownies has nothing to do with it, I swear). I have plans to take my (real) mother there this month, as it’s a good choice for dining out during the Eat Local Challenge this month.

Tabla Cafe
1167 Magnolia Ave, Larkspur, CA
(415) 461-6787