Fave e Cicoria

In Puglia, this is not a recipe. It is a birthright. Every home cook knows the proportions by instinct, learned at their mother's elbow, who learned at her mother's elbow, back through generations of contadini who understood that the humblest ingredients, prepared with patience, create food that no restaurant can equal.

The dried fava bean puree must be silky, almost ethereal, pale and mild. The chicory must be aggressively bitter, dark green, barely tamed by a quick sauté in good olive oil. You eat them together, the sweetness of the beans tempering the bitterness of the greens, the bitterness of the greens cutting through the richness of the beans. Neither is complete without the other. This is the genius of peasant cooking: balance through contrast, not through addition.

Americans want to add garlic, red pepper flakes, lemon juice. They cannot leave well enough alone. What you keep out is as significant as what you put in. The favas want only olive oil and salt. The chicory wants the same. Trust the ingredients to do their work.