Am I being unreasonable? You be the judge.
I’m at Ralphs Market the other day, skulking around the produce section. I’ve been on an ongoing quest for fresh peas for most of the year because I’ve stumbled onto a one-dish sonata that’s simple, yet utterly divine. Guaranteed to bring tears to the eyes. My digestive system whimpers if I don’t get it at least once a week. Indulge me through this preamble and I’ll share the recipe.
Hard to believe, but Ralphs rarely stocks fresh peas. Ralphs: the primary market serving the avant community of Malibu, a symbol of abundance and tasteful living. And of kitchens the size of Rhode Island and cooks with the imagination of a Copernicus. And no fresh peas.
So, anyway, there I am in the produce department and I see this modest tray of, believe-it-or-not, fresh peas. Exciting. Not prizewinners-not Gelson’s or Bristol Farms-but nonetheless, the real article. I yanked a plastic bag faster than you can say penne al dente con piselli and toasted pine nuts, and scooped every last one of them.
Now I’m at the counter. A young gentleman clerk prepares to ring them up. “What are these?” he asks.
“Watermelons,” I answer. I can’t shake the shock. “What the hell do they look like to you, Eddie?”
“Fava beans?” Eddie asks.
He passes them to Debrah at the next check stand. She hoists them aloft: “What the heck are these?” she asks of the surrounding area.
“Peas, peas, peas!” I probably shouted. “Where were you born, girl?”
“Los Angeles.”
“Don’t you remember your mother nagging at you: ‘Eat your peas and carrots,’ for cryin’ out loud?”
Debrah is still smiling. “No, I can’t say that I do.”
It rattles my cage to realize that there are people living among us who are old enough to shave and to wear lipstick who have no idea what fresh peas look like yet are conversant in the fava bean. If you fall into that category, listen up: Whereas carrots are those long gnarly orange things, visualize a four-inch-long, smooth green pod-like affair containing six or seven individual little perfectly formed circular green vegetables.
Never mind.
Go to Gelson’s. Estimate how many handfuls of peas it would take to generously compliment a one-pound box of penne or rigatoni, or any pasta with a hole in the middle, and buy triple that amount.
Shell them at the kitchen table with a friend and take a short trip back to the 1940s.
Here’s what you need in addition to the peas.
A one-pound box of penne (or similar pasta)
One good-sized onion
An 8-oz bag of toasted pine nuts (Trader Joe’s has ’em)
Olive oil
A big chunk of butter
Plenty of grated Parmesan cheese. (For more pungency use Romano or Pecorino, or a mixture)
Pepper and salt
Slice the onion thinly and soften over medium heat in a mixture of butter and olive oil. I use about half and half. Up to you. Figure enough to dress the pasta. Set aside, but keep warm.
While boiling the water, add a drizzle of olive oil to keep the pasta from sticking. Make sure the peas, the toasted pine nuts and the grated cheese are within easy reach. Set your colander in the sink.
When the water is at a rolling boil, dump the pasta in and pay attention. This sequence is important. When the pasta reaches the al dente stage, empty the container of freshly shelled peas into the water, turn off the gas and count to five. By the time it takes you to remove the pot from the stove and pour the contents into the colander, the peas will have cooked to the al dente stage as well. Hit the mix with a splash of water to remove excess starch.
Shake any remaining water from the colander and while still very hot, dump the works back into the pot. Throw a couple of handfuls of toasted pine nuts into the mix and sprinkle plenty of grated cheese. Mix thoroughly with a pair of wooden spoons. Add the onions, the butter and olive oil (a little chopped parsley never hurts), and mix thoroughly once again.
Salt and pepper to taste. And that’s it. Quick and easy. Everything will have a texture that pops to the teeth. Serve in a bowl. Eat with a soup spoon. This amount legitimately serves four. I use it for two and fight over the leftovers the following night. It reheats nicely in the micro.
“No garlic?” you ask.
No garlic. Unnecessary.
My grandfather, who was from Lucca and owned an Italian restaurant in San Francisco, used to make basically this same dish for himself without the peas and the pine nuts. It was one of those classics he felt shy about sharing; he assumed it was too simple for American tastes. Your nouvelle chef will be tempted to throw in a handful of Italian sausage. Shoot him first.
I anticipate the next question: “Why can’t I use peas found in their more natural state-frozen?”