Magic Beans

You can imagine my surprise when Vera Maraschino called me up and said, "Hey, boss, can I pitch a food article?" See, I had a whole plan in mind—months of manipulation—to lure her back into the Ostrich Kitchenette. I never thought it would be her idea. The surprise got only deeper when I asked her what the story was, and she said, "Beans!"

Best of all, before she hung up, she asked, "Is it okay if Arnie comes?"

Publisher: So, Vera, who put the bean in your bonnet?

Vera: That's one.

Publisher: What's one?

Vera: Don't make me say three.

Publisher: Okay, good, uh, what got you interested in beans?

Vera: Alison Roman. Have you seen her cook? In couture? Plus, the wine. Like, what time is it, 2 pm, and she's on her second glass. I mean, shit, if that's a job...

Publisher: Wait till you hear about Julia Child.

Arnie Tackleman: Boeuf bourguignon.

Vera: Arnie's been into Duo Lingo. Can you tell?

Arnie: Le chat est sur le canapé.

Publisher: I can tell. You've got a jar of dried beans, there. You have some already soaking, I hope?

Vera: No soaking. That's for suckers.

Publisher: I've always heard...

Vera: Suckers!

Publisher: Noted. What kind of beans are those?

Vera: Pinto. I'd use more interesting ones, but I couldn't be arsed to find them.

Publisher: Do they explode when they hit a curb?

Vera: If that's a reference, I don't get it, but that's two.

Arnie: C'est deux.

Vera: Now comes the simplest recipe ever. I've got an onion and a head of garlic, and I'm gonna cut them in half across the middle. I'll heat up some olive oil in the pot, and when that's hot, I'll put these in, flat side down, skins and all. When they're toasty brown on the bottom, in goes a pound of dried beans and enough water so there's, like, an inch above the top of the beans. And that'll simmer for an hour and a half. Maybe two hours. If the beans poke their heads out, I'll add more water. Aside from that, I'll throw in some red-pepper flakes and a few leaves of fresh sage. Plenty of salt, but not too much; it'll cook down. And, yeah, I'll add it at the beginning, 'cause I'm not superstitious. Before it's done I'll juice half a lemon. Alison puts in the whole lemon with the peel, but that's nasty. Way too bitter.

Publisher: Maybe just the zest?

Vera: Don't use words you don't understand.

Publisher: I said zest wrong?

Vera: You said it like there's part of a lemon called the "zest."

Publisher: Is there not?

Vera: It's a metaphor, dumbass. Like "the ghost of a lemon." They mean, like, add a tiny bit of lemon, like you imagine you added some lemon. There's no part of a lemon called the zest. What part would that be?

Publisher: Isn't it the...

Vera: Shut it. You're embarrassing yourself.

Publisher: Got it. Never mind. How do you know when the beans are done?

Vera: When they're tender. If they get tender. If dried beans are too old, they'll never cook through. You just throw 'em away.

Publisher: How would you know if they're too old?

Vera: You wouldn't. That's part of the fun.

—Two Hours Later—

Publisher: They seem tender enough. Do we drain them now?

Vera: Hell no. We'll eat 'em saucy. Take out the mushy onions, though, and the limp-ass sage.

Publisher: And that's it?

Vera: That's the beans. You can eat 'em like that, or with other stuff.

Publisher: These are great! And so simple. Why don't we make these every day?

Vera: You'll find out in a few hours.

Publisher: What does that mean?

Arnie: Le fruit musical.

Vera: Exactly.

Publisher: My scent will tell you where I've...bean?

Vera: Three.

Publisher: Ow! My toe!

Arnie: Aïe! Mon orteil! Sacre bleu!