Kinda Fabada, but better than just kinda good!

One of those nights.  You have Madrid on your mind.  Some luscious fabada Asturiania and a solomillo (filet mignon) at Casa Paco in the heart of old town, near La Plaza Mayor.  The aged building has it’s wide doors wide and is still bursting.  You have to wait elbow to elbow for a table in the tile-lined bar, where the barkeeper, white shirt and black vest,  lines up the little glasses and pours wine from one end of the line to the other.  The talk is flowing all around you.  Hands fly like machetes, punctuating incomplete sentences and stressing particular points. Spanish is a beautiful language that flows like clear water.

You order some Manchego cheese and Serrano ham to pass the time and whet your appetite.  You mention to the barkeep that it’s crowded.  He shrugs his shoulders and gives you a look that means put up or shut up.  You push your glass forward and he sloshes in another round.  “Did you give your name?” he asks and nods toward a lady with a clipboard.

It’s dark outside. You never noticed when the azur sky and melting sun blended into a musty shadow.  Nine-thirty?  The night is young. Almost too early for Madrileños to eat dinner.  Tapas, more wine, an order of chiperones, baby squid, fried and crispy.  Even with all the wine, the acrid whiff of citrus hits you when you squeeze a wedge of fresh lemon.

“Señor?”  The lady with the clipboard lightly taps your elbow.

Spanish bread is dry and airy, ready for unsalted butter so rich it melts with one swipe of the knife.  Your salada comes: lechuga, tomato, tuna, an olive or two, awash in a vinaigrette that’s more vinegar than oil.  They know what they’re doing.  The richly buttered bread sops up the remains.

Then the fabada arrives in a cloud of succulent vapor and you wonder where you’ll ever find room for the solomillo.  You try to pace yourself, without success.  The fabada is heaven’s answer to bean soup.

Ok.  Snap. Snap.  Wake yourself.  You’re not in Madrid at Casa Paco’s.  You’re at home, but still hungry for fabada.  The memory lingers for decades.

But, you don’t have half the ingredients you need.  Pork belly. Saffron.  Pig knuckle.  A pound of dried fava beans. Blood sausage.

What the hell is a hungry hombre going to do?  Ah, friends and neighbors, as you may have suspected, I have an alternative ending to this sad tale.

I call it Kinda Fabada because anyone who has ever hoisted tiny cups of espresso, balloons of Carlos I brandy, and puffed a Habano maduro at three a.m. in a Madrid bistro is going to know the difference.  I’m just saying, you want Kinda Fabada, or NO kinda fabada?

Dry your tears.  You made your choice and you’re going to be happy you did.

Kinda Fabada

3 cans (15.5 oz or 439 g) large butter beans (undrained)

1 onion, chopped fairly fine

3 cloves garlic, chopped fairly fine

1 carrot chopped fairly fine

1 12 inch stick of Spanish or Puerto Rican chorizo, sliced in 1/8 inch rounds

2 tablespoons of olive oil

1 cup chicken broth

 Note:  Nothing wrong with Mexican chorizo, but it’s soft and doesn’t fit this recipe.

Heat the oil in a pot over medium heat.  Add the semi-finely chopped onion and garlic.  Cook until the onions are beginning to turn golden.  Add the undrained cans of butterbeans, the chopped carrots, and the rounds of chorizo.  Cook until the carrots are soft, about ten minutes.  To thin, add the cup of chicken broth and stir.  If the mixture is still too thick, add more, bit by bit.  This is a thick soup and should be soupy but fairly thick when it’s served.

Accompany with buttered toast.

Did I lie to you?  Drag the name fabada through the triviality of plain bean soup, or did your mind wander just a little?  Did you taste a hint of old town Madrid and make a resolution to brush up on that high school Spanish?  Ah, señor, your adventure has just begun.  Fabada now and forever!