The Silence of the Lambs

CROSTINI with FAVA BEAN and CHICKEN LIVER MOUSSES

Every once in a while a literary recipe pops into my head and I have to ask myself, “Are you going too far?” This might be one of them, and the porchetta di testa is another, but I just can’t help myself. Whenever I see fava beans in the market come spring, looking like the Arnold Schwarzenegger version of sugar snap peas, it’s impossible for me not to think about Thomas Harris’s Hannibal Lecter series. Was anyone else as obsessed with these books as I was in high school? (No? Is that why I had only one friend?)

Whether you’ve read the books or not, I’m sure you know a thing or two about Hannibal Lecter. Few other characters have had as lasting an impact and stayed as present in our cultural consciousness as Dr. Lecter. Thirty-two years after he first appeared in Harris’s 1981 novel Red Dragon, he is the star of the NBC television show Hannibal, which premiered in May 2013.

The success of Harris’s novels was due in large part to America’s fascination with serial killers, a fascination that was new then but has only grown these last thirty years. Books and television are full of serial killers, from Chelsea Cain’s Gretchen Lowell series and Roberto Bolaño’s 2666 to TV’s Dexter, Criminal Minds, and The Mentalist. Our culture is saturated with psychopaths. The criminal profilers that Harris was studying in the late 1970s were bringing to light a fact that we all know well now—that serial killers don’t have to be scary-looking or visibly crazy, that most often they are in fact charming and well-spoken and sometimes even handsome. They could be law students or nurses or even brilliant psychiatrists.

Playing to America’s morbid fascination with sociopaths, Anthony Hopkins’s portrayal of Hannibal Lecter in the 1991 movie adaptation of The Silence of the Lambs helped secure the character’s cultural staying power. It was the first horror film ever to win the Oscar for Best Picture, and only the third film ever to win Oscars in the top five categories—Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Director, and Best Writing.

Thanks to Hopkins, “I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti” is as familiar a line as “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.” The quote is memorable not only because of that horrible sucking noise Hopkins makes after he says it, but also because of its eerie mix of savagery and refinement. Lecter is talking about cannibalizing someone, and yet his wine and side dish pairings are dead on. Liver and fava beans is a classic combination, and Chianti (in the book it’s Amarone) complements both perfectly. Harris didn’t throw in this line haphazardly; he knew food well, as did Dr. Lecter, who “was known for the excellence of his table and had contributed numerous articles to gourmet magazines.”

Harris’s agent once said of him, “He loves cooking—he’s done Le Cordon Bleu exams—and it’s great fun to see him in the kitchen while he prepares a meal and see that he’s happy as a clam.” His skill in the kitchen is probably the reason that he is able to make even the most disgusting food scenes sound somehow appealing. Dr. Lecter doesn’t just eat brains, he “dredges them lightly in seasoned flour, and then in fresh brioche crumbs,” he “adds shallots to his hot browned butter and at the instant their perfume rises he puts in minced caper berries,” and then he “grates a fresh black truffle into his sauce and finishes it all with a squeeze of lemon juice.” You could almost forget what it is you’re reading about.

Almost.

My family ate a good amount of liver growing up, but I was embarrassingly old the first time I ever tasted a fresh fava bean. The only favas I had ever seen had already been shucked, blanched, peeled, and stuffed into rumpled bags in the freezer aisle, and those weren’t even allowed in my house because of my dad’s aversion to them. The first time I ever handled a fresh one I was working in a restaurant kitchen and the chef had put them on the menu as a special for that night, but they didn’t arrive with the delivery until twenty minutes before service. Everyone was told to start shucking as quickly as possible so that they could be blanched and ready to serve by the time the first order came in.

All of the cooks gathered, hunched around a table, burned and cut fingers moving like hummingbirds. I was so in awe of the beans I popped one in my mouth, uncooked and with the husk still on, and immediately spit it out. The cooks laughed mercilessly at me, but after service one of them handed me a heaping spoonful of the finished product—blanched and whipped into a mousse with lemon and garlic and Espelette pepper, the brightest green I’d ever seen.

THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS

Crostini with Fava Bean and Chicken Liver Mousses

Makes 16 to 20 crostini

1 baguette

Fava Bean Mousse (recipe follows)

Chicken Liver Mousse (recipe follows)

Olive oil and/or port, for drizzling (optional)

Slice the baguette about 1 inch thick and toast the slices in a toaster oven or under a broiler. Top the crostini with dollops of fava bean mousse and/or cooled chicken liver mousse. Drizzle with olive oil or port if desired.

FAVA BEAN MOUSSE

Makes about 1½ cups

1½ pounds fresh fava beans

½ cup olive oil

⅓ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Juice of ½ a lemon

1 tablespoon grated fresh lemon zest

1 garlic clove, minced

½ teaspoon kosher salt

Shell the fava beans from the pods and set them aside; you should have about 1 cup.

Bring a medium pot of water to a boil over high heat and prepare an ice bath (a large bowl of ice cubes and cold water). Boil the favas until they are tender and the outer skins begin to shed, 5 to 7 minutes. Drain and immediately place them in the ice bath (this stops them from continuing to cook and preserves their beautiful color).

Peel the outer membranes off the fava beans and discard them. Place the blanched and peeled favas and the rest of the ingredients in a blender and blend until very smooth.

CHICKEN LIVER MOUSSE

Makes about 3 cups

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

2 tablespoons rendered chicken fat (or more unsalted butter)

2 small yellow onions, sliced

2 thyme sprigs

1 teaspoon black peppercorns

¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 piece star anise

½ bay leaf

1 pound chicken livers

⅛ teaspoon pink curing salt (optional)

⅓ cup ruby port

1 cup cream cheese, at room temperature

2 tablespoons sherry vinegar

1 tablespoon sugar

Kosher salt

Heat 1 tablespoon of the butter and 1 tablespoon of the chicken fat in a heavy-bottomed pot over medium heat. Add the onions and thyme and cook until the onions are golden brown.

Combine the peppercorns, cinnamon, star anise, and bay leaf in a spice grinder and pulse until finely ground (the cinnamon should already be ground, but adding it to the grinder helps the ingredients move around and get ground up). Add the spices to the onions and continue to cook until the onions are soft and caramelized.

Meanwhile, clean the chicken livers of any white or greenish fibers. (These fibers are safe to eat, but removing them will improve the texture of the finished mousse.)

Once the onions have cooked down, add the remaining tablespoon each of butter and chicken fat and raise the heat to medium-high. Add the livers and pink salt (if using—it will keep the livers from turning gray) and cook, stirring and tossing constantly, until they are firm to the touch but still rosy, 5 to 7 minutes. The internal temperature should be 165°F. (Generally, overcooking liver leads to an unappealing grainy texture, but the cream cheese and the blending/passing through a sieve will help hide all manner of overcooking sins, which makes this process much less stressful.)

Discard the thyme sprigs and transfer the cooked livers and onions to a bowl. Deglaze the pan with the port and allow it to cook down for about 1 minute. Pour the reduced port over the livers and add the cream cheese.

In batches, blend the livers and cream cheese in a high-powered blender until very smooth. Pass the pureed liver mixture through a fine-mesh sieve into a bowl. Add the sherry vinegar, sugar, and salt to taste. Keep in mind that the flavor will change as the mousse cools, so add a little more salt than you think tastes right. Also feel free to add more sherry vinegar, sugar, and/or pepper.

Divide the mousse among three 8-ounce jars and top with a thin layer of rendered chicken fat (or olive oil) before placing the lids on. (This helps keep the liver fresh.) The mousse will keep for up to 10 days in the refrigerator.