Presentation is half the meal, which is good ’cause I can’t cook.
BEANS À LA BLACK— A RECIPE FOR TROUBLE
Speak to me of the humble bean,
Of Milagro, of Jack and the stalk.
Whose bold contribution has earned them a place
In the footnote of history’s crock.
Recognized by poets, painters, bards, and
the literary glitterati such as Shakespeare, who said,
“A bean by any other name would still . . .”
If a bean were consumed in the forest and no one
heard it, would it still make a sound?
One small bean for man, one giant bean burrito
for mankind. —ARMSTRONG
Gold, frankincense, and pinto beans.
I never met a bean I didn’t like. —LYNDON BEANS JOHNSON
A fool and his bean are soon parted. —ANONYMOUS
Quoth the raven, “Refried beans.” —POE
Hell hath no fury like a bean turned bad. —CONGREVE
Down through the ages, the humble bean has been treated as the blue-collar worker of the menu. The landscape on the plate, the flannel sheets for the plump weenie to lay its head. Always there, usually unnoticed like rice in China, cows in westerns, and duplicity in Congress. It has assumed the supporting role, never asking to carry the ball, ride Trigger, get the girl, or have a speaking part. Deferring always to the filet, fajita, or French onion soup.
And, even though it is a famous food in its own right, it is a frijole fame . . . like owning the most expensive Ford Escort.
Thus, to rectify this culinary snobbery, I offer my recipe for Beans à la Black:
Purchase 1⁄2 pound dried pinto beans.
Select 22 blemish-free beans.
Boil till soft; discard one bean over left shoulder.
With needle and thread, string them like beads, interspersing with capers, raspberries, and pearl onions.
Garnish with chili powder and lime juice.
Tie the fondue necklace loosely around the throat of a loved one, allowing the center bean to dangle in the angle of Louis.
Dine, then relax and enjoy the postprandial 21-bean salute.