Hello. Emily Nunn here, CEO of the Department of Salad. I’ve discussed it with the boys in the salad lab, and we all think that the best way to make sure we keep all of you in salads is to send out our bulletins more often. Which means we’ll have more Department of Salad for our free subscribers, too. Basically, we couldn’t stand the thought of anyone missing out on these delicious bean recipes. So, from now on, every subscriber, free or paid, will receive at least one bulletin per week. (Paid subscribers will get bonus bulletins and extra recipes. What you’re receiving here is a shorter but nonetheless chock-full issue. We hope you enjoy it as much as we enjoyed writing it.)
We’re also planning some other interesting treats. We’ll have more news about our changing format—which we hope will include printable recipes—as it develops. In the meantime, enjoy these bean salads from one of our favorite people. —Emily
CHEF SALAD: Steve Sando
UNLESS YOU’VE BEEN QUARANTINING in an un-wired, underground, hermetically sealed tomb on Russia’s remote Kamchatka Peninsula during the pandemic, you know that beans have been a very, very big item since we all had to stop hugging one another. They’ve basically replaced physical affection.
And the Number One Bean Man in America has been the grower and importer Steve Sando, of Rancho Gordo, the groundbreaking company out in Napa, California, that became the superstar of pandemic pantry cooking, even though Rancho Gordo had long been one of those food purveyors that magazines and newspapers and websites were falling all over themselves to feature. “We normally do 200 orders a day; today I have 11,000 orders to get out,” he told me.
I adore Sando, I eat a lot of his beans, and this wasn’t our first conversation. So, I know a thing or two about him—the most important of which is never ever mention that you eat canned beans. He’s remarkably generous with his time and ideas, and also very self-deprecating about his success, never failing to give the people who work for him a tremendous amount of credit. He’s also part of the reason the Department of Salad exists at all—he encouraged me to start it. He wants everyone to succeed and be happy. (“Market yourself, Emily. YOU are your brand.”)
But I really didn’t understand the depth of his dedication to legumes—or that he essentially created what has become an heirloom bean movement in the United States—until I read an in-depth super-detailed David Copperfield kind of story about him in the New Yorker magazine, by Burkhard Bilger, which not only captures Sando’s impish/cranky personality and everyone-wins ethos but also helps you understand what an heirloom bean even is, and why they make everyone flip out.
Here’s the link to that story, which tells you a lot more than simply where Sando grew up (California’s Marin County), where he lives (above the Napa hills, in a “former Seventh-Day Adventist church that he’s decorated with Mexican colonial art and religious icons”), how his career trajectory unfolded (it included backpacking around India after college; working in fashion, for Esprit, in San Francisco; a year in Milan, where he worked as a DJ; then back to San Francisco where he reviewed music, worked at a zine, and did web design), or how, when he turned 40 and was worried that he was a loser, he started a garden that basically turned into Rancho Gordo, which soon began supplying beans for the menus of Thomas Keller and Deborah Madison, among other bigwigs. Sando is also a collector—of vintage Mexican movie posters and William Spratling silver.
I’ve had the “bean conversation” with Sando more than a couple of times, so I know that the only way to truly discover what makes heirloom beans so special is to make a simple pot the Rancho Gordo way, then enjoy them in a bowl along with their delectable liquor. Perfect with a handful of chopped onions or nopales (cactus pads), and a side of warm corn tortillas—or in my case, corn muffins. You can watch him cook some here, on CBS Sunday Morning
He always makes it clear that simple is best, but Sando is nonetheless constantly pressured by Rancho Gordo fans to supply recipes that turn beans into something else. “In Italy and France, in particular, people celebrate the ingredients. But America is young. We have to make everything more exciting or more of a novelty. There’s this weird pressure to basically turn out restaurant food,” he says. “It’s exhausting.”
But that didn’t stop me. Sando is celebrating the 20th anniversary of his company this year, and my gift to him was to ask him to give me recipes, too. I didn’t feel too guilty, because salads generally tend to adhere to his decree that simple is best, and usually consist of ingredients you love on their own.
As we spoke about salad, I wrote three things in my notebook in giant letters: “mandoline,” “beans are not a substitute for something else,” and “I don’t care about lettuce.” I could have left it at that, because it’s essentially his entire salad ethos.
“For me lately, salad starts with my mandoline,” he said, referring to the razor-sharp device for cutting fruits and vegetables into thin, even slices—which got its name, according to Wikipedia, from “the wrist-motion of a skilled user of a mandoline, which resembles that of a player of the musical instrument.” (Please don’t take your safety cues from this description.)
“You have dinner within minutes!” he said. “I have one of those cheap Japanese versions, which I use on whatever’s in my CSA box. And right now, we’re getting fennel. I don’t love licorice as a flavor— or, I mean, I do love Ricard and Pernod. So I guess I do like it—spike that. But the idea of fennel raw was never that appealing to me until I used my mandoline to finely shave it. It’s just this perfect hint of anise.
“There’s almost nothing that you can’t do with a mandoline—or a box grater,” he added “I’ll use the mandoline on everything along with whatever particular bean I’ve cooked that week.” And that bean will be the star of his salads, the creamy, meaty, luxury part—not just another way to “add protein.”
Sando sees salad as part of the life cycle of a pot of beans.
“You make a pot, cooked simply. Then the first thing you do is have a bowl of nothing but the beans, maybe with some olive oil and a little chopped onion, and that’s great. The next night, you might make something a little fancier. Right now, everyone is making Deb Perelman’s pizza beans from Smitten Kitchen—they’re delicious. It’s basically tomato and gooey cheese. And then the next night you put them in a salad, which is perfect with big white beans. And then if there’s a little bit left you puree them to make a dip.”
Sando’s current state of mind when it comes to bean salads: “The crunch is the essential part and beans are the indulgence.” And he has a few bean salad rules:
Don’t cook beans with a ham hock (or other strongly flavored meats), which “does them no favors. And don’t put too much crap in the water. When we test them in the field, we use onion, garlic, olive oil, and salt—that’s it” In other words, you’re not disguising them like cheap or old beans. You’re celebrating them.
Pay attention to texture, and the contrast of crunch to creaminess. “Beans are very mild; their flavors are subtle. So with a salad I think a lot in terms of texture.”
Don’t dress the beans when they’re warm; wait until you’re ready to serve the salad, so they don’t get “stodgy.” (“In my first book I said you should dress the beans while they’re warm, but I don’t do that now. I think it makes them too heavy.”)
Use a sturdy bean that will hold its shape. “You want to avoid Yellow Eyes, which are a great New England bean sometimes used in baked beans, but the skin is too thin. Same with the Marcella bean—super-delicious but almost gelatinous and quite delicate. We all like a little rough treatment but tossing them in a salad would just destroy them.”
Don’t overcook them, for the same reason. You can even undercook them a little bit since they keep cooking after you take them off the heat.
To get you started, Sando gave the DOS not one but two recipes he’s been making a lot. When I tried them out, I found four servings was really just two in my house, because both salads feel like main courses to me.
And after we’d talked, while I was working in the kitchen, I got this note from Sando, which spoke to me on a cellular level (except I can’t stand to feel full; I’m a grazer):
“One more thought about salads. I don’t know about you but sometimes I come home and I’m frustrated and it’s: Damn, I'm going to overeat. It might as well be grated, shredded vegetables and good dressing instead of chicken wings or tater tots. I get a huge mixing bowl and put my favorite ingredients in it and go to town. I love being full. I’m alone so I love shoving everything into my mouth. Everybody wins. Well, I win and that’s all that matters.”
*RECIPE: Arugula, Fennel, Royal Corona, and Shrimp Salad
Serves 2–4
Unlike Sando, I adore fennel any way you serve it; in fact, I love every ingredient in this salad. I think if you use shrimp as large as the ones I used, it wouldn’t hurt to cut them in half, to distribute them more evenly—more shrimp per bite. I tend to let a salad sit for a few minutes once I dress and toss it, to let all the ingredients get to know one another more intimately, and this dish was especially well served by this step. I could eat this every day of my life.
1 pound peeled and deveined shrimp, cooked as you like (Sando pan sautés his in olive oil and garlic or grills them. I poached mine by bringing a pot of water with lemon slices and peppercorns to a boil, dropping the shrimp in, turning off the heat, putting a lid on the pot, and waiting five minutes before immediately placing the shrimp in an ice bath: perfect every time)
1 teaspoon honey
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon orange juice
1 teaspoon freshly grated orange zest
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
1 small fennel bulb, thinly sliced with a mandoline
4 cups baby arugula (rocket), washed and dried
1 orange, peeled and cut into segments (I peeled mine and cut it into thick rounds, then in half again; you may want 2 oranges depending on their size)
1/2 small red onion, thinly sliced with a mandoline
1 ½ cups cooked and drained Rancho Gordo Royal Coronas
Prepare the shrimp.
To make the dressing: in a small bowl, whisk together the honey, lemon juice, orange juice, orange zest, and olive oil. Season with salt and pepper. (I like quite a bit of salt in this; taste as you go).
In a salad bowl, combine fennel, arugula, orange segments, and onion. Add most of the dressing and toss gently but well. Top with the Royal Coronas and the shrimp, and drizzle with the remaining dressing.
*RECIPE: Lentil and Carrot Salad with Mustard Vinaigrette
Serves 2 to 4
I’ve made this three times now, and eaten it all by myself. And not just because I love both carrots and lentils. This salad has that elemental appeal that comes from perfectly harmonious textures—plus, the little hits of onion and garlic are divine. If I owned a cafe, this would always be on the menu. I feel like I should send Sando a cake or a check for a million dollars.
2 garlic cloves, minced
½ yellow onion, finely chopped
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard (or to taste)
3 tablespoons white wine vinegar or Champagne vinegar (or to taste)
½ cup olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
4 carrots, peeled then grated (about 2 cups grated)
1 cup cooked Rancho Gordo French-Style Green Lentils or Rancho Gordo Caviar Lentils (I used the Caviar here)
1 cup chopped fresh parsley
In a small bowl, combine the garlic, onion, mustard, and vinegar. Slowly whisk in the olive oil to make a vinaigrette. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
Place the grated carrots in a serving bowl. Add your desired amount of vinaigrette, including a lot of the onion and garlic at the bottom of the bowl, and toss to coat. (You may have some leftover vinaigrette.) Add the lentils and parsley and toss gently. Taste and adjust the seasonings before serving. (NOTE: I said this already but: make sure that you use a spoon to dress the salad rather than pouring it, so that you get all the little pieces of onion and garlic into the enterprise; essential!)
That’s all! We’re finished here.
NEXT WEEK: My salad guest is one of my oldest friends, whom I’ve known since I was 18 and a freshman at the University of Georgia (Go, Dawgs), Portia Payne Hendrick. She’s one of the best home cooks I know, and she’s an entire chapter in my book, The Comfort Food Diaries. Thank you for subscribing. And please make all your deserving friends subscribe, too.