Pasta e fagioli
Pasta e fagioli — pasta and beans.
Borlotti beans cooked down until half of them collapse, with small pasta cooked in the same pot so the starch thickens everything together.
Named from the ingredients as written, including those carried in from sub-recipes. This is not a guarantee — check the labels on what you actually buy, and note that a product’s recipe can change.
Heat the olive oil in a heavy pan over medium heat.
Add the onion, carrot and celery and cook gently for 12 minutes, until soft and sweet without colouring.
Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute.
Stir in the tomato puree and cook for 30 seconds.
Add the beans, the stock, the rosemary and the bay leaf.
Simmer for 25 minutes, until the beans are completely tender.
Lift out the rosemary and bay.
Scoop out a third of the beans with a little liquid, crush them to a rough paste, and stir them back in.
Bring the pot back to a steady simmer and add the pasta and the salt.
Cook for the time on the packet, stirring often, since the pasta will catch on the base as the pot thickens.
Add hot water a splash at a time if it goes past thick into stiff.
Let it stand off the heat for 5 minutes, which is when it comes together.
Serve with grated cheese and a thread of olive oil over each bowl.
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Sweet and savoury and quite plain, in a way that is the point rather than a shortcoming. The soffritto is doing most of the work: twelve minutes of onion, carrot and celery cooked slowly in oil produces a deep vegetal sweetness that reads almost like meat stock. Tomato purée, cooked out for its thirty seconds, adds umami and a little acidity rather than tasting of tomato. The beans themselves are earthy, faintly chestnutty and mild. Rosemary is the one assertive flavour and it is strong — a single sprig in a litre is enough, and it is lifted out rather than left in. Salt matters a great deal because there is nothing sharp or fatty to carry the seasoning. And the cheese at the table is the last element and a structural one: it brings salt, acid and umami all at once, and the dish is noticeably duller without it.
Soffritto first, which is the smell of the beginning of most Italian cooking — sweet, oily, vegetal. Rosemary arrives as soon as it hits the liquid and dominates the middle of the cook. At the table, the raw olive oil poured over each bowl is the most aromatic thing in the dish, because it has not been heated and its volatiles are intact. That thread of oil is not decoration.
Thick and slightly grainy, with three things going on: whole beans that still have skins and bite, crushed beans that have become the body of the broth, and soft pasta. The crushing is what turns a thin liquid with things in it into something cohesive. As it stands it gets thicker; after a night in the fridge it is nearly solid.
Very little. A steady simmer, and then a noticeable change once the pasta goes in — the bubbling goes thicker and slower and starts to plop rather than break cleanly, which is a genuine cue that it is thickening and needs stirring.
Sweetness from the soffritto first, then the beans' earthiness across the middle, then rosemary. The cheese arrives last and sharpest and is what clears the mouth. The finish is long and savoury with a faint bitterness from the olive oil. There is no acid anywhere in the pot, which is why a squeeze of lemon or a splash of vinegar is a legitimate improvement even though it is not traditional.
Hot but not scalding, and it holds heat exceptionally well because of its density — a bowl stays hot for a long time, which is a real property of thick bean dishes and part of why they are winter food. Room temperature it is stodgy.
Bread, and plenty of it. A rough red — a Chianti, a Montepulciano, something with tannin to cut the starch. Grated hard cheese, which is part of the dish rather than a pairing. A bitter green salad afterwards, dressed sharply, which is the traditional structure and supplies the acid the pot lacks. Where it fails is next to anything else heavy: it is the whole meal.
Easy, with one thing to watch: once the pasta goes in the pot thickens fast and will catch on the base. It needs stirring from that point on.
Among the cheapest full meals in the collection. Two tins of beans, a handful of pasta, three vegetables and some stock.
One heavy pan. A potato masher or a fork for crushing the beans. Nothing else.
Winter, and any weeknight. It is a cold-weather dish and reads as one.
None. Every ingredient keeps indefinitely.
After crushing, the broth should have gone from clear to opaque and slightly creamy. At the end a spoon drawn through should leave a channel that fills in slowly. If it is soupy it needs longer or more crushed beans; if it is stiff it needs water.
Thick, spoonable, and neither a soup nor a stew — the Italian word is minestra and there is no good English equivalent. The pasta should be soft rather than al dente, which is correct here and would be wrong in a dressed pasta dish.
Nothing to manage.
Browning the soffritto instead of sweating it, which gives a harsher, less sweet base. Not crushing any beans, which leaves a thin broth with things floating in it. Not stirring once the pasta is in, so it catches and scorches on the base — a burnt bottom flavours the entire pot and cannot be rescued. Cooking the pasta separately, which is faster and produces two things in a bowl rather than one. And under-salting, which is the commonest fault in any bean dish.
Too thin: crush more beans, or simmer uncovered for longer. Too thick: hot water, a splash at a time, and expect to need it — this dish keeps thickening. Catching on the base: stir more and lower the heat; if it has already caught, pour the top off into a clean pan without scraping. Bland: salt first, then cheese, then a splash of vinegar or lemon, which is not traditional and works. Pasta gone to mush: it was cooked past its time in a thickening pot, which happens fast — check it a minute early.
The bean base, absolutely — up to three days ahead or frozen. Add the pasta when you reheat it, which takes ten minutes. Making the whole thing ahead gives you a much thicker dish, which some people prefer.
Three days in the fridge. It thickens considerably as it cools — to the point of being sliceable — and needs loosening with water when reheated.
Well, with hot water stirred in. The pasta will have softened further, which most people consider an improvement.
Freeze it before the pasta goes in. The bean base freezes for three months; frozen cooked pasta goes mushy.
Genuinely good, and in parts of Italy the thickened next-day version is preferred to the fresh one.
Doubles easily. The only caution is that a bigger pot takes longer to thicken and the pasta needs watching more closely.
Cannellini beans are equally traditional and give a milder, creamier result; borlotti are nuttier and hold their shape better. Dried beans soaked and cooked from scratch are better than tinned and take three hours; their cooking liquid replaces some of the stock and is worth keeping. Any small pasta shape works — ditalini, tubetti, or broken spaghetti, which is what a great many Italian households actually use. A rind of Parmesan dropped into the pot while it simmers is a traditional trick and adds a great deal.
Vegetarian as written with vegetable stock and a rennet-free hard cheese. Vegan without the cheese, and it holds up well — the crushed beans are doing the enriching, not the dairy. Not gluten-free as written; a small gluten-free pasta works but releases less starch, so expect to crush more beans. Contains cereals containing gluten and celery, both declared.
Borlotti or cannellini, tinned or dried. A small tubular pasta. A decent finishing olive oil, because it goes on raw and is one of the loudest flavours in the bowl. Fresh rosemary rather than dried.
Dried beans are a fraction of the price of tinned and better, at the cost of a soak and three hours; cook a large batch and freeze them in their liquid. Save Parmesan rinds in the freezer and drop one into the pot — it is free flavour from something usually thrown away. Broken odds and ends of pasta from the bottoms of packets are the traditional and correct thing to use here.
One of the lowest-impact meals in the collection: pulses are among the most efficient protein sources there are, everything in it is shelf-stable, and there is no waste.
Around 480 calories a serving with cheese. It is high in fibre — beans are among the best sources there is — and carries around 20g of protein per portion from the beans and pasta together, which is the complete-protein point made above. It is among the most nutritionally sound meals in the collection.
Worth it, and it is the best cheap meal on this site. Two tins, a handful of pasta and three vegetables produce something genuinely satisfying, it costs less than a sandwich, and the technique — crushing part of the beans to thicken — transfers to every bean dish you will ever cook. Do not skip the oil at the table.
Italy, everywhere and nowhere in particular. Every region has a version.
Pasta e fagioli. In Neapolitan dialect pasta e fasule, which Italian-Americans rendered as pasta fazool — and which is the version of the name most English speakers have encountered, usually through a song.
PAS-ta eh fa-JOH-lee.
Pasta and beans. Nothing more.
The pairing of a pulse with a grain is one of the oldest and most widespread structures in human cooking, and it is not a coincidence. Beans are short of the amino acid methionine and rich in lysine; cereals are the reverse. Eaten together they supply what neither does alone, and cultures with limited access to meat arrived at the combination independently on every continent — rice and beans, dal and rice, tortillas and beans, hummus and pita. The Italian version predates the tomato, which arrived from the Americas after the sixteenth century and takes a supporting role here anyway. Borlotti beans are themselves American in origin and were adopted so thoroughly in northern Italy that they are now named after Italian towns.
It is the definitive example of cucina povera, the cooking of Italian households that had a store cupboard rather than a butcher. That phrase has been thoroughly romanticised in the last few decades and it is worth remembering that it describes genuine poverty; the dishes survive because they are good, not because the circumstances were.
Winter, weeknights, and any time the fridge is empty. It is not a dish anybody serves to impress.
Cooking the pasta in the same pot, and crushing part of the beans to thicken. Both are what make it a single dish. Adding a Parmesan rind to the simmering pot is a widespread household practice and is the closest thing to a secret ingredient here.
Tinned beans replaced dried ones in most kitchens, which costs some depth of flavour and saves three hours. Otherwise it is remarkably unchanged, because there is very little in it to change.
Substantial and worth knowing. Veneto makes it thick, with borlotti, sometimes puréed almost smooth, and often with no tomato at all. Naples makes it looser and redder, with more tomato and frequently broken mixed pasta — pasta mista, the odds and ends from the bottom of several packets, which was originally exactly what it sounds like. Tuscany uses cannellini and rosemary heavily. Some southern versions add cotenna, pork rind, which changes it entirely.
It sits between the Venetian and Neapolitan versions — thick, with a little tomato purée for depth rather than a red sauce. Crushing precisely a third of the beans is a specific instruction where most recipes say 'some'.
None. Traditional and unauthored.