Chickpeas

It’s the summer of 2003 and I’m working a few hours every lunchtime at a tiny cafe in Glasgow called North Star. The lady that owns it, Rachel, has decided that I’m spending too much time drinking coffee and ought to do some work instead. It’s where I first really learnt to cook. The food was excellent; I guess with some more perspective I’d say it was very much in the vein of Moro, though I doubt Rachel was inspired by them. 

We made the most incredible patatas bravas, eschewing tradition for roasting waxy potatoes with lots of salt, olive oil and topping with a Portuguese peri peri sauce (gutted I can’t remember the brand?). I’d spend mornings in the back corner of the tiny kitchen folding potatoes into oil in comically over filled frying pans. At lunch time we’d smash through them, slices warmed, drizzled with oil and served with a tangle of sharply dressed salad and a wedge of crusty bread. Anything leftover would go into buttered morton rolls for take away, like a chip butty but better. 

The dish that really sticks in my memory though is the chickpea and chorizo stew. The chorizo came in long chains and bled its paprika oil into the heartily spiced liquid. I wonder if this is where I got my love for cumin and coriander? I’d babysit deep bubbling pans, occasionally piling their contents into shallow terracotta bowls as the cool Glaswegian sun cut shafts across the narrow room. 

I’d never really engaged with chickpeas before Glasgow. We used to get them in big tins that I’d rinse in the sink (aquafaba appreciation was still over a decade away and I don’t recall veganism being much of a thing back then). I’ve since discovered hummus, dhal and shan tofu, and I have opinions on the varying quality of tinned chickpeas, versus jarred, versus dried. If you’re wondering: jarred for convenience, dried if you fancy being woken in the night to the creepy sound of their little skins popping as they rehydrate. 

If I’m honest, I eat them most often courtesy of the falafel wraps from Falafel & Shawarma in Camberwell; their philanthropically priced wraps provide just the right hit of crunchy veg, garlicky heat and starchy filler that I so often crave of a midweek lunchtime. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about starch recently, as I’ve been writing about winter vegetables. Starch perception isn’t all that well covered in food and wine pairing manuals and my guess is that most starchy foods are considered a side to whatever the dish’s focus is (in the case of pasta we almost always pair to the sauce) and thus ignored. 

The traditional view of the palate contends that starch isn’t a taste; starch granules (and other long chain carbohydrates) are perceived as a texture and can contribute a degree of sweetness after prolonged chewing as amylase does its work in the mouth. However, recent research suggests what I think we all know at heart, that starchy foods have a communal flavour character. As Juyum Lim from Oregon State university points out, “every culture has a major source of complex carbohydrate. The idea that we can’t taste what we’re eating doesn’t make sense”. Intriguingly, in one study the way the starchy taste is described seems to relate to the staple starch consumed in the participants’ diets; with tasters of Asian heritage describing it as ‘rice like’ while European tasters went with bread or pasta-like. 

That being said, I think chickpeas still present mostly as a textural presence in food. From the full on granularity of falafel to the opulent richness of Beiruti-style hummus, their presence is starch as a swaddle, carbohydrates as a comfort blanket.  

Texture in wine is something that we don’t talk about as much as we used to. The contemporary discourse has favoured minerality and salinity; with volcanic and island wines (sometimes even volcanic island wines) leading the way with their pronounced acidity and austere beauty. 

Thinking about starchy texture makes me look to the creamy alcohol and glycerol led richness of whites from the Rhone, Marsanne, Roussanne and Grenache Blanc, all offering a satisfying weight to their mouthfeel. We have Pinot Gris from Alsace, straying firmly into louche opulence, and plush in a way that feels ever so slightly naughty. I enjoy pairing these richer wines with starchy dishes, layering opulence on opulence. It feels like a nice acknowledgment that sometimes we want comfort; sometimes we want to just lean into richness, pairing pasta with Pinot Gris or a weighty Soave. Letting the starchiness of the dish be the fulcrum around which we move. 

Other times that same starchiness needs to be a counterpoint, as we look to balance that starchy mouthfeel with freshness, and yes, those volcanic and island whites would all work wonderfully here. However, since I’m still thinking about falafel and hummus I want the easy conviviality of something simple. I want the crisp joviality of Picpoul, the crowd pleasing charm of Provencal rosé, mostly I want the wine and food to disappear into the messy noise of tangled conversation and easy laughter. Because, really, who’s going to be thinking about starch when they finally get to meet up friends over lunch. I certainly won’t. 

Chickpea and Chorizo Stew (in the style of North Star)

6 spicy chorizo

1 large jar chickpeas 

2 tins chopped tomatoes

2 onions, finely chopped 

4 large cloves garlic, crushed 

1 tsp each cumin and coriander (I use freshly ground)

Chopped parsley, to serve

Crusty bread, to serve

Extra virgin olive oil, to serve  

In a large pot fry the chopped chorizo until there’s plenty of gorgeous looking paprika coloured oil, then add the onions, sweat them for a bit and add the garlic and the spices. Cook for a minute or so, stirring. 

Add the tomatoes and the chickpeas and cook for 30-45 mins. Season well with salt and pepper. 

Serve each bowl with some parsley and a good glug of olive oil. Bread on the side.