Roasted Hatch chiles are the most important ingredient in these rolled enchiladas from cookbook author David Tanis. The peppers are available for purchase online fresh or frozen in mild, medium, and hot varieties. Roasted Anaheim or other green chiles may be used as a substitute. (Just don’t tell anyone from New Mexico.)

These are rolled enchiladas—soft corn tortillas stuffed with shredded chicken and smothered with green chile sauce and cheese. If you prefer, make “stacked” enchiladas by layering tortillas, chicken, sauce, and cheese, as if making lasagna.

Featured in: “Inside New Mexico’s Hatch Green Chile Obsession.”

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A recipe from the late French winemaker and chef Lulu Peyraud, this traditional Provençal tapenade is delicious when spread on little toasts. Tapenade will keep in the fridge for a month or more, topped with a thin layer of olive oil.

Featured in: “Remembering Lulu Peyraud, the Cooking Queen of Provence.”

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When Lulu Peyraud invited me to lunch with her family one fine sunny Provençal afternoon, the welcome was genuine. From the first moment, I felt cared for and at ease, as though I had never really experienced true hospitality before. Lulu immediately struck me as a generous soul. Then in her late 60s, she was vivacious and charmingly down to earth (as she still is).

I had already been impressed with many tales of the extraordinary Peyraud family and their vineyards and fabled winery, Domaine Tempier, located near the town of Bandol, a half-hour drive from Marseille. I’d seen photographs of the domaine and sampled a goodly amount of their wines, but in California. Alice Waters had given them pride of place on the wine list at Chez Panisse, where I worked at the time. Alice fell for the Peyraud treatment in the early 1970s and established a lifelong bond with Lulu. She still visits at least once a year. The Berkeley wine merchant Kermit Lynch was so smitten, he bought a house near Bandol and now spends half the year there.

The late Richard Olney, the influential American expat food writer, was also part of the extended family. The much-admired author of several cookbooks on simple French cooking and wine, he was persuaded by Alice to write a cookbook that would capture Lulu’s food and style. Drawn from a series of interviews intended to translate her words into written recipes (Lulu herself has never relied on them), the result was Lulu’s Provençal Table, published in 1994.

But the lunch I describe here took place in 1984. We were a party of eight: Lulu and her husband, Lucien, their two winemaking sons and their wives, and a mutual friend.

We began in the garden with a glass of cool rosé, a bowl of radishes, and little toasts topped with inky black tapenade. This radically elemental aperitif was pure Provence.

In the old dining room, Lulu constantly flashed a mischievous and knowing smile, presiding over the simple but sumptuous lunch she had prepared, which kept us happily at the table for hours.

The menu—still ingrained in memory—was perfectly conceived. The vintage white linens, the old silver and glassware, and the heavy antique chairs looked fittingly natural and echoed the age of the solid Provençal farmhouse. Yet the meal wasn’t in the least formal. Lucien, the family patriarch (and the driving force behind the winery), poured the wine as Lulu passed a salad of roasted yellow peppers and rice dressed with fruity olive oil and vinegar. We lingered while Jean-Marie, the elder son, stepped outside to grill the quail over a fire of vine cuttings. Upon his return, knives, forks, and fingers gleefully attacked the grilled birds, the smoky aroma of thyme and garlic perfumed the room, and the Bandol Rouge flowed. But the meal was far from over. There would still be local goat cheeses, a fruit tart (maybe apricot) for dessert, coffee, and little glasses of marc de Provence, the fiery local variant of grappa. The afternoon was punctuated with lively stories, earthy jokes, and a genial, relaxed intimacy. Afterward, everyone retired for a postprandial nap.

This was the first of numerous ad hoc lessons learned from Lulu. They weren’t so much instructions in cooking as demonstrations of how to live. More than anything else, Lulu has reinforced for me how life and food—and wine—are intertwined. And how, more often than not, the most satisfying food is the least complicated and the best cooks are not necessarily found in restaurant kitchens.

Simply put, Lulu’s food embodies the best of French home cooking.

Since the quails were grilled outdoors, it hadn’t been necessary that day to use the enormous fireplace that spans one wall of Lulu’s kitchen. On future visits, there would be saffron-and-garlic-perfumed bouillabaisse simmering in a copper cauldron over a crackling live fire. Or a leg of lamb turning slowly on a spit, or grilled stuffed squid.

The kitchen, amazingly, has not changed much since the house was built more than two centuries ago. Among the very few nods to modernity are a tiny fridge and gas cooktop stuck in a pantry closet, and a few well-used but seemingly out-of-place electric conveniences: a coffeepot, a blender, a mixer. (Well, and of course electric lights.) Aside from the fireplace and its well-worn iron tools, there are a few heavy mortars, a large wooden worktable, and a collection of earthenware cooking vessels and colorful pottery from the region. Sitting together with Lulu peeling garlic or chopping wild herbs from the surrounding hillside feels so utterly peaceful and calming. With the brilliant morning sun pouring through the kitchen windows, it seems almost like a Provençal postcard cliché.

Lulu cooks with straightforward Provençal simplicity and elegant restraint. When I think of her kitchen, I picture marinated sardines, grilled eggplants and peppers, basil-infused vegetable soupe au pistou, home-cured anchovies and olives—and olive oil, naturally. I see fresh melons, juicy figs and ripe tomatoes. Vegetable tians of every sort. Small violet-hued artichokes, tender enough to eat raw.

Of course, this kind of cooking depends on daily visits to open-air markets. To accompany Lulu on one of these shopping forays and see her in action is inspiring. She knows what she wants and goes after it, whether it is skinny haricots verts or fresh shiny mackerel. Her smile seduces even the grumpiest merchant.

Lulu has always been remarkably self-reliant. She still hasn’t given up her solo afternoon swim and has been living in this house, in which she raised seven children, for more than 75 years. Only recently has one of her daughters moved in to help. Her other grown children live nearby, and there are flocks of doting grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

At 98, Lulu is a bit too advanced in years to climb the stairs, so she depends on one of those electric Easy Climber chair lifts, un monte-escalier. Now, if you’re having after-dinner drinks with her in the salon and she’s ready to retire for the evening, there is a new routine. Perched in the chair, she pushes the button and slowly ascends. The lift faces you as it moves so you see her smiling broadly as she floats upward.

Get the recipe for Provençal Stuffed Squid »
Get the recipe for Quail Grilled over Vine Cuttings with Tapenade Toasts »
Get the recipe for Black Olive Tapenade »
Get the recipe for Provençal Vegetable Tian »
Get the recipe for Spring Vegetable Stew (Estouffade Printanière) »

The Wines of Domaine Tempier

The first Peyraud family wine I drank was a stunning 1974 Bandol Rouge, and after one sip, I knew I had to import it. The next time I traveled to France, I made an appointment to visit the Peyrauds at their vineyard in Bandol, a small appellation in Provence. It’s probably best known for its rosé, but in fact it produces some of Provence’s most impressive red wines. I showed up at a nearby hotel and was informed I no longer had a reservation. “You’re the American?” the concierge asked. “Lulu canceled your room. You’re supposed to stay at Domaine Tempier.” That’s the kind of person Lulu is—everyone’s a friend. And once you get into wine, you’ll see that the personality of the makers goes right into the personality of their wine. Domaine Tempier wines are gutsy, sunbaked, meant for partying—and party we did! I fell in love with the area and bought a house about five minutes away from the Peyrauds. I now see Lulu whenever I’m in town. To this day, when she’s thirsty, she reaches for a glass of wine, not water. “I don’t want to rust,” she says. — Kermit Lynch

2011 Classique
$109, leduwines.com
A personal favorite because it is so lively and fresh on the palate—I call it rambunctious. Drink now or later.

2013 La Miguoa
$55, lawineco.com
A big vintage for the reds. Dense, firm, meaty. I’ll hold off about 10 years before digging into my stash of bottles.

2015 Bandol Rosé
$45, vintryfinewines.com
Lots of fruit, flesh, and flavor—not at all your little summertime quaffer. You’ll enjoy the 2015 year-round. It will sell out, so order quick.

WATCH: How to Prep Squid

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It’s not hard to get hooked on New Mexico green chile—it happened to me when I lived in Santa Fe, and it’s not a habit I’m likely to quit.

The stuff is is everywhere in New Mexico, a normal part of daily life and the local fare. You’ll have green chile with your breakfast eggs. Your chicken enchiladas will be topped with green chile. And green chile stew made with pork, beef or lamb is part of your weekly rotation.

So, what is it? The fleshy pepper, five or six inches in length, has been cultivated throughout New Mexico for quite a long time. Native peoples there still grow some of the older heirloom varieties, and there are tried and true newer regional varieties planted all over the state. But when we say “green chile,” as in “can I have a side of green chile with that,” we are referring to green New Mexico chiles that have been fire-roasted, peeled, chopped, and made into a sauce—not just a dish of sliced jalapeños. Though mild green chile is available, the usual kind is pretty darned spicy. Restaurant menus have the disclaimer “our chile is hot!” to forewarn tourists. Locals just expect it that way.

In the late summer, when the chile harvest begins, green chile is in the air—literally. Chile-roasting operations pop up at roadside stands and in supermarket parking lots. The aroma of roasting chiles is carried on every breeze, smoky and sweet. It is an annual ritual for families that arrive to buy their supply—usually the minimum purchase is a 20-pound bag. Most people buy much more so they’ll be sure to have enough to get through the winter.

Your bag of chiles is dumped into a cylindrical perforated steel drum, rigged to spin over the blasting flames of a large propane burner. In a matter of minutes, the chiles’ skins are blistered and blackened, ready to peel. Your job now is to take the roasted chiles home, pack them into little zipper-top plastic bags, and store them in the deep freeze, ready and waiting. Most cooks peel them just one thawed bag at a time. In olden times, roasted green chiles were home-canned, and some people still do it.

The majority of New Mexico green chile is grown in the southern part of the state, where the climate is perfect for it—long hot sunny days and cool nights. The epicenter of production is near the village of Hatch, New Mexico. Genuine Hatch chiles. Ring a bell? They’re known to be the real deal.

During all the time I lived in northern new Mexico, trips to the southern side of the state were few. I had never visited Hatch to taste the chiles so close to harvest, so I was thrilled recently when the opportunity arose to attend the famous annual Hatch Green Chile Festival.

Watch: New Mexico’s Hatch Life

As we drive south from Albuquerque, the incredibly blue New Mexico sky is awash with dramatic clouds and brilliant light. A couple of hours later, we pull off the freeway and make our way toward Truth or Consequences, the eerily quiet little town formerly called Hot Springs and famous for its mineral and lithium baths and spas. The area’s finest hotel, the historic Sierra Grande Lodge, now owned by Ted Turner, furnishes all rooms with private hot spring soaking tubs. The hotel restaurant serves modern New Mexican fare and features bison from Tuner’s vast sustainable ranching operations. This will be our headquarters for the next few days, installed in an upscale casita with a kitchen and a cactus-filled courtyard. Hatch is only a half-hour away, but we delay gratification till the following morning. We’re distracted by starlight and the silent night.

It’s early rising, if we want to see the Green Chile parade, which we definitely do. In downtown Hatch, the streets are lined with local families and tourists, eager to see the Green Chile Princess throwing candy and all the rest. Music begins and the VFW float goes by, honoring veterans of the area, followed by the source of the music, a highly disciplined marching military brass band; some native American dancers; young cowgirls on horseback and mounted caballeros in full regalia; the 4-H Club’s float; an ornate religious float with children holding statues and paintings; the vintage tractor brigade and the low-riders with ultra-fly hydraulics maneuvers; and finally, a long flank of police force cars and fire trucks with sirens going full volume.

At the nearby Festival grounds, crowds are descending. There are vendors galore, all selling chile paraphernalia or chile-infused treats of all kinds, and there’s a country band playing live music. There’s cold green chile beer on tap in a roped-off saloon section. Many of the booths have roasters going and the sweet-smoky perfume of charring green chiles drifts through the high desert air. The true stars of the festival are the local farmers, most of whom have grown Hatch chiles their entire lives.

We meet Preston Mitchell, the great-great grandson of Joseph Franzoy, a pioneer in the Hatch chile story. His locally revered ancestor was a frontrunner in the transformation of Hatch from a tiny hamlet surrounded by small cotton and wheat farms in the early 1900s to a chile-growing area that now produces millions of pounds of green chile each year. Mitchell seems to have his family’s passion for chile in his DNA and has an online business selling fresh and frozen chile. His grandparents, uncles and cousins are all chile farmers from the surrounding area.

Mitchell is a good person to query on subject of Hatch chile and subterfuge. To be called Hatch, the chiles must be grown in the Hatch Valley. But since the name Hatch has cachet among chile-lovers, “Hatch-type” chiles are now grown in Colorado, Arizona, and Texas. Some are grown across the border in Mexico and there are even so-called Hatch chiles being produced in China. Lawmakers have passed ordinances allowing true New Mexico chiles to be labeled as such, but there is still heated litigation regarding who can legally call their chile Hatch, and that little war is ongoing.

Whether Hatch-bred chiles have intrinsic terroir-driven flavor or the nomenclature is a marketing ploy, I leave to others to discuss. I do know that Nate Cotanch, the man behind the Brooklyn-based Zia Green Chile Company, has an ardent fan base of displaced New Mexicans who need their Hatch green chile fix. Cotanch buys direct from Mitchell, who ships him fresh chiles weekly, straight from Hatch. His company’s T-shirt logo says “Saving City Folk One Green Chile at a Time.” Nate sells fresh-roasted green chile at Brooklyn’s Smorgasburg every weekend during the season and also packs his freshly made green chile sauce in jars. Having deep family roots in New Mexico, he takes great pride in his product and his mission to spread the green chile gospel on the east coast.

On the last day of our visit, we all meet in the fields at dawn for an up-close inspection of Hatch green chiles of every kind. The fertile desert soil has the Rio Grande as its water supply, and vast fields of chiles are planted as far as the eye can see. We’re waist-high in the plantation, comparing the large, fleshy, moderately hot Big Jim to other local favorite varieties like the spicy Sandia, the all-purpose Joe E. Parker, and the super-hot Lumbre. The horticultural labs at nearby New Mexico State University are constantly developing new strains of green chile for Hatch farmers to cultivate.

With so much emphasis on green chiles, it’s easy to forget that at some point all green chiles ripen and turn a brilliant red. There’s a short window when fresh red chiles can be roasted and peeled, but most ripe red chiles are used dried, sometimes braided into garlands called ristras. The end result with dried red chiles is the sauce called “red chile,” as in “can I get a side of red with that,” but that’s another story.

We’re advised not to leave Hatch without a stop at the acclaimed and amazing restaurant called Sparky’s, to sample the burger they call “the world-famous.” The place is fabulously over-decorated with roadside-attraction statuary and antique bric-a-brac of every type. It doesn’t take reservations and the line is exceedingly long, but we are about to discover that the wait doesn’t matter. This Hatch green chile cheeseburger is the stuff of dreams: fat, juicy and topped with a generous amount of mighty spicy roasted green chile.

Hatch Green Chile Enchiladas

Of course, we are still not sated. Back in our little hotel kitchen, we concoct green chile margaritas and green chile guacamole, and one last batch of green chile enchiladas. We’re slipping bags of frozen green chile into our luggage.

I feel the wave of nostalgia that surfaces whenever I return to New Mexico. As we head back to the airport, I’m checking real estate listings. For a moment’s fantasy, a little house in Hatch seems like a fine idea.

Hatch Green Chile Enchiladas

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Any gently simmered mixture of vegetables is truly greater than the sum of its parts. It’s important to cut the ingredients to the proper size and cook them sequentially, starting with the ones that need longer cooking. For the best flavor, err on the well-cooked side—the vegetables should not be al dente. This stew is made with tender spring vegetables, but you can substitute others throughout the growing season.

Featured in: Remembering Lulu Peyraud, the Cooking Queen of Provence

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Don’t be intimidated by quail—it’s easy to cook and, treated right, far more delicious than the average chicken. This recipe is best grilled but can also be made in a hot oven over a bed of thyme branches. Two quail make a serving.

Featured in: Remembering Lulu Peyraud, the Cooking Queen of Provence

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A tian is a type of gratin, typically vegetables baked in an earthenware dish. (The word “tian” also refers to the earthenware dish itself.) This classic Provençal version is made with alternating rows of sliced zucchini, eggplant, and tomato. The flavors meld as the vegetables cook together, somewhat like ratatouille. Seasoned simply with thyme, garlic, and good fruity olive oil, the dish is best served at room temperature. Lulu insists it tastes even better made a day in advance.

Featured in: Remembering Lulu Peyraud, the Cooking Queen of Provence

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Fresh squid of every size, and cuttlefish too, are found at fishmongers throughout Provence. Lulu buys the tiny ones to fry, but chooses medium-size squid to stuff with herbs, chard, and bread crumbs (she prefers chard to spinach under most circumstances). To make things easier, the squid can be prepared in advance and cooked later in the day, roasted, grilled, or braised. Serve warm or at room temperature, drizzled with fruity oil or an anchovy vinaigrette.

Featured in: “Remembering Lulu Peyraud, the Cooking Queen of Provence“

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Did I mention I love beans? Love. I fell hard for them years ago. It was a humble pot of pinto beans that did it, and there was no turning back.

Those fabled pintos were my induction into the glory of Phaseolus vulgaris—the common bean. Simmered slowly and gently with an onion and a chunk of bacon, the beans took on a velvety, creamy consistency. They were served on a plate with a ladleful of rich bean broth and a square of just-baked cornbread. This was nothing like cafeteria three-bean salad, or the sweet baked beans from a can I’d been served as a kid. This was deep, nurturing, primal.

From there it was an easy step to black beans with onions and cilantro or smashed cannellini beans on toasted garlic bread. And every other kind of bean in every kind of fashion.

When I ran a restaurant in Santa Fe, we bought dried beans from the most famous farmer in the area, Elizabeth Berry. All the beans she grew were decidedly uncommon. There were dozens of varieties, simply staggering to observe, with paint-speckled exteriors in unbelievable jewel-like hues. The multi-colored beans have names like Anasazi or Jacob’s Cattle or Appaloosa. Calypso, or Goat’s Eye (Ojo de Cabra), Snowcap, Orca, Dragon Tongue. All make a fine pot of beans, each a distinct, singular dish. Sadly, though, when cooked, all the incredible markings disappear, losing their color to the broth.

A quick overview on the life of a bean: A dried bean is planted in the spring. In the warm moist soil, a tiny but sturdy bean sprout emerges, its leaves unfurling fiercely in a primordial gesture. Warm weather and sunshine cause the bean vines to make flowers, which become little green pods. If allowed to stay on the vine past the green-bean stage to maturity, the beans within the pods become full-size shelling beans. You start seeing many of them at the market in mid to late summer—cranberry beans, butter beans, fresh cannellini, and other types. These cook more quickly than dried beans and have the loveliest creamy texture. But when the pod is left to dry, its contents become wintertime meals and next year’s seeds.

The main thing to know about cooking dried beans is that new-crop beans taste fresher and cook more evenly than beans of uncertain vintage, like the commodity beans sold at the supermarket, where they have lain for who knows how long. It’s better to buy your dried beans at a farmers’ market or online from Rancho Gordo or Purcell Mountain Farms. You’ll pay a little more for these heirloom varieties, but even a splurge on good beans will never break the bank.

Pasta e Fagioli

For a winter meal, beans are perfect, whether in a savory bread-crumb-topped bean gratin; in a pasta finished in bean broth with rosemary, olive oil, and a little pork fat for deeper flavor; as a creamy bean soup with wilted greens; or as a salad, dressed with oil, vinegar, and red onion. These are all dishes that deserve spending a bit more for a pound bag of beans, the main and most important ingredient.

As for canned beans, they have their place, I suppose, like during emergencies or on a camping trip. Yes, they’re convenient, but their flavor never satisfies like beans cooked from scratch. I always visualize a giant impersonal bean-canning factory, with tons of hair-netted workers operating the hulking machines that deposit 14 ounces of beans into hundreds of cans per minute on a conveyor belt that stretches far into the distance.

Me? I far prefer the notion of nursed-along beans at home. It’s a love thing.

Get the recipe for Cannellini Bean Salad with Radicchio and Celery »
Get the recipe for Pasta e Fagioli »
Get the recipe for Lima Bean Gratin with Herbed Bread Crumbs »
Get the recipe for White Bean Soup with Fennel Seeds and Broccoli Rabe »

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These are savory baked beans, but they have no Boston sweetness. Think of this gratin as a meatless cassoulet meant to accompany a roast, or, if you’re a true bean lover like me, a good green salad. It can be made with fresh shelling beans, including lima or cranberry, or any large dried white beans.

Featured in: David Tanis is Crazy for Beans

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This kind of luscious puréed bean soup is made all over Italy with white beans or fava beans. It can be made a day or two in advance, but cook the greens just before serving.

Featured in: David Tanis is Crazy for Beans

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