Good things, they say, come in threes. Why, I don’t know. But clearly humans are drawn to the number three. Maybe it’s the stability of the triangle, the power of the triumvirate, the resolution (in music) of the major triad. We perceive time in terms of past, present, and future in a world of matter (in states of solid, liquid and gas) that we see in permutations of three primary colors: red, yellow, and blue. Think Three Amigos, Stooges, Musketeers, Blind Mice, Little Pigs. Name three things. Give me three reasons why. Talk about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. And Jesus, Joseph, and Mary— we’re stuck on three.
I suppose, then, that our fondness for threes is the reason that my inbox has been inundated with 3-ingredient recipes that promise to blow my mind, change my life, and – what was that third thing? Like Sarah Jessica Parker’s 3-ingredient pork chops (“nothing short of heaven”). And Stanley Tucci’s 3-ingredient pasta (“like a warm hug”). A 3–ingredient sauce that’s “good on everything.” And the 3-ingredient chicken dish Ina Garten makes “when she’s too tired to cook.”
The goal, of course, is to get you to click and be subjected to ads. But behind the silly 3-ingredient come-on lies a simple culinary truth. You don’t need a long list of ingredients to make a delicious dish.
Case in point: Years ago, on a drive outside of Arezzo, I spotted a roadside stand with a crudely painted sign: TARTUFFI. “Pull over – now!” I yelled to my companion. That evening, I shaved a single white truffle onto a plate of bucatini drizzled with olive oil for a 3-ish ingredient (if you don’t count salt, pepper, and a light dusting of parm ) dinner I’ll never forget and am unlikely to repeat.
This brings me to another 3-ish ingredient dish that I’ve been making since my mid twenties, when I first tasted it at the home of my boyfriend’s mother— a lovely woman and inspired home cook.
As a young woman, Marianna Abdell, née Guernieri, was working as a seamstress at a Boston shirt factory when her understated beauty and natural elegance caught the eye of the boss’s dashing son. When the father observed his son flirting (again) in the pattern room, he admonished him sternly: “This one you don’t start in with unless you plan to marry her.” After a brief courtship, he did.
Marianna had learned to cook from mother, a Parmigiana who, in her youth, had worked in the kitchen of a wealthy family in Milan. Her Northern Italian dishes – like vitello tonnato and uccelli scapati – were masterful. But the meals that really caught my attention included the dishes she had learned from her Lebanese mother-in-law. Of them, my all-time favorite was the 3-ish ingredient braise known simply as “lamb and beans.”
Like many of the foods I write about, “lamb and beans” is not an elegant dish. Its three main ingredients are lamb shanks, garlic, and green beans. The lamb is browned in clarified butter. The green beans are (what I call) murdered: cooked until they’ve falling apart or already have. (And don’t get me started on serving undercooked green beans that snap.)
Besides lamb shanks, green beans, garlic, and clarified butter, the dish calls for allspice, salt and pepper. That’s it.
When buying the lamb, ask your butcher to saw each shank crosswise into three pieces. This provides more surfaces of meat for the allspice to adhere to, caramelizing in the clarified butter. (Clarifying the butter is essential to the dish. It burns at a higher temperature than regular butter and adds a sweet-nutty flavor to the dish. Also essential is adding the allspice while the meat is browning – not after – to infuse this dish with the pleasing aroma and taste of this much under-appreciated spice.)
I figure on one shank per person—knowing (and grateful) that there will be leftovers the next day. Weight-wise, it’s a 1:1 ratio of lamb to green beans. This can look like a lot of beans when you buy them. No worries: as the beans get murdered, they cook down, allowing you to add more.
After three hours on the stove, the ebony-colored shanks will be tender, juicy, and falling off the bone; the green beans a combination of some mere wisps, others very soft but intact.
On a lazy Sunday when you’re staying close to home, this is 3-ingredient comfort food at its best. I won’t make any claims about heaven or comparisons to warm hugs. But I will say without reservation: 1) your kitchen will smell great; 2) your dinner will be delicious; and 3) you may decide that when it comes to green beans, murdering them is the way to go.
Marianna Abdell’s Lamb Shanks and (murdered) Green Beans
(serves 5-6
Ingredients
- 1/2-2/3 stick unsalted butter, clarified (see instructions below)
- 4 or 5 lamb shanks, each sawn (your butcher) crosswise into three sections
- Equivalent weight in green beans (stem ends snipped_
- 10 fat garlic cloves, very coarsely chopped
- 3-5 T ground allspice
- Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
Directions:
- In a small pot, clarify the butter. (See below)
- Choose a large heavy pot like Le Creuset. Pour clarified butter onto the bottom and raise heat to medium-high.
- Add the lamb shanks, which should sizzle on contact. Turn frequently with a wooden spoon for a minute or two. Then add the allspice – tossing well to distribute.* Continue until the allspice has every surface of the lamb a deep, rich, brown.
- Add the garlic, stirring now and then until it begins to soften, but not brown.
- Add as many green beans as will fit into the pot and still allow you to put the lid on tightly. Keep the rest of the green beans on a counter nearby. (You’ll be adding them when the first batch cooks down).
- Add salt and pepper, mix with a wooden spoon to marry the lamb and green beans. Add an inch or so of water and cover the pot.
- Cook stovetop over a medium-low flame the next three hours. Check occasionally to make sure there’s enough liquid at the bottom of the pot (the beans, cooking down, help you out on this one) and to add more green beans.)
- Taste for salt and pepper, adding more if needed. Serve on top of white rice, spooning the braising liquid over the lamb, and a green, Greek, or tabouli salad.
Making clarified butter: Over medium-low heat, melt the butter. As it cooks, raise the heat until you start to hear some popping. Simmer until a white foamy scum forms at the top, and the bottom of the pot is dotted with tiny dark spots (the milk solids burning slightly.) Skim the foam and discard.
Photos by Carolyn Swartz
