Slow Cooking with Fabada Asturiana Bean Stew

The first time I met fabada, Asturias had buttoned itself in fog. In Oviedo, narrow streets held pockets of warmth—steam curling from doorways, the tang of apples hovering from the sidrerías on Gascona. I walked in out of the drizzle, cheeks cold, glasses misted, and there it was: a low clay bowl of beans so pale they were almost luminescent, a satin broth that clung to the spoon, and a raft of smoky meats that made promises a winter night wants kept. I remember lifting the bowl close just to breathe—woodsmoke, rendered fat, a whisper of saffron, and something sweeter, like butter and chestnuts. I remember, too, the quiet that falls when a table meets the stew it’s been waiting for.

Fabada Asturiana is deceptively simple: beans and pork. But it’s also a geography—the green of Asturias pressed into a pot; the Atlantic’s damp, the mountain pastures, the memory of smokehouses and cider barns. It’s an argument for slowness, for patience, for what happens when you let water and time turn starch and collagen into a kind of emulsion you can eat. And though it belongs to a corner of Spain where mist licks stone and moss climbs walls, it travels. It welcomes you in whatever kitchen you have, if you’re willing to listen to a bean.

What Makes Fabada Asturiana a Slow-Cooking Masterpiece

Start with names. The beans are fabes—big-bellied, pale, gently kidney-shaped beans of the Granja variety, protected under IGP Faba Asturiana. They’re an heirloom that understands slow time. Fabes hold their shape while the interior liquefies to a custard-like cream, a texture no quick-soaked navy bean can offer. The meat ensemble is compango: a smoky chorus of chorizo asturiano (paprika-scented sausage), morcilla asturiana (smoked blood sausage), cured pork like lacón (shoulder) or tocino (pork belly), sometimes a ham bone to bring gelatin and salt.

The cooking is minimal, almost meditative. Unlike stews where aromatics lead, fabada’s perfume comes mostly from the beans themselves and the smoked meats. Traditionalists skip tomatoes, carrots, even garlic; many add only a piece of onion for sweetness and a veil of saffron. Paprika—pimentón—might seem inevitable, but Asturians let the chorizo speak. You can add a whisper of sweet pimentón de la Vera if your compango is shy, but restraint is the poem fabada recites.

Why slow? Because fabes need time to trade starch for the collagen the meats give up. Because a broth must thicken without flour, without tricks, just by the beans’ skins surrendering a little and the meats melting their edges into the liquid. Because heat is not just energy; it’s a language, and a low, steady whisper is how beans agree to explode into silk.

A Winter Afternoon in Oviedo: A Bowl I Still Taste

Calle Gascona is the city’s little river of cider—sidra natural—where waiters hold bottles high and pour in disappearing arcs, splashing a breath of cider into a perpendicular glass, bubbles alive for a heartbeat, then gone. You drink that pulse, leave an inch, and toss what’s left onto the floor’s slatted drains. The ritual is a game of air and apple.

There, at a sidrería with fogged windows, I learned the etiquette of fabada. The compango arrived on a small platter: two chorizos, two morcillas, a firm slab of tocino, and a ham bone that looked like it had stories. The beans came separate in a low cazuela, the surface pocked with tiny mirrors of fat—amber, copper. The server ladled the beans first, quietly, no flourish; then he sliced the sausages into coins and the pork into manageable bricks. “Despacio,” he said. Slowly. You eat beans, then a bite of meat, then a sip of cider. The cider’s sour-green brightness wakes the pork, the pork sweetens the beans, the beans quiet the world.

Outside, the air tasted of wet stone. Inside, time stretched. People didn’t glance at phones; they argued over whose grandmother salted earlier. It was a reminder that a dish can be both humble and ceremonial—not fancy, but practiced, rehearsed, perfectible over a lifetime.

Ingredients: The Soul of the Pot

Let’s name each element with respect:

• Fabes (Faba Asturiana, Granja variety): Plump, ivory beans that become custard. If you can’t find IGP fabes, Rancho Gordo’s Royal Corona beans make a good stand-in; large cannellini or gigante beans are a distant third but workable.
• Chorizo asturiano: Not the fresh Mexican style; this is a cured, smoked Spanish sausage scented with paprika. It gives color, porkiness, and a pepper warmth without heat.
• Morcilla asturiana: Smoked blood sausage with rice or onion, clove, and pepper. It brings depth—earthy, wine-dark savor. Handle gently; it can burst if boiled hard.
• Lacón (cured pork shoulder) or a jamón serrano bone: Salt and gelatin. If lacón is too salty, give it a brief blanch.
• Tocino (pork belly) or pancetta: Fat and sweetness.
• Saffron (azafrán de La Mancha, if you can): A few threads warmed and steeped; it perfumes the pot in amber.
• Onion: A half or whole onion, peeled and kept whole, to be removed later. Optional in some households; essential in others.
• Olive oil: Just a spoonful to start; fabada should not taste like a sofrito.
• Water: Soft water if you have it. Hard water can toughen skins; filtered is ideal.
• Salt: Often barely needed; the compango salts the beans. Taste late.
• Optional: A pinch of sweet pimentón de la Vera, a bay leaf. Purists will argue both sides. I use saffron in a whisper and skip bay in fabada; the leaf’s camphor can distract.

This is a short shopping list, which means every choice matters. If your chorizo isn’t Asturian, choose a mild, smoked, semi-cured Spanish chorizo; too much smoked paprika will bully the beans. Morcilla varies wildly; the onion-rich Asturian type is remarkable but delicate. Use what you can source, but adjust timing so the meats cook until tender without disintegrating.

Sourcing Asturian Beans and Compango, Wherever You Are

Some ingredients are on the other side of an ocean, but not out of reach:

• Look for IGP Faba Asturiana from Asturias—packets often specify Granja variety and carry the IGP seal. Specialty Spanish grocers and reputable online vendors dedicated to Iberian foods frequently stock them, especially in autumn and winter. If you see “alubia de la Granja” from León, you’re close; it’s not IGP Asturian but similar in size and behavior.
• Compango sets—vacuum packs of chorizo, morcilla, and tocino—are sold by Spanish shops online. Quality varies; choose a brand with visible smoking and a modest fat smear under the casing. If you’re in New York or another big U.S. city, Spanish-focused shops often carry Asturian charcuterie; ask if the morcilla is sturdy enough for long simmering.
• Substitutes: A good-quality smoked Spanish chorizo plus a sturdy blood sausage (Morcilla de Burgos works; some British-style black puddings can stand in if you add a little smoked paprika to the pot). For tocino, pancetta or salt pork; for lacón, a smoked ham hock or a chunk of cured pork shoulder. Be mindful of salt and smoke intensity—hard-smoked American sausages can overwhelm; temper by blanching briefly.
• Water: This sounds precious, but beans taste of their water. If you live with chalky, hard water, your beans may stubbornly resist tenderness. Filtered or bottled soft water is a cheap insurance policy against heartbreak.

Technique: The Gentle Art of Slow Cooking Fabada

There are a few commandments, each backed by a century of kitchen logic:

• Soak, but don’t rush: An overnight soak plumps the fabes evenly. You can soak in plain water or in a mild brine (about 1% salt by weight—10 g per liter, roughly 2 teaspoons per quart). Brining can help keep skins intact while turning interiors creamy; it doesn’t make the beans salty if you rinse them before cooking. Traditionalists soak in plain water. Both work; choose your path.
• No violent boiling: A burbling boil batters skins and clouds the broth. Keep the surface to a quiet murmur, a single blip here and there. This is easier in a heavy clay or thick-walled pot, or by setting the pot half-covered in a low oven.
• Asustar, the “fright”: At the first sign of boil, splash in a little cold water—do this two or three times in the first 15 minutes. It drops the heat, encourages even swelling, and helps the broth clear. Call it folklore; call it physics; it works.
• Stir without stirring: Swirl. Lift and shimmy the pot gently to turn the beans over; stirring with a spoon can break skins. If you must stir to release a stuck corner, use a flat wooden spatula and a soft hand.
• Let meat guide the salt: Compango gives salt as it simmers. Taste only in the last half-hour before adding any additional salt.
• Rest: Fabada is better the day after. Rest 30 minutes before serving, or chill overnight and reheat gently. The broth thickens, the beans become satin, and the flavor deepens as the fat integrates.

Step-by-Step Recipe (Stovetop, Oven, or Slow Cooker)

Serves 6 generously

Ingredients:

• 500 g (about 1 lb) Faba Asturiana (Granja variety) or Royal Corona beans
• 2 Asturian-style chorizos (about 300 g / 10 oz total)
• 2 morcillas asturianas (about 300 g / 10 oz total)
• 200–250 g (7–9 oz) tocino (salt pork) or pancetta, in one piece
• 300–400 g (10–14 oz) lacón (cured pork shoulder) or a ham hock/bone
• 1 small onion, peeled and kept whole (optional but recommended)
• A good pinch of saffron threads (about 0.1 g)
• 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil (optional)
• Sweet pimentón de la Vera, 1 teaspoon (optional, use judiciously)
• Soft water to cover by 2–3 cm (about 1 inch)
• Salt to taste (often minimal)

The day before:

1. Sort and soak: Pick through the beans for pebbles or debris, then rinse. Soak in plenty of cool water 8–12 hours. For brining: dissolve 10 g salt per liter (2 tsp per quart) and soak; drain and rinse before cooking.

2. Prep the meats: If your lacón or ham bone is very salty, blanch it for 2–3 minutes in boiling water, then drain. Prick the chorizo in two places with a toothpick to prevent bursting. Leave morcilla unpricked; it’s delicate—plan to add it later in the cooking.

Stovetop method:

1. Warm saffron: In a small dry pan, warm the saffron threads for 10–15 seconds over low heat until fragrant (do not brown). Crush between fingers or in a mortar. Set aside.

2. Build the pot: In a heavy pot or earthenware cazuela, add drained beans, onion, chorizo, tocino, and lacón/ham. If using olive oil, warm it gently and add now. Cover with soft water by about 2–3 cm/1 inch. Bring to a bare simmer slowly over medium-low heat.

3. Asustar: As the first simmer breaks, splash in a half-cup of cold water. Let it return to a simmer. Repeat twice over the first 15 minutes. Skim any foam.

4. Slide into low: Reduce heat to the gentlest simmer you can manage. Partially cover. After about 45 minutes, add the morcilla carefully so it nestles between beans; keep the simmer discreet to avoid splitting.

5. Season and scent: At the 1.5-hour mark, stir the crushed saffron into a ladle of hot broth; return to the pot. If your compango is mild and the broth looks pale, add up to 1 teaspoon of sweet pimentón. Do not overdo—chorizo is already paprika-rich.

6. Cook to cream: Continue simmering until beans are tender to the core and the broth is thick, 2–3 hours total depending on bean age. If liquid drops too low, add a little hot water to keep the beans barely covered. Keep swirling, not stirring. Taste in the last 20 minutes; add salt if needed.

7. Rest and finish: Remove onion (squeeze any sweet liquor back into the pot and discard the onion if desired). Remove meats to a board. Let the beans rest off the heat for 20–30 minutes. Slice chorizo and morcilla into coins, and cut the tocino and lacón into thick bites. If you want a thicker broth, smash a few beans on the side of the pot and stir that paste back in with a swirl.

Oven method (my favorite for steadiness):

• Follow steps 1–3 on the stovetop. Then cover the pot and set in a 95–120°C (200–250°F) oven. After 45 minutes, add the morcilla; return to oven uncovered partially to let the broth reduce slowly. Total time: 2.5–3.5 hours. Finish as above.

Slow cooker method (set-and-forget):

• Layer drained beans and meats (add morcilla after the first 3 hours). Add onion and saffron as above. Cover with hot water by about an inch. Cook on low 6–8 hours (or high 4–5); the low setting yields better texture. The broth won’t reduce as in the oven, so ladle off a cup of liquid near the end and boil it down in a saucepan, then return it to concentrate flavor. Season late.

Pressure cooker (when time conspires):

• Build as for stovetop, but add only part of the meats at first—save morcilla for the open simmer. Cook at low pressure for 25–30 minutes (or high for 15–20), natural release. Add morcilla and simmer uncovered until tender and the broth thickens, 20–30 minutes more. It won’t be exactly the same—the long simmer gives a finer emulsion—but it’s a respectable weeknight miracle.

Serving:

• Warm shallow bowls or cazuelas. Ladle beans and broth; serve compango sliced on a platter to share. Offer a drizzle of good olive oil if you wish, but no more. Set cider on the table—or a light red from Cangas DO, or a crisp Albariño—and let the stew speak first.

The Science of Creamy Beans

What makes that particular sheen—the broth not soupy but lightly viscous, the beans intact yet custard-soft? Three things: starch, collagen, and control.

• Starch migration: As beans rehydrate and cook, their starch granules swell and leak into the cooking liquid. Gentle heat and time allow just enough starch to escape to thicken the broth without turning it murky. Rough boiling bursts skins and releases too much starch at once—clouding the liquid and making the bean centers mealy.
• Collagen to gelatin: The ham bone, lacón, and tocino give up collagen that melts into gelatin, lending body and a lip-smacking finish. It’s the same principle that makes a good stock wobble when cold. Gelatin binds with the bean starch to create that delicate glaze.
• Water chemistry: Hard water’s calcium and magnesium ions strengthen pectin in bean skins, making them slow to tenderize. That can be an asset for beans you want al dente; it’s an enemy for fabada. Soft water encourages even tenderness. If you can’t avoid hard water, filter it or mix with bottled. Some cooks add a tiny pinch of baking soda to soften—but it can make beans taste soapy and turn them to mush if overused. Better to choose soft water.
• Salt timing: Modern bean science suggests salting early—either via brining the soak or seasoning the pot from the start—can help beans cook evenly and skins stay tender. In fabada, the meats provide this early salt indirectly. That’s why you rarely need to add salt until the end.

Variations, Heresies, and Respect

Fabada is codified tradition, but every household draws its own borders.

• Saffron or not: Some kitchens skip saffron entirely; others insist on it. I add a measured pinch because the aroma lifts the smoky meats and gilds the broth. Too much and you lose the bean.
• Paprika in the pot: Let the chorizo lead. If your chorizo is mild, a whisper (half to one teaspoon) of sweet pimentón can round the color. Avoid hot pimentón; this is not a spicy stew.
• Onion and bay: An onion brings gentle sweetness; bay leaf is divisive. I skip bay here, reserving it for other pots where herbs have a clearer role.
• Vegetarian “fabada”: Purists may wince, but a bean this noble can carry a meatless stew that nods to fabada’s soul. Use faba for the creaminess. Build smoke with a tiny amount of Spanish smoked olive oil (or a spoon of smoked paprika), umami with dried mushrooms (shiitake), a square of kombu, and a piece of potato skin for body. Bloom saffron. Finish with a drizzle of good olive oil. It’s not fabada Asturiana by name, but it is honest and deeply satisfying.
• Bean substitutions: If fabes are unavailable, reach for Royal Corona beans (Rancho Gordo) or large cannellini/gigante. Adjust timing; different beans cook at different tempos. Avoid small beans—you’ll lose the custard effect.
• Green additions: Pote asturiano is a different dish—beans with kale or collards and potatoes. Don’t mix up pote and fabada. Fabada’s beauty lies in its minimalism.

Respect matters. The point isn’t to fossilize a recipe; it is to understand why certain choices were made by cooks who tested them, bowl by bowl, over generations. Then adjust lightly so the dish can thrive in your kitchen.

Serving Rituals: Cider, Bread, and Silence

You can serve this stew with fanfare, but the best tables keep it simple.

• Cider pairing: Asturian natural cider is effervescent in spirit more than in bubbles—funky, apple-sour, low in alcohol. Pouring from a height aerates it; if you can’t “escanciar” like an Asturian, pour into a pitcher and then from a modest height to each glass. Drink in small pours. The cider’s acidity resets your palate between spoonfuls.
• Bread: A rustic loaf with a strong crust, or better, a slice of pan de escanda (spelt bread) if you can find it. Cornbread (borona) is traditional in some Asturian homes for mopping. Whatever you do, toast is not needed; the broth is the toast.
• The compango platter: Present the meats separately and slice at the table. People will take coins of chorizo and morcilla, a hunk of tocino. It’s communal, a conversation starter.
• Silence: The first spoonful should pass without commentary. It’s a good superstition; it reminds you to taste before you think.

Fabada Compared: Cassoulet, Feijoada, and Cocido

The world’s bean stews are a family, and fabada is a sibling with a distinct accent.

• Cassoulet (France): A white-bean and duck-pork symphony baked under a breadcrumb crust. Cassoulet’s fat is duck; its perfume comes from garlic and the browned edges of a long oven bake. Fabada is gentler, smokier, and without crust—its sheen is internal, not exterior. Both rely on gelatin and bean starch, but cassoulet courts Maillard browning; fabada avoids it.
• Feijoada (Brazil/Portugal): Black beans cooked with a carnival of pork cuts, often with orange, served with rice, farofa, and greens. Feijoada sits in a brighter, more citrusy register; it’s a social meal par excellence. Fabada is homier, fewer garnishes, deeper smoke. Where feijoada turns on variety, fabada turns on restraint.
• Cocido madrileño (Spain): A chickpea-based stew served in vuelcos—broth first, then chickpeas and vegetables, then meats. Cocido is architectural, layered, aromatic with bones and cabbage. Fabada is more minimal, more northern air and hearth smoke than market-day abundance.

Each dish is a theory of comfort. Fabada’s theory is that a small number of excellent things, cooked slowly and quietly, will speak louder than a crowd.

Troubleshooting and Pro Tips from My Kitchen Notes

• My beans won’t soften: Age or hard water is likely. Try a different bag (buy from shops with quick turnover), soak longer, and use soft or filtered water. A teaspoon of baking soda in the soaking water can help very old beans, but rinse thoroughly and use caution to avoid mush.
• The morcilla exploded: Lower the heat—boiling is the enemy. Add morcilla later in the cook, nestled and barely simmering. Some morcillas are too fragile; if yours looks suspect, poach it separately and add slices to the bowls.
• Too salty: Salty compango happens. Blanch the lacón or ham bone briefly at the start. If the stew is already too salty, add a few peeled raw potato chunks in the last 30 minutes to absorb some salt, then remove them. Or ladle off some broth, replace with water, and reduce gently again.
• Greasy broth: Chill overnight and lift the top layer of fat; or lay a paper towel briefly on the surface to wick some fat (kitchen hack for emergencies). Also check your tocino—if it’s mostly fat, use a smaller piece.
• Broth too thin: Reduce uncovered gently, oven preferred. Mash a ladleful of beans and stir it back. Don’t thicken with flour; that’s not fabada.
• Beans cracking: Heat is too high, or you stirred too vigorously. Swirl the pot, don’t stir. Keep a flame tamer under the pot or move to a low oven.
• Timing a dinner: Cook a day ahead; fabada improves. Reheat slowly to just-bubbling before serving.
• Scaling up: Use a wide pot; beans crowding deep can cook unevenly. Larger batches benefit from oven heat for consistency.

Where to Taste Fabada in Asturias

If you can go to the source, go. Asturias is a sierra-to-sea dream: Picos de Europa rising in jagged chalk, green pastures sloping to cider orchards, fishing villages where you can smell the tide.

• Casa Gerardo (Prendes): A pilgrimage. Their fabada is famous not because it’s tricked out, but because it’s honed. They let the beans speak with an almost minimalist audacity. Save room for their rice pudding, brûléed to a crackly top.
• Casa Chema (near Oviedo): Often cited in local competitions, a standard-bearer for classic fabada. They also cook fabes with game in season, a rustic counterpoint worth tasting.
• Sidrerías on Calle Gascona (Oviedo): The so-called Boulevard de la Sidra. Step into any that’s busy with locals—the cider pourers are half the show, and their fabada is built for appetite and conversation.
• Gijón’s old quarter: Peppering of taverns serving stews in heavy bowls, windows steaming on a rainy afternoon by the Bay of Biscay.
• Inland villages: In places like Cangas de Onís or around Covadonga, you’ll find fabada that tastes like it was cooked in a grandmother’s kitchen—sometimes with a slightly more rustic cut of meat, sometimes with a woodsmoke you can almost see.

Travel teaches that there are as many fabadas as cooks, yet the line through them is steady: patience, beans that remember the field, pork that remembers the smokehouse.

What to Cook Next: A Small Asturian Menu

Fabada is a meal, but Asturias tempts you to build a table around it:

• Before: A wedge of Cabrales or Afuega’l Pitu with crisp cider; thin slices of cecina (cured beef) with a drizzle of oil.
• With: A simple salad of lettuce and sweet onion dressed only with oil, cider vinegar, and salt. Contrast matters.
• After: Arroz con leche Asturian-style—slow-cooked rice pudding perfumed with lemon zest and cinnamon, finished with a brûléed sugar top. It’s the velvet after the smoke.
• Tomorrow: Leftover fabada becomes croquetas in some modern kitchens—chop compango, mash beans, enrich with a thick béchamel, and fry. Or fold a spoonful into cornmeal tortos and serve with a fried quail egg. Asturias doesn’t waste good stew.

A Cook’s Reflection: Bringing Asturias Home

Back in my kitchen far from Oviedo, I learned that cooking fabada is a practice in restraint—the hardest lesson for a cook who loves to add. No garlic mountain, no carrot confetti, no bouquet garni to tidy the edges. Just five or six ingredients and the discipline to make them agree.

I’ve made it on weeknights, pressure-cooked and cheerful; I’ve made it on Sundays, oven-low while I read. I’ve made it in a New York apartment and in a rented house where the wind sang down the chimney and the pot on the stove felt like a heart. The constants are few: soak the beans, mind the heat, listen for the whisper of simmer, rest the pot. The broth will tell you when it’s right—when it clings to the spoon and glows like amber in the kitchen light.

When you lift a bowl of fabada to your face on a cold day, you’re warming more than your hands. You’re tasting a coastal green Spain, a place that leans into the sea and the fog, a people who pour cider from heights to give it breath. It’s a simple dish that asks you to slow down long enough for beans and bones to become a conversation. Make it once and you’ll respect it; make it a dozen times and you’ll discover it has a voice all its own in your kitchen, speaking softly in the language of steam.