ANGELO PELLEGRINI, fond of wearing basil as a boutonniere, was fonder still of the Italian bean he called “monachine.” It grew like Jack’s beanstalk astride Northwest cedar poles and, like Pellegrini, aged well in its adopted country.

He always ate them slowly, mashing each brown-and-white orb with the tines of his fork, swiped through a smear of olive oil and brought to his mouth with a satisfied smile.