I always feel sorry for broad beans, the lumpy cousin perpetually overshadowed by the charms of slender, elegant asparagus and sweet, bouncy, little peas. They’re in season at roughly the same time, but asparagus in particular gets all the glory, perhaps because so many of us are scarred by childhood experiences of large, grey wrinkly beans served in a floury white sauce (my own parents are so averse to the things that I vividly remember the first time I came across them on a Sunday roast as a teenager and had to ask a friend what they were).

Unsurprising though it is, given our general scepticism with regard to pulses, the British lack of enthusiasm for the broad bean is a particular shame, because it’s been an important part of the European diet since ancient times. As the Oxford Companion to Food explains, however, they are also linked to a “superstitious dread” possibly associated with “a general belief that the souls of the dead might migrate into beans”. Having eaten a lot of the things in the process of writing this piece, I can reassure nervous readers that no haunting has yet taken place, and that this Spanish way with them is all but guaranteed to convince even the staunchest of fava phobics. Go on: give them a try.

The beans

Like me, Sam and Eddie Hart “always look forward to the broad bean season. The first to arrive at the restaurant are from north Africa in March. Our source gradually works northwards until June and July, when we get English broad beans – the best of all.” Perhaps the season has moved on again in the two decades since the publication of the brothers’ Modern Spanish Cooking – though at the time of writing (early April) I have to make do with Italian beans, local ones should be imminent, by the time this piece comes out.

That said, for the recipes that call for shelled beans, I used the frozen sort, which are perfectly satisfactory out of season. Unless you’re dealing with very old beans, which will have a thick, almost leathery carapace, I wouldn’t bother to peel them as the Harts and Frank Camorra recommend. I can see the cheffy logic, because the vivid green, delicately slippery results look far more elegant on the plate, but I happen to rather like the slightly chewy skins of younger beans. Even better is Elisabeth Luard’s way of cooking them in their snugly cushioned pods – the recipe in The Flavours of Andalusia was a genuine revelation to someone as late to the broad bean party as me. It comes from Ronda, and is best made “when the broad beans are small and tender, and the pods, not yet stringy and tough, can be included. I love their sticky, velvety texture – it’s rather like okra”. After an hour in the pan, the pods remind me more of runner beans, and make for a lovely contrast with the soft, yielding beans concealed within.

The Catalans, according to Colman Andrews’ book on their cuisine, “overcook their broad beans … mightily by contemporary French and British standards”. Perhaps, given Ronda’s distance from Catalonia, the same is true of all older preparations of this dish, because both Andrews and Luard stew their beans until they’re really soft. More modern recipes barely do more than blanch them: the Harts suggest cooking for no more than three minutes, Camorra five minutes in the book he co-authored with Richard Cornish, Movida, and Pepita Aris five to 10 minutes in her Recipes from my Spanish Grandmother (Aris’ abuela was clearly a trailblazer in this regard). If you really are averse to the idea of a soft bean, however, by all means boil them until just tender, drain, shock in cold water then toss with the shallot and ham; add the wine and a splash of water, then simmer vigorously for five minutes before serving. That said, I’d urge you to give the longer cooking time a try at least once – allowing the ingredients to break down and mingle makes for a richer, more complex flavour.

The meat

If you don’t eat pork, you can simply leave it out – or substitute sun-dried tomatoes, as Aris suggests. But this dish is yet another example of the longstanding Spanish passion for the pig in all its savoury, fatty glory, a taste often linked to the infamous Spanish Inquisition, when it was easy proof of one’s Christian identity. Most recipes dice it and fry it until it begins to release its fat, so Spanish cured ham is the ideal meat here, because its slightly sweet, nutty flavour will perfume the entire dish. I’d strongly recommend seeking out a delicatessen or Spanish specialist who will sell you it in one thick piece, or cut into chunks, rather than wafer-thin slices, which will crisp to nothing in the pan. If you draw a blank, however, bacon makes a passable substitute: Aris goes for chunks of smoked streaky, Andrews includes a thick slice of bacon, too, cooked whole with the beans, then divided between plates on serving. He also includes botifarra negra, a Catalan blood sausage that pairs beautifully with the beans if you’d like a little more heft (other black puddings could be substituted, I think). Well-larded thick-cut bacon isn’t much easier to get hold of these days than thick-cut cured ham, so you might have to make do with ready-chopped lardons or even Italian pancetta; just make sure whatever you use is not too lean.

Though it’s less about the flavour and more about making this into a complete meal in its own right, non-pork fans should consider the breadcrumbs that Luard stirs in before serving, and the hard-boiled eggs she pops on top (though she adds that she often lightly scrambles eggs in the pan, too: “They go bluey-grey, but taste delicious”).

Many recipes start with a fried onion: Andrews prefers the spring variety, which feels apt here – except my testers and I are all very taken by the sweetness of the Harts’ shallot, which seems to bring out the same flavour in the jamón. They don’t use garlic, but most recipes do, and there are few things garlic doesn’t improve. I haven’t included Luard’s diced tomato or Aris’ paprika in the interests of keeping the flavours simple, though you could add them at the same time as the ham. Similarly, though Luard and Andrews stew their beans with a bay leaf, and Luard also includes thyme and parsley, I like the freshness of torn mint leaves with the slight funkiness of the ham.

The Harts’ streamlined dish adds a little water to the pan, while Camorra relies on the lubricating qualities of copious amounts of olive oil, but most people opt for something more alcoholic: a dash of white wine or dry sherry (Luard), sweet sherry (Aris) or even Pernod (Andrews), a surprising inclusion confirmed by Keith Floyd’s comment, in Floyd on Spain, that “the Spanish would add a dash of anis here, but I don’t care for it”. Me, neither, as it happens: I prefer the nutty, slightly fruity qualities of a medium sherry here, which also negates the need for the pinch of sugar that features in Floyd’s, Andrews’ and Luard’s recipes (Andrews: “overcooked and sugary as faves a la Catalana usually turns out to be, its mesh of sweet, salt and earthy broad-bean flavour can be most appealing”).

The cooking

Whether or not you follow my suggestion of a longer cooking time, I’d be strongly minded to leave this to cool to warm, before serving with a drizzle of olive oil and some bread to mop up those juices. Luard advises that “this casserole is particularly good with toasted bread rubbed with garlic”, making it a delicious spring lunch or dinner in itself, rather than a mere side dish.

Perfect Spanish broad bean stew

Prep 10 min
Cook 1 hr
Serves 4 as a side, 2 as a meal with bread

500g young broad beans in the pod, or 400g fresh or frozen shelled broad beans (defrosted, if necessary)
1 long shallot, or small onion
100g thick-cut piece cured ham (with some fat, ideally), or bacon or pancetta lardons
2 tbsp olive oil, plus extra to serve
3 garlic cloves
75ml medium-dry sherry, or dry sherry or white wine
Salt and black pepper
1 small bunch fresh mint

If using beans in the pod, wash them well, then top, tail and cut into short lengths, avoiding cutting into the beans inside. Peel and dice the shallot or onion, and cut the ham or bacon into chunks, making sure you include some fat.

Put the oil in a wide pan for which you have a lid and set it over a medium-low flame. Peel and flatten the garlic cloves with the flat of a knife, add to the pan, then turn down the heat slightly. Add the shallot and ham, fry gently until the shallot has softened and the ham has begun to release its fat, then add the bean pods and stir to coat.

Add the sherry and 100ml water to the pan, bring to a simmer, then cover, turn the heat right down and leave to cook for 45 minutes to an hour, until the beans are really soft. Leave to cool to warm, then season to taste, tear in the mint leaves and serve with a drizzle of olive oil.

• Are you a broad bean fan? If so, which other recipes would you recommend to convert others? And if not, please explain what you have against Vicia faba, and which beans, if any, you prefer!

• Felicity Cloake’s debut novel, The Underdog, is published by Fourth Estate on 7 May at £16.99. To order a copy for £15.29, go to guardianbookshop.com