Ingredient: Black Chickpeas of Puglia. The Dark Pulse of the South

At first glance, they look almost burnt — small, wrinkled, the color of volcanic rock. Not the glossy beige chickpeas we all know from hummus bowls, but something older, rougher, more mysterious.
Meet the ceci neri del Tavoliere, or black chickpeas of Puglia — the pulse that refuses to disappear.

These tiny legumes have been growing for centuries in the vast plains between Foggia and Lucera, an area so fertile it was once called “il granaio d’Italia” — the granary of Italy. Yet the black chickpea is not elegant wheat or fine olive oil. It’s a survivor — a crop for dry soil, harsh sun, and tough times. And in that resilience lies its story.

The Forgotten Bean of the Tavoliere

For most of Italy’s modern history, black chickpeas were nearly forgotten. They were too labor-intensive, too rustic, too “peasant.”
But travel back a few hundred years, and you’ll find them everywhere in southern kitchens — soaking in earthen pots, simmering over wood fires, eaten with bread, onions, and nothing else.

They’re native to the Tavoliere delle Puglie, a wide, flat expanse in northern Puglia that looks almost more like Africa than Italy. The summers are long, dry, and golden, the winters mild but windy. It’s the kind of land where survival depends on stubborn plants and patient people.

Black chickpeas were perfect for it. Their thick skins protected them from drought, their deep roots reached what little moisture the soil could offer, and their protein made them a godsend for families who couldn’t afford meat.

An Ancient Taste with Modern Swagger

Archaeologists have found traces of chickpea cultivation in southern Italy dating back to Roman times. Some historians think black chickpeas may even predate their beige cousins — the original Mediterranean variety before agricultural domestication softened them up.

Roman farmers ate them boiled with herbs and vinegar; Greek settlers likely brought them to the Tavoliere from across the Adriatic. Centuries later, the Arabs, who influenced much of Puglia’s food culture, taught locals new ways to cook and store them — sun-dried, ground into flour, or preserved in clay jars.

In short: this little legume has outlasted empires. And until recently, it was quietly fading away.

The Disappearance and the Comeback

By the 1970s, ceci neri had all but vanished from most Italian markets. Industrial agriculture preferred lighter-colored chickpeas that cooked faster and looked prettier in cans. Black chickpeas, with their tough skins and long soaking times, didn’t fit the modern pace.

But around the early 2000s, something unexpected happened. A handful of small farmers in Lucera and Troia — notably Masseria Melillo and Cooperativa del Tavoliere — began growing them again. Not as a nostalgia project, but as an act of resistance.

They saw what Puglia risked losing: biodiversity, heritage, flavor. The black chickpea became a statement — a culinary rebellion against uniformity.

Today, these farmers harvest small quantities each year, and chefs from Bari to Milan snap them up. Michelin-starred kitchens are now proudly serving dishes built around this humble legume: chickpea purées under scallops, roasted chickpeas as garnishes, even black chickpea pasta.

A Taste of the Earth (Literally)

If you’ve never tried black chickpeas, forget everything you know about the regular ones.
They taste deeper — nutty, earthy, almost smoky — and their texture has a satisfying bite. They don’t turn to mush; they hold their shape proudly, which makes them perfect for hearty stews and salads.

Traditionally, they’re soaked overnight (at least 12 hours) and simmered slowly, often with garlic, rosemary, and a generous drizzle of olive oil. The result is a bowl that smells like rain-soaked soil and warm bread — simple, dense, and comforting.

The Pairing That Defines Them

Black chickpeas find their most famous Puglian pairing in lagane ai ceci neri — wide ribbons of pasta tossed with chickpeas, garlic, and rosemary. It’s a cousin of pasta e fagioli, but somehow earthier, humbler, more intense.

The starch from the pasta mingles with the chickpea broth, creating a creamy sauce without cream. The olive oil does the rest. It’s a dish that tastes of patience — of slow afternoons, wood spoons, and kitchens where time still moves at human speed.

A Culinary Underdog in the Age of Superfoods

Ironically, what once made ceci neri unfashionable is exactly what makes them trendy today.
They’re high in fiber and protein, low in fat, gluten-free, and packed with iron — a perfect fit for modern “ancient food” obsessions. Their black skin is full of anthocyanins, the same antioxidants that make blueberries and black rice so prized.

Health bloggers call them the “Italian superfood.”
Locals just call them dinner.

But Puglians are quietly proud to see the rest of the world catching up. Because for them, this isn’t a novelty — it’s continuity.

The Flavor of Resilience

There’s a saying in Lucera: “Il cece nero è testardo come noi.” — “The black chickpea is as stubborn as we are.”
And that’s exactly it. This is not a soft, easy ingredient. It takes time, heat, and patience. But the payoff is enormous.

In a world where convenience food rules, the black chickpea asks you to slow down. It rewards you with flavor layered like soil — earthy, nutty, sweet, bitter, all at once.

You could say it’s the perfect metaphor for Puglia itself: not flashy, but unforgettable once you get to know it.

A Star in Modern Kitchens

The black chickpea’s renaissance owes much to chefs who saw potential in its darkness.

At Antichi Sapori in Montegrosso, chef Pietro Zito uses them in purees under grilled vegetables — “the color of the land on a plate,” he says. In Bari, young chefs experiment with black chickpea hummus, giving a southern twist to a Middle Eastern classic. And at Il Fagiano in Lucera, you might find them turned into delicate gnocchi, dressed simply with tomato confit and wild fennel.

Meanwhile, home cooks are rediscovering their old family jars — the ones their grandparents kept in the pantry for lean winters. What was once a survival food is now a badge of authenticity.

Cooking Them the Old Way

Want to taste them the traditional way? Forget the pressure cooker.
Here’s how it’s done in the Tavoliere:

Soak overnight in cold water with a pinch of baking soda.
Drain, rinse, and simmer slowly in fresh water with a bay leaf and a clove of garlic.
Skim the foam, take your time — it can take up to two hours.
When tender, drizzle with olive oil, salt, and maybe a few drops of lemon.

That’s it. No tricks. Just time and care. The old farmers used to say, “Cook them fast and they’ll stay angry.” They meant: don’t rush nature.

The Revival Movement

Beyond restaurants, ceci neri are now part of a wider cultural revival. Local cooperatives and Slow Food associations are protecting them under the Presidio del Tavoliere delle Puglie, ensuring farmers get fair pay and seeds are preserved.

There are also educational projects in schools where children learn how to plant and cook them. It’s a way of passing down a piece of heritage — not just a recipe, but a value system: patience, respect, sustainability.

The black chickpea has become something bigger than food. It’s a symbol of local pride in a region reclaiming its agricultural roots.

Fun (and True) Facts

In some villages, black chickpeas were once used as a form of barter — a handful could buy you a loaf of bread.
They don’t actually look black when cooked; the skin softens to deep brown, but the cooking water turns inky — almost like squid ink.
Because of their thick skins, they’re harder to digest — which is why locals always pair them with olive oil and a splash of lemon.
During the war, women roasted them and ground them into a coffee substitute called caffè dei poveri — “poor man’s coffee.”
Farmers often said, “If you can grow black chickpeas, you can survive anything.”

The Legacy of the Land

Today, when you taste a bowl of ceci neri, you’re not just eating a pulse — you’re tasting the Tavoliere itself: the dry winds, the cracked earth, the patience of generations.

It’s the flavor of endurance turned into nourishment.
It’s what happens when food stops being about fashion and starts being about identity.

As chef Pietro Zito once put it,