The Humble Fish

When I got to Spain I knew I would have to indulge in some seafood. I have read that Spain is the largest seafood market in the European Union and Spaniards are among the highest per capita consumers of seafood in the world. And there is a long standing relationship between Spanish fisherman and Canada - from the first Basque fisherman who fished off the Grand Banks many centuries before Columbus “discovered” America, to the trawlers who vacuum the same fishing grounds today; it’s hard to forget the Turbot War of 1995 and the brave stand of the Turbotnator, aka Brian Tobin, as he valiantly declared that “victory is at hand”, shortly after he cut the nets of the Spanish fishing trawler, the Estai. . . ok, perhaps a tad melodramatic!

But, I’m usually one of the first to stand up and howl in protest when some Spanish trawler is caught fishing illegally in the Grand Banks - swearing to boycott anything from Spain and calling the reliability demons down on Fernando Alonso for the balance of the F1 season.

However, as I encountered a fish stall the other day I realized, somewhat hypocritically, that on occasion there is little room for my outrage - as I’ve often said, I could be a vegetarian if I didn’t like meat so much! I probably recognized fewer than ten varieties of fish in the one stall I scrutinized in Barcelona’s Boqueira market, excluding the shrimp, octopus, squid and crab. And even the small fish counter in the Mercadona had four or five types that I had never heard of before. But my eyes settled on the fresh sardines.

There are a number of food items that I think have gotten a bad rap: the brussel sprout, as an example, is languishing in the fallout from centuries of abuse by suburban housewives; or the ignoble anchovy, banished to the sidelines since the evolution of the American pizza. . . “I’ll have a large combination with extra cheese. . . but hold the anchovies”!

And then there’s the sardine. The sardine is a beautiful little fish - its silver skin shimmers in the flourescent light that reflects off the ice, and when fresh its eyes pop. It sits at the outside edge of those fish that can be eaten whole (though unlike whitebait or smelts, the head and scales should be removed). It’s easy to imagine how they would impart the taste of the sea - a plate of steamed or fried sardines, drizzled with lemon juice, sprinkled with some freshly chopped rosemary and a crisp white Rioja - a 2009 Comportillo, as an example (1,50 € at the Mercadona)!

The sardine is a fish I would love to love. I can honestly say that I love anchovies (and also brussel sprouts). It’s one of those items that would set you apart as a food lover, a connoisseur. While your friends are ordering plank salmon, scallops with an asparagus sauce, sea bass with a coriander seed crust or, God forbid, the ubiquitous miso-glazed black cod, you could declare, somewhat haughtily, “I’ll have the sardines please”. Instant cachet.

But I can’t! I really can’t. And I’ve tried! You cook them and the room smells like fish. Sure, you can eat the bones, but there’s always one that’s a little more substantial than his colleagues - he’s got a spine - the guy who swims up front. And you end up with cat breath!

But I may be willing to try again. Just not in Spain. Next year I’m going to Greece - to Sardinia. Then we’ll see if these things deserve what they get.