Bass

Salt-roasting is a traditional Mediterranean technique for cooking fish. The salt crust creates an almost impenetrable barrier that traps the moisture and allows the natural juices of the fish to remain—the salt never penetrates into the food itself. Salt-roasting is a great hybrid of steaming and roasting, and can be used to cook meat, poultry, and vegetables.

Once Kallipolis—“beautiful city” in Greek—Gallipoli is a tumult of white-chalked abodes heaped up under a feverish sun. A fishing village three thousand years ago and now—after its episodes with pirates and slavish dominions, its risings and its fallings—it is a fishing village still. Affixed to the newer town by a bridge, its oldest quarter is a quaint islet in the Ionian. And it was there that we first saw Rosaria. It was in the pescheria (fish market). It was the late-afternoon market where the day’s second catch—and what might have remained from the morning, at a smaller price—was offered. Admiring her confidence, her stroll over the slippery, sea-washed stones of the market floor, inspecting the gleanings—silently, unerringly, one thought—and transacting prices with the fishmongers only with her eyes. When she was convinced by something, she pulled coins and bills from a small pouch hung around her like a necklace, then positioned the parcels in a basket she carried atop her head, leaving her small, elegant hands free to repose on her hips, to move in agreement or discord or exclamation. We dared to ask her the names of the more exotic offerings and, so encouraged by her gently spoken responses, we opened discourse on the celebrated fish soup of Gallipoli. Through her laugh, she told us that the allure of the soup seemed perplexing to her. It was, after all, a potful of humble fish. Nearly everyone cooked it, in one form or another, every day. “We cook what the sea gives up to us. It’s our garden,” she said. She told us she had cooked the soup for as long as she could remember, and that the perfumes of it being cooked by her mother and grandmother were older yet in her sensual memory. She volunteered news of her evening’s program and said we might join her if we wished. She was to prepare a supper for three old friends, widows all, and molto simpatiche—most pleasant. She said we might meet her at 7:45 in front of Sant’ Agata. Timid, pleased, we sealed our agreement. By then, the weak February sun was readying itself to slide into the sea, rosying the clouds in its path, bedazzling them in washes of gold. We watched her climb the curling road farther up into the old town until her narrow, top-lofty form melted into sweet lilac dusk. We looked at the last of the sunset from the terrace of a little bar, adding jackets and sweaters and scarves against the winds, sipping at red wine, imagining what would be our evening with her. We found her in front of the cathedral and, following her the few meters to her door, were welcomed into her apartment in whose parlor we sat whilst she collected, arranged the soup’s elements. Only then did she invite us into the kitchen. First, though, the ceremony of gli aperitivi—cold, pink wine poured into small, rounded crystal cups. Then was Rosaria ready to dance. She set about by whacking the filleted fish—sea bass and red hogfish—into great chunks; she warmed oil in an old coccio, adding garlic, onion, and crushed salt anchovies. In the scented oil, she deftly browned the fish—removing it to await the second act—adding fat prawns, heads removed, tails intact, and rolled them about, flourishing her wooden spatula with a sort of spare drama and sending forth great sea-scented mists. She made the sauce by adding peeled, seeded, chopped tomatoes and white wine. After ten minutes or so, she reunited fish to sauce, rubbing peperoncini—I saw three for certain, but there might have been four— between her fingers into the pot and leaving the soup to gently simmer while she fried trenchers of rough bread in sizzling oil. I flashed a moment upon the contortions I’d suffered to build a bouillabaisse, one whose directions filled more pages than a play by Pirandello. I thought, too, to the flushed, moist faces of cooks—spent, brokenwinded&mdash...

This dish is the Italian equivalent of the French grand aïoli. In France, a colorful assortment of vegetable crudités is accompanied by a large bowl of garlicky homemade mayonnaise. In Italy, instead of dipping the vegetables into aïoli, they dunk them into a bowl of bagna cauda, a “warm bath” of garlic and anchovy simmering in butter and olive oil. In this dish, I toss my favorite winter vegetables with the bagna cauda and pair them with a meaty Australian bass, barramundi. Feel free to adapt the recipe to your location, season, and cravings. If you’re in the mood for asparagus or potatoes, add them to the mix. And if you can’t find barramundi, this dish is delicious when made with another bass, snapper, or halibut.

Shell beans are a big part of late summer and early fall in our kitchen. If you happen to come by Lucques on a slow night when they’re in season, you’ll see runners, cooks, and dishwashers gathered around huge piles of shell beans, shucking, shucking, shucking. For me, shucking provides a much-needed period when my hands can do the work and my brain takes a little time off. Don’t worry, shell beans for six won’t require a crew of shuckers.

These skewers of sea bass are seasoned with a North African condiment called charmoula and served over marinated eggplant and peppers. Charmoula, like so many Old World recipes, has as many versions as there are cooks. Although the proportions and some ingredients vary, everyone seems to agree that charmoula must have cilantro, garlic, cumin, and paprika and then be finished with olive oil and vinegar. One Sunday when we were working on this dish, Julie Robles, then sous-chef at Lucques, suggested adding rice wine vinegar to our charmoula experiment. It’s certainly not authentic, but we both liked the milder, sweeter nuance it gave the sauce. In fact, the charmoula was so good we decided to use it twice. First we marinated the fish in the spicy condiment (acid-free, so it wouldn’t “cook” the fish), and then, as we pulled the kabobs from the grill, we slathered them once again in charmoula.

The first incarnation of this dish did not include rice. Tasting it over and over again, I knew it needed a final element that would bring its flavors into harmony: nutty farro, meaty bass, pungent green garlic, sweet pea shoots, tart tangerines. I racked my brain for just the right thing, then remembered a sample of black rice I had stashed in my desk drawer weeks before. I had little experience with black rice—varieties of rice whose kernels are covered by extremely dark bran. The black rice I found was grown in the salt marshes of the Veneto, so I cooked it in an Italian style. As I would for risotto, I sautéed the rice in olive oil to seal the outer layer and toast it slightly. Then I deglazed with white wine, added water, and let it simmer away. When the rice was done, I found it solved my problem perfectly. The rice’s marshy origins gave it a subtle oceany taste, complementing the fresh fish and giving the entire dish a springtime-by-the sea coherence. What’s more, there was a visual bonus: the black rice was gorgeous to behold, coated in its own deep purple sauce.

Here I combine woody herbs with the potatoes and tender herbs with the fish. The result is an intensely flavorful and fragrant dish.

Subtle, calming, and healthful, this clear soup is a home remedy for alleviating stress. The ginger subdues nausea, aids digestion, and stimulates circulation; the fish balls provide protein to relieve hunger; and the mushrooms and spinach enliven the broth to make the remedy more than palatable, indeed desirable. How simple. How soothing. The spinach roots add an elusive textural dimension to the broth. Not exactly crunchable, they are nonetheless more chewable than spinach leaves. They are available at the bottom of ordinary bunch spinach sold with roots attached. Cut them off to use in the soup and save the leaves for another dish.

Delicately flavored avocado oil can lose its personality when heated; pour a touch of the oil over food just before serving.

There are two keys to making this rich, smoky stew as good as it can be: Enhance the flavor of the broth with shrimp shells, and gently simmer the shrimp and fish so as not to overcook them. If you want to skip the homemade shrimp stock, substitute 2 cups of fish stock from your fishmonger or 2 cups of bottled clam juice.

WHY IT’S LIGHT This dish only sounds indulgent. It stays trim by combining a modest piece of bacon-wrapped fish with a generous salad. Thick fillets of any firm, flaky, and mild fish, such as halibut, haddock, or striped bass, would work well here.

GOOD TO KNOW A favorite sandwich, redux: Instead of battering and deep-frying, fish fillets are cooked on the grill, with a mere brush of oil. Top with a tangy slaw and serve on toasted bread, and you won’t miss the original in the least.

GOOD TO KNOW Prepare flavorful sides to complement simply prepared fish (or other lean proteins) without introducing too many extra calories to the meal. Here, roasted tomatoes, potatoes, and a green herb sauce do the trick. If you prefer, remove the skin from the fillets before serving.

Pan-frying is best for thinner fillets and steaks, or for whole fish that are no more than 1 inch thick. Season the fish with salt and pepper and other seasonings such as chopped fresh herbs or crushed spices as desired. For skinless fillets, heat a heavy sauté or frying pan until quite hot; add just enough oil, clarified butter, or a mix of oil and whole butter to cover the bottom of the pan. Carefully add the fish and cook over medium-high heat for 3 minutes (4 to 5 minutes for whole fish) and then turn. Cook for another 3 minutes and test for doneness. Remove the fish from the pan when it is just slightly underdone, as it will continue cooking in the residual heat. When cooking fish with skin, add more fat to the pan, about 1/8 inch deep. Put the fish into the pan skin side down. The skin will shrink while it cooks, pulling the fish up from the bottom of the pan. To keep the skin next to the hot pan (which is necessary to crisp it), weigh the fillets down with a foil-wrapped skillet that is slightly smaller than the one used for the cooking. This will hold the fillets fl at and ensure even crisping of the skin. Cook the fillets on their skin for the majority of the time, about 5 to 7 minutes, depending on their thickness, then turn them and cook on the flesh side for just another minute or two, or until done. Remember that the pan must be quite hot before the fish is added; this will keep it from sticking. Also, don’t crowd the fish or it will sweat and give off liquid, ruining any chances of browning and crisping. Lastly, don’t overcook the fish. A quick pan sauce can be made aft er you have removed the fish and poured off the cooking fat. Add tomato sauce to the hot pan and stir in all the brown bits left on the pan for added flavor, or deglaze the hot pan with wine or lemon juice and finish with a swirl of butter or extra-virgin olive oil and a handful of herbs. Add a handful of toasted nuts for flavor and texture. The striped bass fishery, once endangered, has fully recovered and is now flourishing. This fish is especially delicious with its skin left on and sautéed until brown and crispy.

Cooking a fish whole is the best way to ensure it will stay moist and flavorful, and the process is a lot less intimidating than it looks. Branzino is a small Mediterranean sea bass with a mild flavor and delicate texture, enhanced here with a bright, fresh stuffing of fennel and lemon. Todd says he always feels like he’s on a diet when he eats fish, so I cook it with some pancetta to hearty up the dish a bit. Do watch out for small bones when you serve the branzino.

This is one of those recipes in which the shopping may take you longer than the cooking, because fennel stalks—or those from dill, which are nearly as good—are often discarded by grocers. When you buy a bulb of fennel, you’re buying the bottom, trimmed of its long stalks; when you buy a bunch of dill, you’re buying the feathery tops, trimmed of the stalks that support them. Because this recipe requires some of those stalks, you will probably have to speak directly to a produce manager, visit a farmstand or a friend’s garden, or simply get lucky. The technique of grilling fish on top of fennel or dill stalks solves a couple of problems at once: it seasons the fish subtly and without effort, and it helps prevent the fish from sticking to the grill and falling apart. In fact, this method allows you to grill even relatively delicate fillets like cod, usually one of the most challenging fishes to grill because of its tendency to fall apart as it nears doneness.

If you have forgotten how delicious a fillet of fish can be, do this: Steam it, with nothing. Drizzle it with olive oil and lemon. Sprinkle it with salt. Eat it. If the number of ingredients and technique are minimal, the challenge is not. You need a high-quality and uniformly thick piece of fish to begin with, your timing must be precise—which is all a matter of attention and judgment, really—and your olive oil flavorful. That taken care of, there is no better or easier preparation.

Try to use branches of fresh oregano, marjoram, or fennel here; they really make a tremendous difference. The first two are grown by many gardeners, and a good gardener can probably spare some. Bronze—herb—fennel grows wild all over southern California and is easy to find (it’s also grown by some gardeners). Occasionally you can find one of these in a big bunch at a market, too; you’ll need a big bunch to try the grilling option. In any case, choose a fish with a simple bone structure so it can be served and eaten easily. The best for this purpose are sea bass, red snapper, grouper, striped bass, and mackerel. One advantage in using the oven over the grill is that in roasting you can add some peeled, chunked potatoes to the bottom of the roasting pan as well; they’ll finish cooking along with the onions.