Snapper

The best, most interesting ceviches in the world come from Peru, specifically Lima. Peru is blessed with three completely different geographies—coastal, Amazonian, and highland, with a different ecosystem—and cuisine—for each. Peruvian chefs create ceviches using exotic fish from the coast, potatoes and corn from the highlands, and wonderful tropical flavors and ingredients like hearts of palm from the Amazon region. Typical of a ceviche, the snapper in this taco filling is cooked not with heat, but by chemical action of the acid in the citrus juices. True red snapper, one of the great fishes of the world, is very expensive and rare, distinguished by its large head and red flesh. Most fish that is sold as snapper is actually rock cod or some other rockfish and does not have the subtlety of the genuine article. If you can’t get true snapper (you can tell only by seeing the whole fish, with its bright red and pale yellow markings), striped sea bass or halibut will work well. Candied ginger makes a nice garnish.

What Mexicans call a cóctel de mariscos is similar to what most Americans think of as a mixed seafood cocktail. Every port city of Mexico, even inland Mexico City, offers them (look for a sign advertising mariscos or shellfish). Mexico has some of the freshest seafood in the world, and definitely some of the spiciest. Look for stands where you can smell the ocean and see the seafood without a blanket of sauce so you can judge freshness by color and aroma. The classic accompaniment is crispy tortilla rounds—either chipotle or corn-flavored (usually found next to the tortilla chips in a Mexican market; saltine crackers are another option). You need the crunchy texture of the fried tortilla against the softer, juicier texture of the seafood—so this works great in a crispy taco shell as I’ve done here.

In many Asian cuisines, a common way to steam whole fish (usually surrounded by aromatics) is on a plate that is customarily set in a very large wok. The plate captures the juices that collect during cooking and create a flavorful broth. You can set the platter in a roasting pan if the fish is quite large, but use a wok if yours will accommodate. You‘ll have about a cup of broth after the fish has finished cooking, so use a platter deep enough to hold it. Then, be sure to drizzle some over each serving. Set out bowls of steamed rice and bok choy or wilted spinach along with more Asian fish sauce, a traditional table condiment.

Although it may seem like a complicated restaurant dish, bouillabaisse has simple origins in the French seaport city of Marseille, where there is an abundance of freshly caught seafood (and an aversion to waste). Julia Child defined it as a “fisherman’s soup, made from the day’s catch,” or from its leftovers. What it actually consists of depends on whom you ask. A pot will typically have at least four types of fish (some insist on no fewer than seven) and a roster of regional ingredients, notably fennel, garlic, saffron, tomatoes, orange zest, and olive oil. Purists would insist on using fish only from the local (Marseille) waters and absolutely no shellfish, while others take a more liberal approach, improvising here and there but basically sticking to the same formula. Most everyone agrees on the required accompaniments: rouille and croutons made from a crusty baguette. The process for making the stock, which is similar to a classic fish fumet (page 55) but with Mediterranean flavors, takes little time; since it gives the finished dish its rich flavor, don’t skimp on this step. Rouille is a variation of mayonnaise (page 95), with spices, garlic, and fish stock for added flavors as well as bread for a rustic texture. It has a tawny color from the addition of saffron (hence its name, which means “rust” in French).

This type of quick braising is similar to shallow poaching (page 210): An aromatic liquid is first simmered to allow the flavors to deepen, then simmered with fish, which takes on some of its character. Also, as with some poaching methods, the braising liquid becomes the sauce. Match the fish and aromatics wisely so as not to overwhelm one or the other. A fish such as salmon is easy to partner; its pronounced taste won’t be flagged by aggressive flavors, such as rosemary or curry powder. Milder-tasting fish, such as grouper, halibut, sea bass, and striped bass, require more subtle companions, like the fennel, tomatoes, and lemon in this recipe. All of these fish are moist and firm-fleshed, ideal for braising.

Because this fish stock freezes well, you can double the recipe; use one batch, and freeze the second one for later use.

This intensely flavored entrée is ready in less than 15 minutes. Try it with Zesty Oven-Fried Potatoes (page 250) and stewed okra.

Sprinkle, bake, and serve—any easier and it wouldn’t be called cooking!

A dish old as the ages, one that pungently depicts the Sards’ seminal appetite for the long bathing of fish or game in some puckerish sauce is burrida. Traditionally prepared with gattucci di mare—sea catfish—the sauce is enriched with the pounded raw livers of the fish. Here follows a version using orata—red snapper—or coda di rospo—monkfish—though river catfish can also be called upon with fine result. Present the burrida as an antipasto or a main course to savvy, unshy palates.

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 exotic spiced snapper dish evolved from the most mundane ingredient in the mix: the everyday carrot. But the carrots that inspired it, grown by local farmer Jerry Rutiz, are by no means ordinary. His funky-shaped, dirt-encrusted carrots are the sweetest and most delicious of any I’ve tasted. One week at Lucques, we found ourselves with an abundance of Jerry’s carrots. I ended up making a big batch of carrot soup for the staff, just to get the carrots out of the walk-in refrigerator. The result was so delicious that I had to find more ways to show off these remarkable roots. Caramelized and puréed with onion and cilantro, they are the perfect foil for this harissa-spiced snapper topped with gingered beets and lime salsa.

Part Indian, somewhat Moroccan, a little bit French, and vaguely Slavic, this dish is a true mutt. Arranged on a bed of vibrant herbed rice and topped with spiced cucumbers, this snapper takes you into a world where hot, sour, sweet, and salty exist harmoniously.

Super-savory green olives form the base of an amazing vinaigrette that brings out the sweetness of snapper and late-summer corn and potatoes.

Suzanne Stack regularly updates and modifies her menus to take advantage of the rich, vibrant flavors the time of year offers. The butternut squash for this dish is grown at Blue Heron Farm, just down the road from the 1903 farmhouse she has converted to one of the Finger Lakes’ most charming restaurants.

This recipe originated in Mexico (specifically, the namesake town of Veracruz), but the ingredients are Spanish through and through. Using a whole fish is a much better value than buying fillets; plus, once you plate individual portions, it’s fun to “graze” on all the bits and pieces that still cling to the bones. (Don’t forget the cheeks—they’re the best part!)

Made famous in the port city of Veracruz, Mexico, this spicy dish combines jalapeños, olives, tomatoes, and oregano in a pan sauce that surrounds the firm-fleshed snapper as it cooks. Serve with lime wedges and white rice or a simple green salad.

THE DELICATE FLAVORS OF COD shine when the fish is cooked in a light and flavorful broth. Served chilled, it is perfect for a warm summer evening. When the cod is served with a grain or plain steamed rice, the vinaigrette becomes the sauce.

POACHING SEAFOOD IN OIL locks in its moisture and produces tender, juicy results. Here, adding fresh red snapper along with the prawns adds a textural contrast, but you could use either one, doubling the quantity. The oil from the poached seafood makes a flavorful sauce when studded with basil, tomatoes, and lemon zest. Delicate capellini, also known as angel hair pasta, rounds out an easy summer lunch or light supper.

WHY IT’S LIGHT For a shore dinner you can make anywhere, wrap shrimp, cod, pototoes, and corn in “hobo packs” and cook them on the grill. The food steams inside, with only a half tablespoon butter per serving.