Tuna

Salade niçoise is traditionally a composition of tender seasonal lettuces, green beans, baby potatoes, olives, and the best-quality tuna packed in olive oil. This version features tuna steaks grilled perfectly, then broken into chunks. You can substitute your favorite seasonal vegetables if you choose. This salad should not be chilled.

Of all main-course salads, the Niçoise is my all-time favorite, with its fresh butter-lettuce foundation; its carefully cooked, beautifully green green beans; its colorful contrast of halved hard-boiled eggs, ripe red tomatoes, and black olives; all fortified by chunks of tunafish and freshly opened anchovies. It’s a perfect luncheon dish, to my mind, winter, summer, spring, and fall—an inspired combination that pleases everyone.

A rather sad and barren bit of sand in a Mediterranean archipelago 17 kilometers off the coast of Trapani and 120 kilometers from the brow of North Africa, the island of Favignana is the last of the tonnare—tuna fishing ports—in Sicilia. And it is Gioachino Cataldo who is il rais—“the king,” in Arab dialect—of the rite of la mattanza— the ritual slaughtering of migrating tuna practiced first by the Phoenicians and later by the Saracens. La mattanza remains the most powerful spiritual ceremony in the life of the islanders, as it has for a thousand years. And from then until now, its writs are these. Fifteen huge wooden, black-varnished, motorless, sail-less boats are tugged out into the formation of a great quadrangle around the muciara—the boat of il rais that sits at the square’s center. Ten kilometers of net are laid in the form of a pouch into which the tuna swim. The great fish migrate from the Atlantic through the Straits of Gibralter to spawn, the Mediterranean being warmer and saltier and, hence, a kinder ambience for reproduction. As the pouch—called the camera della morte, the death chamber—becomes full, il rais gives the command to his fifty-seven soldiers to lift the net. The men bear up the nets by hand, hoisting them and the tuna up to a height at which the fish can be speared and hauled up into the bellies of the boats. The rite remains Arab to its core. Arab are the songs that the tonnaroti—those fishermen who hunt only tuna—sing as they wait for the nets to fill, as are the incantations they chant as they are heaving up the fish and, finally, Arab are the screams the tonnaroti scream as they kill them. We saw them take two hundred tuna in two hours—the fish averaging about seventy kilograms. Those the tonnaroti did not keep for themselves were ferried to Marsala for processing. A black-bearded colossus is Gioachino, his face crinkled by the Mediterranean sun, his enormous hands scraggy as an unsharp blade, of a family who, for twelve generations, has birthed men chosen by the Favignanesi to be il rais. The islanders bequeath the post on merit. The credentials, said Favignana’s mayor, are: courage, skill, strength, dignity, and honor. And it is the king himself who determines the duration of his reign. Gioachino told us he would remain il rais “finchè le mie forze mi sosterranno”—“while my forces remain uninjured.” In these last ninety-eight years, Gioachino is only the eighth rais of Favignana. This is the simple way he cooked tuna for us, the way he thinks it best. He always uses flesh from the female fish—hence, tunnina—for its more delicate savor, he told us. Il rais harvested the capers for the fish in his garden while we sipped at cold moscato.

Perhaps the most elegant version of Sicilian tuna for us was this one that we ate in the kitchen of a tiny, chalk-white house set in the curve of an alley and whose arch-walled garden looked to the sea. The lady who cooked it for us—the owner of the house—was born there in that most ancient parish of Trapani more than ninety years ago. Warm, insistent winds—the breath of Africa, one thinks—billowed up the old blue curtain that was her back door, bidding in the damp, balmy spice of her wisteria as she sat there, beatific, talking and working. It was as though pressing peppercorns into the flesh of a fish was a most magnificent task.

This dish takes me back to Pantelleria, a tiny volcanic island in the Mediterranean, situated between North Africa and Sicily. Undeveloped and relatively untouched by the modern world, the island is famous for two things: the caper bushes that dominate the dry, brush-covered hillsides of the rocky coast, and resident Giorgio Armani. My husband and I spent a magical week in that salt-drenched haven, eating grilled, freshly caught tuna; bowls of couscous; and salads of tomatoes, potatoes, and capers. The grilled tuna and the combination of tomatoes and potatoes in this dish are a tribute to those leisurely days on Pantelleria. And though rouille isn’t part of their Moorish-meets-Italian culinary lexicon, I’m sure the Pantellerians would love this saffron-tinted, spicy pepper mayonnaise.

When I lived near Nice in the sunny south of France, I discovered that everyone there has a version of this summer salad. By tasting ones made by everyone from legendary chefs to humble housewives, I came up with my own. My sun-dried tomato vinaigrette makes this version distinctive. The perfumed sweetness of elderflower cordial highlights the concentrated sweetness of the tomatoes. Be sure to use the best sushi-grade bluefin or yellowfin tuna you can find.

The tickle factor in this dish comes from the wasabi—Japanese horseradish. You can find it in the Asian section of your supermarket. And since we’re cookin’ in an Asian mode, we like the tuna served nice and rare, almost like sushi.

Cooking fish is not one of my specialties, but I do love this recipe because it doesn’t taste fishy. I think it was probably my mom’s attempt to get us girls to eat some fish by disguising it in fried bread crumbs. What can I say? It worked. The creamed peas give the croquettes a slightly sweet accent. This topping tastes good on other meats too, like baked chicken and ham.

This entrée can easily be turned into a one-dish meal by serving it atop a bed of young escarole, sliced carrots, and shaved fennel—or any other hearty salad veggies—dressed with a little lemon juice and extra-virgin olive oil. This recipe will work well with other firm fish like swordfish.

There are so many things I love about this dish, but what I love most is that it’s made from basic pantry ingredients, so it can be made on the fly when you really don’t want to go shopping for food. It’s in the spirit of the classic linguine with clams, but made with canned tuna instead. Because of the simplicity of this dish, the quality of all the ingredients is critical to the final result. The breadcrumbs are optional but do add great texture.

A light, bright, citrusy hors d’oeuvre for a warm summer night, this tartare requires impeccably fresh tuna. Keep the fish on ice as you prepare it and serve it immediately for the most vivid flavor. To preserve the tuna’s plum-red color, don’t add the salt or soy sauce until the last moment. You can present the tartare in lettuce cups, if you prefer, instead of on fried wontons or crackers.

Tuna is most often cooked to medium-rare to prevent it from drying out. If you prefer, cook one or two minutes longer after turning, or until opaque throughout.

This pressed sandwich—a specialty of Nice, France—is filled with many of the components of the classic Niçoise salad (tuna, olives, and hard-cooked eggs). Weighting the sandwich allows the bread to soak up their flavors as it compresses.

THIS IS A GREEN-FREE SALAD where vegetables take center stage. The olive dressing makes this dish stand out, with fennel adding an extra crunch. Use as little or as much tuna as you wish; we prefer it as a background note.

Yes, I use canned tuna for this dish—and you will love it. I generally prefer fresh ingredients over packaged items, but these stuffed peppers are worth breaking the rule. The mild flavor of the canned albacore allows the flavor of the pickled onions to shine through. My aunt Laura, who passed this recipe on to me, makes it with canned chiles (they are available in Mexico already charred, peeled, and ready to stuff). But for me, half of this dish’s success is the exquisite smell of the chiles charring on the burner. You can’t buy anticipation in a can.