Fishing for compliments

The other day G. hauled home an estimated 20 kilos (20 pounds) of gilthead bream, and a surprise.
The other day G. hauled home an estimated  10 kilos (22 pounds) of gilthead bream, and an interloper which Lino immediately spied.

Our upstairs neighbor, G.S., now retired, finally has all the time he wants to go fishing.  I understand that this is the dream of many men, and he is living it to the full.

He sits in his boat on some expanse of water — naturally he will never tell us where, and Lino, a fisherman himself, will never ask.  He sets up three fishing rods, and with what appears to be superhuman talent always brings home something.  Often, many somethings.  Which he sometimes shares with us.

First, he passes our kitchen window, which is usually open except in the depths of winter.  He may call a friendly greeting, or Lino may already have heard him tying up his boat.  So G. will pause, and Lino will indulge in what seems to me to be lots of time discussing the day’s conditions, catch, and other occult particulars of the angler’s art.  Lino never fished with a rod (he prefers the leister, or what I simply call a “trident” even though it has many more than three prongs).  But he knows as much as anyone about the lagoon environment and the customs of its finny fauna. So they confer for as long as they feel like it, then G. goes around the corner and upstairs.

He estimated the catch weighed about ten kilos (22 pounds). And I don't think he came home because he'd caught every fish that was out there. I like a person who knows when enough is enough.

For quite a while, he would sometimes reappear (three flights of stairs, twice — what a guy) and plop a plastic bag of some of his fish onto the windowsill. And not just any fish.  Gilthead bream (orata, or Sparus aurata), sea bass, seppie, and assorted companions who made the wrong decision by thinking “Gosh, if the bream bit, it must be good. I think I’ll try it.”

He would briefly and modestly accept our praise and thanks.  Like anyone who does something really well, he considers most compliments to be mere statements of the obvious. I once complimented the wife of a trattoria-owner in our old neighborhood on her fried meatballs.  “They’re the best meatballs in Venice,” I said, thinking I’d give her pleasure. “I know,” she replied.  And that was it.  Once I recovered from the sensation of having missed a step going down the stairs, I realized that she couldn’t honestly have said anything else.  If she didn’t know how good they were, who would?

Back to G.

Matters have taken a new turn. He comes home, he passes the window, he shows Lino the catch, they talk, he goes upstairs.  Normal.  But the other evening, after a few minutes, we heard him call.  Then a plastic bag tied to a string mysteriously appeared, descending from above, framed in the doorway.

People still sometimes let down baskets to pull up whatever they need (everybody’s got flights of stairs), and more than sometimes they let down their bags of garbage and leave them hanging on a long cord for the garbage collector to retrieve.  (Except they won’t be doing that tomorrow, because the garbage people are going to be on strike.  Gad.)

I suppose if we lived on the third floor and he on the ground, he’d call for us to let down a basket, bag, tray, some kind of receptacle, and we’d pull up the fish, sometimes still thrashing. His generosity means that we now eat fabulous fish at least once a week.  But it’s beginning to be hard to keep up with him.  When somebody gives you eight or ten bream, which is one of the most valued fish in the Venetian culinary repertoire, you feel joy and gratitude and bursts of self-congratulatory health.  But you can’t eat eight or ten at one go, and the freezer is beginning to murmur in a discontented sort of way, probably beginning to consider staging a mutiny of the bounty.

But we have put our hand to the plow, as the Good Book hath it, and, as advised, we are not looking back.  If fresh fish is to be our fate, we will just keep on accepting it.

The magical bag silently appears, containing the interloper.
The magical bag silently appears, containing the interloper.
A little cagnoletto (Mustelus mustelus, or palombo, in Italian, or common smooth-hound in English).  It's a modest little shark and once you have eviscerated it -- you'll want to throw all that away immediately, the smell is pretty strong -- and skinned it, which is another major project, the flesh when boiled makes a delectable broth, and the fish itself has a very delicate flavor.  It's not unusual to see these in the fish market, but in restaurants they only appear as part of fish soup.  If ever.
A cagnoleto (Mustelus mustelus, or palombo, in Italian, or common smooth-hound in English). It’s a modest little shark and once you have eviscerated it — you’ll want to throw all that away immediately, the smell is pretty strong — and skinned it, which is another major project, the flesh when boiled makes a delectable broth, and the fish itself has a very delicate flavor. They can also be fried, or grilled, and I’ve just discovered an interesting recipe for cooking them in a tomato/anchovy sauce.  It’s not unusual to see these in the fish market, but in restaurants they usually appear, if ever, as part of fish soup.
Some days earlier, this was his gift: three gilthead, a suro, and a pesce persico, which is normally a freshwater fish but which not infrequently wanders out of a river and into the lagoon..
Some days earlier, this was his gift: three bream, a long slim suro, and a brownish pesce persico, normally a freshwater fish but which not infrequently wanders out of a river and into the lagoon.
The suro (Trachurus trachurus, or European horse mackerel) has the most enchanting colors, so subtle as to defeat my little camera.  As you can see, they're less fatty than the usual mackerel.
The suro (Trachurus trachurus, or European horse mackerel) has the most enchanting colors, so subtle as to defeat my little camera. As you can see, they’re less fatty than the usual mackerel.
The pesce persico (Tinca tinca, or tench) doesn't loom particularly  large in Venetian cooking -- it doesn't loom large, period -- but anything that's in the lagoon is fair game.  And as you see, the lagoon is crammed with fish.
The pesce persico (Tinca tinca, or tench) doesn’t loom particularly large in Venetian cooking — it doesn’t loom large, period — but anything that’s in the lagoon is fair game. And as you see, the lagoon is crammed with fish.
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Cuttle-cooking

The fish market and an early scene of the invasion of the intervertebrates: Calamari on the left, seppie in the center, octopus on the right.  Choose your weapon.
The fish market and an early scene of the invasion of the invertebrates: Calamari on the left, seppie in the center, octopus on the right. Choose your weapon.

A super-sharp friend has just written to me, and apart from remarking pleasantly on my prose and panache, and admiring my musings on cuttlefish and the meaning of life (I think that was what I was doing), asked me why I didn’t explain how to cook them.

This blast of practicality was just what I needed, the perfect antidote to wandering around discoursing on how the once-delectable and desired seppie had become, through exaggeration, just Something Else to be Dealt With in Life.

I will now describe the process, in the style of Mrs. Beeton and others of her era, who were not too precise about quantities of ingredients (example: “a wine glass” amount of something.  What wine?  Bordeaux?  Chardonnay?). But I will approximate as best I can.  Here is the recipe according to Chef Lino of the Trattoria Bella Venezia, otherwise known as our kitchen:

INGREDIENTS:

2 pounds of seppie, cut in bite-sized pieces, with the ink sacs removed and put aside

extra virgin olive oil

1/3 cup chopped onion

1/2-3/4 cup of tomato sauce (not seasoned, just cooked strained tomatoes) OR

a big squirt of tomato paste, diluted

Salt

Pepper

TO COOK:

Saute’ the onion in a biggish pot.

Add the tomato sauce.

Add lots of water (1 1/2 quarts, more or less).

Add some salt and pepper (the seppie need to cook with some salt, but I suggest putting a minimum amount because as the sauce cooks down, the salty flavor will become stronger).

Bring to boil.

When the liquid boils, add the pieces of seppie, and the “latti” also (see below).

Take the ink sacs one by one, gently tear them to release the ink into the water, and drop the sacs into the water.

Simmer the seppie in the blackish liquid until the sauce is reduced to a thickish consistency and the pieces are tender.

Eat with pasta, eat as risotto, eat with polenta.

Two notes:

Watch the heck out for the ink as you work with it (and the inky sauce, too) because it makes a stain which is virtually impossible to remove from fabric.  Or wear black clothes.

Whether you prepare pasta or risotto, you not only are permitted, you are essentially required, to add grated Parmesan cheese.  Venetians don’t put cheese on any fish dish, as far as I know, but seppie requires it.  I’ve tried seppie without cheese, and it has a wan, Little-Match-Girl sort of flavor.  Try it yourself if you doubt me.

I find their Mr. Magoo eyes strangely appealing.  Too bad I know how voracious they are, which doesa lot to mitigate their drowsy charm.
I find their Mr. Magoo eyes strangely appealing. Too bad I know how voracious they are, which does mitigate their drowsy charm.

CLEANING SEPPIE:

This section is a public service.

I suppose that whatever fish market sells cuttlefish in your neighborhood will have someone capable of removing all the inedible bits before you take them home.  But Lino does the operation himself, and if you were ever to want to see a perfectly happy man, you would have to see Lino cleaning seppie.  But he can’t clean yours, so if any brave reader wants to chance his or her arm, here is how you do it.

Press outward on the head so that the mouth comes forward.  Pull it out.  Be careful, because there is a very sharp little “beak” in there.

Make an incision with a sharp knife in each eye, then press behind them in such as way as to make the whole eye apparatus come out.

Taking the body of the seppie in both hands, press against it toward the head, in order to push out the solid white cuttlebone.  If you have any friends with birds, you can give it to them and make them happy.

Make an incision in the back of the cuttlefish and open it.  You will see the ink sac.  Remove it v-e-r-y  c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y. Of course, if you don’t want to put ink in the sauce, just throw it away, but I think eating seppie without their ink is like writing without verbs.

Put each ink sac into a small container for the moment; Lino uses an espresso cup.

Inside the seppia you will see two smallish white globes with a small red mark on them. These are the “latti,” or “latte,” and are the ovaries, if you want to know.  Remove them and keep them to add to the pot.  (Or, you can boil them, add some salt, pepper, and olive oil, and you’ve got one fantastic little antipasto.)

Latte di seppie (Wikipedia, by Sepp).  As you see, these morsels are often for sale all by themselves,. Convenient, if this is the only part you really like.
Latte di seppie (Wikipedia, by Sepp). As you see, these morsels are often for sale all by themselves,. Convenient, if this is the only part you really like.

Now tug on the edge of the seppia’s body and pull off the skin.  It may come off in pieces.  Persevere.

Cut the flayed seppia into bite-sized pieces.

You’re done.  Go give yourself a reward.

 

 

 

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Swamped by the seppie

 

The sign says they're alive and they're marvelous, which we'd know without a sign.  This is either something like the miraculous draught of fishes, or something beginning to resemble the slaughter of the buffalo.
The sign says they’re alive and they’re marvelous, which we’d know without a sign. This abundance is beginning to approach the appalling.

I realize that cuttlefish do not loom large on many people’s culinary must-eat lists.  Nor, if you’re a sport fisherman, on your must-catch list.

Excuse me if I bring them up again, because contrary to any impression I may have given that I’m obsessed with them, I’m not, no matter how many times they undulate their way into my blog. They’re always here for a reason.  And the reason just now is because of their quantity this season, which is exceptional.

The plethora of seppie this spring is approaching the level of annoying. (Think of the brooms-with-buckets multiplying exponentially  in Fantasia‘s “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.”  The situation here would be brooms-with-buckets-sloshing-with-seppie, more and more, on and on.) That’s what it looks like to me.

My delight — and I think Lino’s, too — in seeing (A) dazzling fresh seppie in the fish market and (B) dazzlingly low prices has been fading for a while now due to the sheer quantity of the tentacly treasures.  Something that once was a special treat has become a freaking fardel, a burden, practically a punishment. It’s become something like finding ourselves overwhelmed every day for weeks and weeks with Almas caviar, Wagyu beef, Swedish moose cheese, all floating on a high tide of Chateau Mouton Rothschild 1982.  Even all that would lose its appeal. We’d start dreaming of scrambled eggs. The seppie are proof of it.

First, we bought them, and we were happy in our simple pleasure.  Then the indefatigable fisherman upstairs gave us a bag.  And we rejoiced.  Then he gave us another bag, and we smiled.  Then Lino went to the rowing club and discovered buckets of the critters just removed from the fishing net; several people urged him to help himself, but he said, “No, but thanks just the same.”

I came home one afternoon and I could see by the ink by the front door that another gift of seppie had been bestowed on us.  That was back in March, when such a sight still made me smile.
I came home one afternoon and I could see by the ink by the front door that another gift of seppie had been bestowed on us. That was back in March, when such a sight still made me smile.

Now the phone rings, and it’s his son.  The nets that he and his friends put out by the fondamenta where he works have yielded up another major haul, and he says he’s got a bag ready just as soon as we can come by.  What could Lino say? Of course he said “Great, I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”  (I’d have preferred hearing him ask, “You don’t happen to have a kilo of Alba truffles, by any chance?” But that would have been so rude. And pointless.)

We put the last batch in the freezer, for Lord’s sake, something we never do because you can’t freeze the ink.  Only God knows how we’re going to eat all this.  Sandwiches.  Hash.  Croquettes.  Casserole surprise.  Parfait.

Lino says the next time he hears our neighbor’s boat returning, he (Lino) is going to close the shutters and turn out all the lights.  But I think we’d start hearing strange knocks on the door, and  look out to find a herd of seppie on the steps waving their tentacles and saying “What’s wrong with us?  You loved our parents.  Let us in!  Throw us in the pot!  Hurl us onto the griddle!  Send us to Valhalla with the seppie warrior-maidens!”

There are two sayings here, which mean the same thing:  “Piove sempre sul bagnato” (It always rains where it’s wet) and “Quando sei ubriaco tutti ti danno da bere” (When you’re drunk, everybody offers you a drink).  The seppie now need their own proverb.  I’m working on it.  It will be essentially the same idea, but squishier.

Our hardy seppie-slayer came back the other day and we paused to admire his haul.  He said he'd taken 30 seppie in just 15 minutes.  There were several in this bucket whose squishing and sucking noises let me to believe they were not exclamations of admiration for his skill.
Our hardy seppie-slayer came back the other day and we paused to admire his haul. He said he’d taken 30 seppie in just 15 minutes.  It’s like the massacre of the buffalo out there.  Several in this bucket were making squishing and sucking noises which I sensed were not exclamations of esteem for his skill.

 

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Springing ahead

Although we certainly can’t complain about the winter we haven’t had — all the cold and snow were re-routed to other parts of the world — spring is still exerting the old rousing-the-bear-from-hibernation force around the neighborhood.

So I festivate the equinox with a string of springy pictures, in no particular order, because I have the sensation that everything is happening pretty much in unison, like the Rockettes.  This wonderful, too-brief phase comes down to essentially two things: Fish and flowers.

The past few days have seen the slaughter of the seppie -- anybody with a boat and some free time seems have gone out to snag as much as they can of what the tide was bringing in.  Our neighbor came home one day with 25 kilos (55 pounds) of the little monsters.  He gave us some, which were better than anything we could have bought.
The past few days have seen the slaughter of the seppie — anybody with a boat and some free time seems have gone out to snag as much as they can of what the tide was bringing in. Our neighbor came home one day with 25 kilos (55 pounds) of the little monsters. He gave us some, which were better than anything we could have bought.
But you don't have to have a boat in order to do major damage to the incoming horde of tentacled delicacies.  There's a veritable perp walk of fishermen along the fondamenta.
But you don’t have to have a boat in order to do major damage to the incoming horde of tentacled delicacies. There’s quite a detachment of fishermen strung along the fondamenta.
Which is not to say that what's been on sale in the fish market has been anything less than top-notoch. Or as this vendor's sign expressed it: "Marvelous."  With a marvelous low price to match.  If you see seppie like this
In the past few days, the seppie in the fish market have rarely been anything less than top-notch. Or as this vendor’s sign expressed it: “Marvelous.” With a marvelous low price to match. If you see seppie like this, it’s a venial sin not to buy them. If they don’t look like this, you should skip them and buy something else. Note the lack of black ink smeared all over them.  The makeup is applied when the seppie aren’t as beautiful — I mean fresh — as this.
These are go', a type of goby that makes a fantastic risotto.  Actually, we may be among the few people left who use them for that purpose; they're never on any menu that I'm acquainted with. "Quando la rosa mette spin', xe bon el go' e el passarin."  When the rose begins to bloom (i.e., put out its thorns -- just go with it), the go' and the passarini, or turbot, are good."  Lino has taken more passarini out of the lagoon than you could believe, but they're hardly ever in the fish market anymore.  People like sole and salmon from exotic faraway places.
These are go’, a type of goby that makes a fantastic risotto. Actually, we may be among the few people left who use them for that purpose; they’re never on any menu that I’m acquainted with. “Quando la rosa mete spin’, xe bon el go’ e el passarin.” When the rose begins to bloom (i.e., put out its thorns — just go with it), the go’ and the passarini are good. Lino has taken more passarini, or European flounder (Platichthys flesus), out of the lagoon than you could ever count, but they’re hardly ever in the fish market anymore. People like things like sole and salmon from exotic faraway places.
Let's talk clams.  You can certainly go clamming in the depth of winter, but your fingrs freeze so you can't even feel the clams anymore.  But on a day like this, the sun, the water, the world all seem to conspire to make a few hours on the falling, then rising, tide, just the perfect thing to do. Note Lino's net bag -- it's an excellent tool for rinsing the muddy little bivalves.
Let’s talk clams. You can certainly go clamming in the depth of winter, but your fingers freeze so you can’t even feel the clams anymore. But on a day like this the sun, the water, the world all seem to conspire to make a few hours clamming during the falling, then rising, tide, just the perfect thing to do.
Note Lino's net bag -- the perfect tool for rinsing the muddy little bivalves. A bucket also works, but this is better.
Note Lino’s net bag — the perfect tool for rinsing the muddy little bivalves. He puts them in a bucket full of lagoon water later to make them finish expelling their internal grit.
Lino takes them the old-fashioned way -- one at a time.
Lino takes them the old-fashioned way — one at a time.
There were a few people out who had the same idea.  Good thing they kept their distance -- clammers are like any other fishermen. They hate to have other fishermen climbing over them.
There were a few people out who had the same idea. Good thing they kept their distance. Clammers are like any other fishermen — they hate to have other fishermen climbing over them.
The plant life was looking fine, too.  These trees have leaves that are practically singing.
The plant life was looking fine, too. These trees have leaves that are practically singing.
The vegetable boat people planted a tiny peach tree in a pot on their prow, and it has begun to put forth tiny peach blossoms.  If they ever harvest tiny peaches, I'll let you know -- otherwise, the memory of these little blooms will be enough for me.
The vegetable-boat people planted a tiny peach tree in a pot on their prow, and it has begun to put forth tiny peach blossoms. If they ever harvest tiny peaches, I’ll let you know — otherwise, the memory of these little blooms will be enough for me.
Forsythia, in some hardy gardener's hardy garden.
Forsythia, in some hardy gardener’s hardy garden.
A plum tree, slightly  behind some of the others I've seen, probably because the sun doesn't shine very much on this part of the street.
A plum tree, slightly behind some of the others I’ve seen, probably because the sun doesn’t shine very much on this part of the street.
Wisteria getting ready to burst.
Wisteria getting ready to burst.
Cabbages also have to flower.
Cabbages also have to flower.
I don't know what they are, but that's not stopping them.
I don’t know what they are, but that’s not stopping them.
Green leaves like this are no less lovely than the flowers.  In fact, I'm not sure these leaves know they're not flowers.
Leaves that are this green are no less lovely than the flowers. In fact, I’m not sure these leaves know they’re not flowers.
Toward 5:00 PM the light begins to warm up in a particularly spring-like way.
Toward 5:00 PM the light begins to warm up in a particularly spring-like way. If there’s any moment lovelier than the dawn, it would be this interlude on the verge of sunset.

 

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