Bone THIS!

In which chaos erupts at a Tuscan fish-counter (with an awesome recipe!)

Lovely red snappers in Todos Santos.

In the springtime, a need to eat (and appear) a little lighter often leads my menus toward fish.

In Italy one summer, our intrepid band set out to eat some, and we drove two and a half hours to the coast to do so. The Maremma fish “shack” called La Pineta is all about fish, and the hand that guides the kitchen there is sure and gentle, as a great fish hand must be. At our lunch, the Lupones scored big-time with the tasting menu, and their premiere course was a rendezvous of exquisitely fresh raw fish and shellfish that had experienced only the barest hint of restrained preparation. C’s Ravioli di Baccalao (salt cod) were like salty little silk pillows on a discerning diva’s bed. But the dish that stuck in everyone’s mind on the long and victorious drive home was Pappardelle alla Trigle (wide noodles with red mullet).

Red mullet doesn’t travel at all well.  Occasionally you’ll see daurade or other good Mediterranean fish on an American menu, but red mullet sightings are rare. Rashly, I had volunteered to try to recreate the voluptuous pappardelle, but as the car wheeled, climbed, and dipped past Volterra and the muscular rear-ends of the cyclists on our return journey from the coast, I racked my mind for some understanding of what the chef at La Pineta had done, or rather all the things that he or she had not done, to create that luminous dish.

As our sojourn in the land of the whispering cicadas wound it’s slow and easy way towards an end, I realized I’d have to make good on my promise. I still had no idea how to do this, but had spied red mullet at the fish counter in Iper-Coop in Montevarchi, so at least we could assemble the ingredients. A method would surely be revealed.

The Lupones volunteered to make the two-hour hegira from Monti-in-Chianti: V. hadn’t yet been to the huge market, and Bob wanted to share the experience with her.

I wrote out a detailed list, including the following entry:

“5 or 6 red mullet (depending on size)”

And, not keen on spending valuable cocktail-hour time with the dull boning knife that was lurking in the casa’s kitchen, I wrote this question directly underneath—I thought, helpfully—in Very Large Letters: “Potete Disossare?”

I explained to Bobby that this translated as “Could you please bone this?” Proud of my burgeoning Italian skills, I added that I had used the respectful, formal version of “Could you ________?” We sounded it out together: "Po-TAY-tay diss-oh-SAH-ray?"

But, in the way that couples have of not actually sharing information with one another, he didn’t mention any of this to V. And unbeknownst to me, it was V. who was the designated Italian-speaker.

When they got to the fish counter, she marched bravely up. Without pointing at any of the luscious fish, she simply sang out: “POTETE DISOSSARE!”

There ensued not only a period of intense confusion between the fish-tendant and the Lupones, but also an exchange of increasingly heated words between the two Lupones. Blame was traded. Tempers flared.

(In the Lupone partnership, this happened often. It also receded into dim memory within a few minutes—perhaps, occasionally, hours. This developed into one of the longer temper-flaring periods.)

“Brigit wants red mullet for making pasta!” Bobby yelled at V.

“Look - it says right here she wants ‘Potete Disossare’!” yelled V. And, evidently, a great deal more along these lines.

One can only imagine the mind-frame of the fish-tendant. “This one here is good for pasta,” she managed to communicate to the arguing couple.

When the Lupones returned, they were not speaking to one another. After they shared their story, I gently told them that they had marched up and stated:

“BONE THIS!”

Certainly, with great and admirable confidence. But without actually indicating what it was that should be boned. Everyone except the Lupones found this erstwhile cultural faux pas to be profoundly hilarious.

I still had no firm plan for the dish. I did have some nameless but luminous bits of fish, two boxes of lanky, yellow-rich pappardelle, and some goat butter. In the end, this was just about all that went into it. I lightly seasoned the fish with good sea salt and freshly ground Malabar pepper. In a very large skillet over almost non-existent heat, I sautéed them in a nut of the butter for about two minutes.

When the pasta was al dente and drained, I lowered it gently into the pan and added more nuts of butter. (Quite a few, actually.)

I tossed the mixture reverently, and briefly eyed a lemon. I considered squeezing a touch of its juice into the blushing pasta, but in the end just sort of waved it over the pan, the way Churchill did with his vermouth when concocting a bone-dry martini.

Back home, you can recreate this dish with either an excellent fish from your fishmonger or, for optimum freshness, fish you’ve caught yourself. Firm-fleshed whitefish are the best choice, since you don’t want the pieces to fall part in the pan. Both sea bass and black cod are good bets. Red snapper also works, even though it’s a bit more delicate; just be gentle. And don’t forget to splurge on the butter—with so few ingredients, all must be the best you can lay your hands on. Goat butter being, sadly, quite difficult to find, I use either salted cultured butter from Vermont or lightly salted Irish butter. Yes, salted butter.

Here’s what you do:

First, warm a big serving bowl and some wide bowls in a low oven. In a very large pot, bring a great deal of water to a rolling boil and toss in a generous handful of coarse salt. While it’s coming to the boil, cut your firm-fleshed, very fresh fish (about 3 ounces per head) into 1-inch chunks. Season very lightly with really good sea salt and freshly ground black pepper.  Slide two 250-gram boxes of imported pappardelle (or 1 pound of curly egg noodles) into the boiling water (this will serve 4 to 6 as a light main course, or a lovely al fresco lunch).

Immediately put a 10- or 12-inch skillet over medium-low heat and add a couple tablespoons of the best butter you can get. When it has melted and foamed, gently slide the fish into the pan. Sizzle for two or three minutes, then gently turn over. As soon as the pasta is done, briefly drain it in a colander and dump into the skillet over the fish (it’s good to leave some of that starchy pasta water clinging to the noodles). Immediately add another 4 to 8 tablespoons of butter, in pieces, and season, again lightly, with a touch more salt and pepper. With your favorite tongs, turn the whole mass over to evenly distribute the fish and now-melting butter. Transfer to the warm serving bowl and shower with a little finely grated lemon zest and minced flat-leaf parsley. Serve, and wait for the applause.

Four Tidbits For The Week of March 18

Brigit’s What I’m

DOING NOW ➡️ Reading "Yellowface," by the talented author of "Babel," R.F. Kuang
CURRENTLY LOVING ➡️ Best-quality Edlund spring-loaded tongs. (The tools make the cook, n'est pas?)
THINKING ABOUT ➡️ What to cook... I think it's THIS dish!
LISTENING TO ➡️ Neil Young. Again. Why stop now?