I’m not very old, but for much of my youth in the north west of England, it was almost impossible to find fresh foods that weren’t local. Today such a statement seems like an echo of Victorian times, but, literally, that’s how it was until a supermarket was built behind the Knutsford courthouse in the late 80s.

I often tell my wife about the cheese stall at the weekly market only kept five kinds of cheese – Cheshire, Cheddar, Lancashire, and sage Derby were ever present, with perhaps a Wenslydale reasonably common too. If anything as unusual as a Stilton, from distant Nottinghamshire, appeared, it would generate as much commotion among the town’s housewives, who elbowed their way to the front of the queue to catch a glimpse of this highly perfumed foreigner, as if Julio Iglesias showed up sporting his tennis shorts. My wife usually responds that I should count myself lucky because when she was young there were only four kinds of cheese at her local supermarket: white American, yellow American, cheddar and Swiss and had anything else been available it would have been looked upon with extreme suspicion. Touché.

Making our weekly Tuesday rounds of the covered (indoor) market (the outdoor market sold mostly fruit and veg, bric a brac, and live pets, believe it or not) with my mother, on the cheese man’s left was the egg man, or “mister Chookie” as I knew him, on account of his perennial sales pitch “come tek a look at these lover-lee chookie eggs I’ve got for yuh!”. Unlike his fellow stall-holders, whose wares fell within a particular genre, the egg man also sold milk, orange juice and yogurt due to him being one of the younger siblings of the Sheldon family that owned the local dairy, and who, excepting market days, delivered these provisions to the doorsteps of the town’s residents.

Beyond Mr. Chookie was the fish man, Mr. Scales, as my mother used to call him, although at the time her pun was lost on me. Above his stall ran the legend “fresh daily from Fleetwood, Lancs”, referring to the port just north of blackpool where much of Britain’s catch was landed. That his stall was only open Tuesdays and Thursdays didn’t seem to matter. Whether it was due to her upbringing in blackpool where there is – rightfully – a great deal of local snobbery about the quality of the fish that goes into their fish n’chips, or whether because of an innate suspicion of fishmongers, my mother always eyed mr scales’s wares closely, casting a wary eye over his glossy fish, as if trying to discern if there was anything untoward hiding among the cockle-shells. Because we rarely had fish except on Fridays when we weren’t allowed anything else – even in our lunchboxes at school we had to mark the end of the week with evil-smelling “salmon paste” sandwiches – and because mum worked a full day on Thursdays, whatever we bought on Tuesdays had to last on ice in the bottom of the fridge until then (freezing fish made it taste all woolly, she always said), so freshness was absolutely crucial otherwise it/we wouldn’t survive.

Typically, the fish was cod, but often halibut or hake did service in the flaky white fish department. This was usually broiled and served with oven-baked chips, since as a nurse my mother couldn’t countenance deep-frying at home lest it give the townies the impression she was a hypocrite in her dietary exhortations, and homemade mushy peas, flecked with mint and tangy with a splash of malt vinegar. Apart from a distinctly non-traditional and rather dodgy-looking “curry” she made every so often, friday night fish suppers were my dad’s favorite – he still demands it to this day and he is about as agnostic an Anglican as you’ll find.

Instead of waiting for Friday, and going against my mum’s rubric of no-frying, but keeping with the buying of white fish on a Tuesday, we made a version of the Provencal classic, aioli garni, with a pan seared halibut fillet, steamed fennel and butter beans. Rather like much of the cooking I experienced growing up, it doesn’t look like much on the plate – the pale colors and the two sauces lapping against one another may seem bland – but the sharp tang of the garlicky aiolli with the surprising hot peppery-bite of the brown sauce against the muted flavors of the white fish and butter beans makes for an unusually rewarding dish. I am convinced that my mum would’ve enjoyed this dish a great deal, even though she would have asked why we didn’t save it for Friday night. As for my dad, well, sadly, he wouldn’t touch it on account of it humming with garlic. Too bad for him.

It is no coincidence that, in the 30 years since Franco’s death, Spanish creativity in the arts, architecture, business, and gastronomy has blossomed. It is also no coincidence that it has been, predominantly, though not exclusively, Spain’s sub-national and regional groups — who were repressed most viciously by the Fascist dictator — that have led this rebirth. Valencian architect Santiago Calatrava, designer of some of the most stunning buildings of all time, and Catalonian Ferran Adría, who runs what is, almost undisputedly, the world’s best restaurant, are but two whose genius has prospered in the post-Franco era. One could also point to more general trends of economic prosperity (prior to the recent global meltdown) in formerly moribund provincial cities like Bilbao and the resurgence of regional languages as evidence of this Spanish renaissance in recent times.

The Basque Country (País Vasco) has always been somewhat removed from mainstream Spanish affairs, even prior to the 20th century. Linguistically, ethnically and culturally unique, and surrounded on all sides by Indo-European speakers, the Basques have survived millennia of both active and passive discrimination, keeping their traditions alive with stubborn tenacity. One might be forgiven then, for assuming that these remarkable and unique people are a population of stolid conventionalists, unable or unwilling to change their habits. One would be wrong.

Historians trace the epicenter of today’s wave of Spanish gastronomic innovation to a small kitchen in San Sebastian (Donostía) in the mid-1970s. At his eponymous restaurant, Arzak, Juan Mari Arzak pioneered New Basque Cuisine (nueva cocina vasca) virtually single-handedly. Taking inspiration from the French nouvelle cuisine revolution of the late 60s — especially from Michel Guérard, whose spa-restaurant at Eugenie-les-Bains between Bordeaux and Biarritz was a particularly fine ‘local’ example — he began creating lighter and less rustic dishes from the finest traditional Basque ingredients and time-honored Basque techniques. Arzak has been so extraordinarily successful in this that not only do world-famous chefs Ferran Adría and Karlos Arguiñano credit him with heavily influencing their cooking, but his restaurant has retained the 3 Michelin star-rating it achieved in 1989, and only last year it was named the 8th best restaurant in the world.

Anyone who has eaten Basque food knows that it is characterized by simple, unadorned dishes with a weighting towards the maritime, like Marmitako (a tuna and tomato stew), Bacalao al Pil-Pil (salt cod in a spicy garlic sauce), and Txangurro (stuffed crabs), and Juan Mari Arzak’s signature dish — his hake in green sauce with clams — is of this same ilk, featuring very basic ingredients and unfussy technique.

Two things make Juan Mari Arzak such a revolutionary and this dish so seminal: (1) when he first made it, the dish demonstrated exquisitely, and for perhaps the first time by a Spanish chef, that Iberian dishes, Iberian ingredients and Iberian traditions could constitute haute cuisine — an idea that, today, resonates globally; (2) he showed in this dish that the cooking of the future would be as much, if not more, about what you didn’t do to the food as what you did do to it — a truly revolutionary notion at a time when the elaborate and time-intensive dishes of classic French gastronomy were still considered the pinnacle of the culinary arts.

Hake (merluza) is a staple of Spanish seafood cooking, and indeed, so influential has Arzak been that versions of this dish are still, 35 years later, pretty commonplace in Spain. I first ate it at a hole-in-the-wall tasca behind the Plaza Mayor in Salamanca years ago and I can still see its beautiful green color and feel the silkiness of the fish in my mind. Sadly, and for no good reason I can fathom, hake is difficult to get hold of on this side of the Atlantic and obtaining other white fish with similar properties is also problematic for the ethical consumer due to issues of over-fishing and scarcity. Nonetheless, sustainably managed Pacific cod is fairly readily-available, and most mild-flavored white fish, if left skin-on to keep it intact, will make a perfect substitute.

Juan Mari Arzak’s revelation of allowing the ingredients to speak for themselves is taken to its logical extreme here as he hardly applies his hands or any heat to create what is a fully cooked dish. Understanding that white fish can dry out and quickly fall apart if not dealt with delicately, all he does is gently caress it around a barely warm pan with garlic, olive oil, parsley, clam juice and wine. The emulsion created by this careful preparation is as sweet and elegant as you would expect from a three Michelin star chef, but with a flavor as robust as the ancestral Basque fare from which it comes, and as spirited as the revolution it began. Vivá la Revolucíon!

We’ve had such a cruddy spring here in NYC and it’s hard to believe the summer solstice is just a week and a half away. Luckily, it’s been chilly and wet during the work week and sunny and warm at the weekends. It doesn’t make you feel that much better, though. You can’t fully get into the swing of summer because the weather just isn’t matching up. It feels like early April and we’re two weeks into June. Sadness. I want to wear my freaking sandals again and eat dinner outside and not wear a COAT ANYMORE!

Venting over. The one way we’re finding we can brighten our rainy, cool day is by cooking meals like this one. Fish (and our Black Cod is sustainable… double happiness) reminds me of the beach, which reminds me of sunny days. Morels and peas remind me of spring which (usually) remind me of flowers and sunny days. Mint reminds me of my garden in the summer which, say it with me, reminds me of sunny days. It was cool enough outside to use my oven, but we could just as easily have done this on the grill. The minty pea puree was fabulous and could have been eaten with a spoon alone. We paired this dish with some sliced Yukon Gold potatoes in their skin, sprinkled with olive oil and some herbs de Provence and crispily roasted in a hot oven. While these are cooling down, you can finish your fish.

Here’s to warmer, sunnier days ahead wherever you are!

Nonetheless, the skate and its delicious wings are definitely worth appreciating. A comparative rarity on menus this side of the Atlantic, skate wing is fairly common in French bistrots and used to be a regular on the menus of fish restaurants across the UK, but the common and white skates are now critically endangered in UK waters and are officially listed by the Marine Conservation Society as “fish to avoid”. In the Americas, almost the reverse is true, at least for the time being, as meatier fish tend to dominate fish menus at the expense of the more delicate white fish, the Pacific coast from Mexico to Alaska is full of the big (or giant – it can grow up to 8 feet in wingspan!) and longnose skates which make for some fine dining.

Skates are a cartilaginous fish in the ray family (you know, stingrays, manta rays, etc.) which is linked comparatively closely (in evolutionary terms) with the shark family, meaning that they are relatively slow breeding and give birth to live young, and are therefore more susceptible to overfishing than the more prolific egg-producing gill fish.

But don’t let this put you off trying skate. Just make sure to ask your fishmonger where the skate he’s selling comes from, and if he doesn’t know, make him find out for you. All good butchers know the provenance of their meats, so why should fishmongers not be as knowledgeable about their wares?

When purchasing skate, make sure it’s fresh and without any ammoniacal odor, as for some reason I could find no explanation for they tend to go off faster than normal white fish. Also, you should ask your fishmonger to remove the “bones” from the skate for you. This makes it easier to cook and eat because the wings contain a fan of bones that can otherwise be a chore to remove with a knife and fork.

The classic preparation is pan-fried au beurre noisette, or with a brown butter and caper sauce, which adds richness and acid to what is basically a flaky white fish, but because for us a fish meal tends to be a cathartic measure (albeit an enjoyable one) designed to make us feel healthier, we combined our pan-fried skate wing with a salad of finely-sliced fennel, fennel tops and tomato, and some steamed asparagus with a simple vinaigrette. However, feel free to also enjoy it in the typical manner as a little fat not only helps the fish remain moist, it brings out the best flavors of the delicate skate flesh.

Pan-Fried Skate Wing with Fennel & Tomato Salad (serves 2)

Ingredients:

1 whole skate, bones removed (8-10oz, uncooked)

1cup regular (not extra virgin) olive oil, or canola/vegetable oil

1 fennel bulb, sliced finely. Reserve fennel tops and chop finely also.

1 large tomato, diced

1/2 fresh corn cob, boiled and kernels removed

3tbsp good olive oil

1tbsp lemon juice

1tsp smooth dijon mustard

3tbsp plain flour

salt & white pepper to taste

Recipe:

Put fennel (including tops), tomato and corn into a non-reactive bowl and mix well with vinaigrette. Allow to sit and steep for at least 30minutes or as long as overnight.

Heat oil in a frying pan to medium-high, around 350F.

Dust skate with flour and season with salt. Pat off excess and gently lay in the hot oil until nicely browned and crisp all over (2-3mins per side, approx.)

Remove fish to a plate and gently pat dry with paper towels. Dress with the fennel salad and add an extra splash of olive oil to moisten the whole thing a bit, then serve.

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***No, this is not a grilled-cheese sandwich!

I have to give it up to my favorite cooking mag Saveur (and subsequently the chef who created this recipe, Bruce Sherman of North Pond in Chicago) for introducing me to one of the coolest, most creative and tasty ways to cook fish. In the October, 2007 issue of Saveur, there is a recipe for Bread-Crusted Halibut. When I read the recipe, I got so excited to try it. I had never (nor would ever) thought of utilizing white bread as a way to encrust a fillet of fish – BRILLIANT! First of all, I haven’t purchased a loaf of white Wonder Bread in about, well… hmmm… maybe since college? Actually, screw that. I couldn’t afford a loaf of Wonder Bread in college. I believe the last time I ate the 99 cent special was 1985, until my mom realized it was not as good for us as wheat bread and made us switch.

So there I was in the store, bypassing my stupid (but delish) and ridiculously overpriced $4 loaf of organic whole grain bread, and grabbing the soft, airy 99 cent white-bread loaf. Although I was glad I was saving some dough (no pun intended), I wondered what the hell I was really going to do with 25 slices of uneaten white bread. PB&J for two weeks? Baloney and Cheese? Crutons, anyone? Whatever, for 99 cents I could throw the rest out! (Guess what? I figured out a way to use those extra slices!! See the “Update” down at the end of this post).

The recipe in Saveur called for halibut, but I didn’t feel like biking the 15 blocks to the fish monger so I bought the nicest looking fish at my grocery store, red snapper. You can definitely substitute a fillet of any type of firm white fish for this recipe. And let me tell you, using white bread as the crust for a filet of fish is absolutely delicious. It was buttery and crispy. I highly recommend trying this!!

WHITE-BREAD CRUSTED FISH WITH LEMON BUTTER SAUCE (feeds 2-4)

Ingredients:

• 1 lb of snapper (or whatever firm whitefish you choose)
• 4-5 slices of cheap, white bread, crusts removed
• 1 eggwhite
• 2 tablespoons of butter
• 2 tablespoons of olive oil
• Salt and Pepper

Lemon Butter Sauce

• 1/2 of small onion, finely chopped
• 1/2 cup of white wine
• 1 clove of garlic, finely chopped
• 2 1/2 tablespoons of butter
• Juice of one lemon
• 2 tablespoons cream or sour cream
• Salt

What to do:

1. Slice your snapper into pieces the width of a piece of crust-less white bread. Feel free to use a piece as your ruler.
2. Season your fish with some salt and pepper.
3. Brush one side of the fish with the eggwhite. If using fish with skin, make sure you brush it on the skinless side. (You can use skinless fish or fish with skin on. Just make sure you score the skin to avoid it from curling up when cooking).
4. Press a piece of crustless white bread on to the side of fish you just brushed with eggwash. Press down so it adheres. Do this with each piece of fish.
5. Cut away any of the excess bread that is overlapping the sides of the fish.
6. Meanwhile, make your lemon butter sauce. Saute your diced onion in some butter or oliveoil until translucent. Deglaze with your white wine. Let the wine simmer down until only about 1-2 tablespoons remain. Add the lemon juice and let simmer for another minute or so then add your cream and the butter, allowing it to simmer for a few more minutes so it’s thick. Add a pinch of salt if necessary (sometimes this helps balance out the tartness of the lemon). Keep warm.
7. Now, back to the fish. Heat up a tablespoon or two of butter along with a tablespoon or two of olive oil. When melted, add the fish, bread side down, to the pan. Allow to saute about 2 1/2 minutes on the bread side, then flip to saute the skin side. Cook about 5-6 minutes depending on the thickness of your fish. The bread side should be crispy and browned. If you think it needs more time to brown, allow to saute for another 30 seconds or so.
8. Serve topped with your lemon butter sauce and with your choice of sides. We liked grilled asparagus and roasted potatoes/carrots medley. Enjoy!

***UPDATE: Four days later I had friends over for dinner and ended up using all the rest of the white bread for some appetizers. These appetizers were very gross-looking, very 1950′s, but very delish to eat. You mix about 3/4 of a cup of mayo (I know… it already sounds gross), with a tablespoon of Worcestershire Sauce and a good handful of parmesean cheese. Mix. Spread on crustless white bread and toast in oven for 10 minutes. Cut into triangles. Voila!

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