Seafood

Delicate and unusual, shrimp and pancetta combined into a sausage is an example of the delightful ways in which seafood and pork can glamorize each other, here in ravioli made easy to execute using store-bought wonton wrappers for the pasta. Edamame (fresh soybeans) and fava beans (broad beans), both Old World beans, can be used interchangeably in this recipe. Both are almost meaty and bright green, and provide similar vivid leguminous presence in dishes that employ them. However, practically speaking, edamame have the advantage because they are available already shelled in supermarket freezer sections in all seasons. Favas, in contrast, are mainly spring to early summer and fall fare, and they are a chore to prepare, requiring first shelling and then peeling each bean after immersing in boiling water for 1 or 2 minutes to loosen the bitter-tasting skins. (A side note: if you are using fava beans and purchasing them at a farmers’ market, you can probably also pick up some fava leaves. As our vegetable horizons expand more and more, they have become available and are quite tasty as a green for a soup such as this one or tossed into a salad.) Shrimp and pancetta sausage can also be made into small balls and dropped into a chicken or vegetable broth for a substantial appetizer or light first course. Or, you can use it to top small cooked and halved artichokes, then generously sprinkle the sausage with bread crumbs and briefly cook the sausage and brown the crumbs in a hot oven or under a broiler.

Subtle, calming, and healthful, this clear soup is a home remedy for alleviating stress. The ginger subdues nausea, aids digestion, and stimulates circulation; the fish balls provide protein to relieve hunger; and the mushrooms and spinach enliven the broth to make the remedy more than palatable, indeed desirable. How simple. How soothing. The spinach roots add an elusive textural dimension to the broth. Not exactly crunchable, they are nonetheless more chewable than spinach leaves. They are available at the bottom of ordinary bunch spinach sold with roots attached. Cut them off to use in the soup and save the leaves for another dish.

The Yiddish word gefilte means “filled” or “stuffed,” and originally gefilte fish was fish skins stuffed with a white fish mousse, similar to a French quenelle. Eventually the fish skins were eliminated and just the stuffing was kept, more user-friendly for the home cook, and the skins, if there were any, became part of the broth. Once freed from being stuffed into something, the filling was shaped into oval dumplings and poached without benefit of wrapping. What is important for authenticity, and for the best flavor, is to brew your own fish broth with white fish bones (not salmon or shrimp), which is ready in only 30 minutes. Why take the trouble at all? Well, some dishes are revered for their status as iconic ritual that affirms and carries forth the culture, and making them from scratch both reinforces that role and binds the community of which they are part. Out-of-the-jar gefilte fish just isn’t the same. It is a must-have dish on the Seder table, and beyond that, it is delicious for any occasion that calls for a light first course. Gefilte fish is traditionally made with freshwater fish, but if none is available, any saltwater fish with firm, white flesh will do. Horseradish root is part of the Seder plate of symbolic foods that signify various stages of the Jews’ flight from Egypt. Finely grated, and sometimes colored a fiery red with the addition of shredded beets, the horseradish condiment is both the customary and perfect accompaniment to gefilte fish.

Before the era of widespread refrigeration, most of the commercial salmon catch was smoked or canned so it could be stored until the next season. And there was plenty to can in those days, because the salmon population was not threatened by overfishing or pollution of their habitat. As a result, canned salmon became a fixture on grocery store shelves and in home pantries across the United States, and the salmon croquette became a specialty of American cooking. I recall my mother opening a can of salmon for a quick dinner, mixing it with egg, bread crumbs, and some seasonings, patting the mixture into cakes, and sautéing them until golden on both sides. These days, it is not difficult to procure fresh salmon, and that is what I prefer for my croquettes, though always shopping with sustainability of the fish in mind. The price difference between canned and fresh is unexpectedly small, and it takes but a few minutes to cook salmon steaks or fillets—in the oven or in the microwave—for the croquettes. The payoff is, as is generally true, the taste difference: fresh is the best. The croquettes make a pretty focus for a brunch or light dinner menu, as here, or serve them as an unusual side dish for breakfast with eggs cooked any style.

The journey of French rémoulade sauce, a classic mustardy mayonnaise with herbs, capers, and gherkins, across the Atlantic Ocean to Acadia (now eastern Quebec), the Maritime provinces, parts of New England, and eventually on to the American South is a culinary story worth telling. In the early 1600s, the first French arrived in Acadia and took up a life of farming crops and raising livestock. A century and a half later, many descendants of those early Acadians were forced from their northern homes by the British, eventually winding up in South Carolina, Georgia, and Louisiana. Those who settled in Louisiana soon came to be called Cajuns, as did their language, a lilting patois unique to the area but universally understood in their joyous music. And rémoulade? Unfortunately, there is no accessible literature that describes how the sauce was interpreted on Acadian tables. However, as it wended its way to Louisiana, via the American Northeast and the French Indies, it underwent a gastronomic evolution, becoming more spirited with additions of minced bell pepper and celery, tomato paste, sometimes Worcestershire sauce, horseradish, and especially Louisiana’s own feisty Tabasco sauce. Here is my interpretation of that well-traveled sauce, now a Cajun rémoulade, served on a New Orleans plate with crab cakes and Creole sausage.

Cod, as food historian Mark Kurlansky convincingly purports in his fascinating exegesis on its commercial history, is “the fish that changed the world.” Evidence exists that commerce in cod was founded in the tenth century by seafaring Vikings who, seeking new fishing grounds when their homeland supply was depleted for the season, came upon Newfoundland and its cod bounty, establishing a trade route between the Old World and what was called the New World. In time, cod commerce gave rise to emigration and engendered settlements, eventually towns, along the northern Atlantic seaboard. Naturally, the first settlers in that harsh environment created food based on what was available: cod. Although much of it was preserved with salt to use at home and to ship across the Atlantic to the waiting market there, some was used fresh, especially in chowder. In this version, the cod is fashioned into a sausagelike mixture and formed into balls, which are joined in the soup pot by another popular local catch, shrimp. Northeast fishermen harvest the pink, intensely flavored Northern shrimp, also known as Maine shrimp, which are available only from winter through early spring. But almost any medium shrimp can substitute, as long as they are from North American waters.

Portugal lies on the Iberian Peninsula between the Atlantic Ocean and Spain, and many of its culinary inspirations pull from both those places. In the province of Alentejo in southern Portugal, a combination of pork and clams expresses the inherent poetry of this duality. Ruddy with paprika, fragrant with garlic, and redolent of salt air, it is an exotic, compelling dish in which land meets sea in a bowl. The Portuguese are so fond of it that it is exported with them anywhere they settle, including New Bedford, Massachusetts, where it is served with corn on the cob. The dish is traditionally made with pork meat, cubed, spiced, and marinated overnight. I have simplified the recipe by using chorizo for the pork. It provides the same spiciness and color while eliminating a lengthy step.

Paella is one of the great composed rice dishes of the world. Many regions in Spain boast of serving the “finest” rendition, but Valencia, its original home, claims the blue ribbon. Many tourist guides acquiesce. Located close by the sea, the city provides its cooks with a daily supply of fresh seafood. Squid, which blackens the rice with its ink, and mussels are abundant and have become key elements in paella valenciana, along with snails and green beans. That repertoire has been expanded to include a selection of chicken or rabbit pieces; small sausages; other shellfish, such as shrimp, crayfish, or cockles; and other vegetables, such as red bell pepper or artichoke, though not all at once. I like to use shrimp in the shell, but if you don’t think your guests will want to peel their own shrimp, you can cook them as directed, then peel them before returning them to the pan. Paella is traditionally cooked over a charcoal fire in a large, wide, two-handled shallow pan called a paellera. As is common in many Mediterranean and Middle Eastern cultures in which dishes, such as shish kebab and gyros, are cooked over an open fire, the paella cooks are traditionally men because the men own fire. Nowadays, the paellera is more often used indoors, and women as well as men cook the dish. It is always a festive offering, worthy of a get-together of any size, indoors or out. No matter who is cooking, the key to a successful paella is the rice. It must be Spanish or Italian short grain.

Sausage in a gumbo usually means smoked sausage. Sometimes Louisiana smoked ham, called tasso, is also added or is used in place of the sausage. A roux (a mixture of flour and fat) is the traditional thickener, usually augmented with filé powder (ground dried sassafras leaves) or okra. In keeping with today’s taste for lighter fare, I swap the smoked sausage and/or ham for my homemade sausage and eliminate the roux. The okra alone does the thickening, and the step of soaking the okra pods in a salt-and-vinegar bath before adding them to the pot ensures they won’t be overly viscous. It is important to use dried herbs and canned tomatoes to produce the distinguishing flavors of this dish from a cuisine built around preserved goods. Make sure the okra is fresh, however. I like to use shrimp in the shell because they enrich the broth. That does make for somewhat messy eating, however. If you want to save your guests the trouble of peeling their own shrimp, remove the shells and simmer them in 1 cup of the broth, then strain the liquid into the pot when adding the remainder of the broth. Shell-on shrimp are easy enough to devein, if it’s necessary to do so, by simply cutting through the shell along the back of each shrimp with a sharp paring knife.

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.

We think this is one fine fancy-pants dish. The sweet potato crust not only seals in the succulence of the fish but also gives it a crunchy, caramelized coating. The sauce of roasted red peppers simmered with lots of aromatics makes for a sexy finish.

We don’t do much poachin’ at the restaurant, but at home it’s another story. This is how I like to fix salmon. It has a light, almost brothy BBQ sauce flavored with a bit of dill.

This dish was created for a local fiery food show. It happened to be Lent at the time, so we figured fish would be a good seasonal choice. Then someone reminded us that the bacon was an unholy partner. With apologies to the Pope, we served it anyway because it was that sinfully good.

I never liked swordfish much til I had it sliced thin and flash-grilled. This keeps the flesh moist and succulent. You’ll need to ask your fish seller for a piece of the swordfish loin so you can slice it yourself or have him do it for you. The difference in eating pleasure is worth the effort.

Cooter, our chef in Rochester, concocted this tongue-tinglin’ booster sauce. Its flavor dances all around in your mouth with every tender bite of the sweetly smoked salmon.

Shellfish lovers drool over the drunken-sweet richness of the sea infusing every inch of this dish. You can use clams, shrimp, and scallops as we do or substitute your own favorites—mussels, oysters, or even some firm-fleshed fish. Just be sure to serve the pan roast with a spoon and plenty of good bread to sop up all the tasty sauce.

We give catfish a good soaking in seasoned buttermilk before we coat and fry it. It tenderizes and sweetens up the fish, which we serve with our favorite spicy tartar sauce. You’ll find it on our appetizer menu every day and in a sandwich on Fridays.

If you’re looking for an appetizer with a summertime attitude, here’s a simple, refreshin’ recipe. The scallops grill up in minutes, and the tangy citrus marinade gets transformed into a delicious sauce.

This is the Dinosaur take on a New Orleans classic dish. Serve with a hunk of crusty bread for moppin’ up the tonsil-tingling sauce. Whether you eat it as an appetizer or serve it as a main course spooned over some Perfect Rice, you’ve got a winner on your hands.

These delectable shrimp boiled in beer and rolled in lots of spice and garlic are our most popular appetizer. Their “a-peel” has always been in the roll-up-your-sleeves sloppy nature of eating ‘em. There’s nothin’ polite about ‘em, and that’s the way we like it.