Salt Crust
The last time I baked fish in a salt crust was on the
Amalfi Coast of Italy, in a kitchen desperately lacking in cooking tools, but
entirely redeemed by its window overlooking the sparkling Mediterranean Sea.
On our second day there, we were poking around in the town of Amalfi just before
siesta, and my charge was to find something fresh and scrumptious to cook for
dinner. I quickly ducked into a fish market before they had a chance to close
for the afternoon. Not knowing more than a few words of Italian, the pescatore
and I played charades until I left with four or five hand-sized white fish
– complete with heads, fins and scales. I had neither the knives nor the
know-how to filet a fish, so I baked them whole in coarse sea salt, following a
technique I had once seen Martha do on TV. The fish emerged from its salt crust
luscious and bursting with the flavor of the sea. We dined on the veranda,
listening to the waves rock against the cliffs just below and watching the
lights come on in the town across the cove.
•
In ancient Rome, salt was valued so dearly that Roman
soldiers received an allowance for it as part of their pay. The word for that
portion - salarium - is the root of the English word “salary.” The
incomparable memory of the fish we ate that night makes me understand completely
why salt was once precious as gold.
•
Jacob, Cristina and I tried to recreate the experience
for dinner last night. I splurged on a hefty 4 pound red snapper and picked up
an extra box of kosher salt on my way home. The fish was beautiful with its
shimmering pink and pearl scales. I rinsed it out and removed the gills,
swearing to myself once again that I had to learn better knife skills. I
stuffed some lemon slices into the cavity and set it aside.
•
I filled my big mixing bowl with coarse salt –
probably six to eight cups of it – added a little less than a cup of water
and one egg. It mixed up into a damp batter which I scraped into a large baking
dish. I spread it out into a roughly oblong shape and laid the snapper on top.
As Cristina and I started to bury the fish, we realized we didn’t have
nearly enough salt. According to the recipes I consulted, you want to create at
least a half inch layer all the way around the fish. I mixed up another batch.
We packed the fish snuggly in this white coat until only the tip of its red tail
poked out the end. Then it went into a very hot oven (450) for about 30
minutes.
•
The practice of roasting fish and meat in salt goes
back to the Chinese, who discovered centuries ago that food cooked quickly and
evenly when placed in a salt crust and roasted over an open fire. Because the
salt retains heat so well, you can roast for shorter times at higher
temperatures. In addition, the crust prevents moisture from evaporating and
seals in the natural flavor of the food.
•
Surprisingly, the salt crust does not make the fish
salty in the slightest. The crust is only there to retain the juices and
conduct heat. The only way it will flavor the flesh of the fish within is if
you add too much water to the crust mixture, creating a layer of salty water
that bastes the fish rather than baking it.
•
A few minutes past the half hour mark we took out the
fish. The crust had browned slightly and was hard as rock. It’s a little
nerve racking not to know if the fish is ready – once you crack the crust
there’s no going back. But you must take the plunge sooner or later. I
took up the blunt end of my microplane (in retrospect I wish I had used
something a little more glamorous, but it was the tool at hand) and with a
resounding thwack, the crust cracked into large solid chunks. Steam immediately
started pouring out from the cracks, and we broke away the pieces until the fish
was uncovered, looking festive and intensely red against the salt piled around
it.
•
What followed was a shameful display of incompetence
that I cannot bear to rehash here. I’ve already admitted that I
can’t filet a fish to save my life and last night was no exception. We
ended up with a platter piled high with smallish and misshapen pieces and chunks
which in a last ditch effort at elegance I garnished with lemon
parsley.
•
The fish was full of flavor, moist and succulent. We
ate it with a fresh salad and grilled baby artichokes, drizzled with their
lemony marinade. We mopped our plates with a crusty durum baguette and drank a
very pleasant, light pinot grigio. It was how every meal should be. And
although we didn’t have a view of the Mediterranean, we did have the taste
of it in our bellies.
Posted: Fri - May 21, 2004 at 03:11 PM