The Hungry Poet: My Life in Food — Eating Hake with Herman Melville

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A painting of a Hake.

"It was the whiteness of the whale that above all things appalled me," reflects Ishmael in Moby Dick. While Ishmael was referring to the sublime – in the Romantic sense – and terrifying enormity of Moby Dick, for me there is nothing quite like the soft, flaky whiteness of a perfectly pan-fried piece of fish – it is among the most brilliant versions of the colour white we can hope to find in our short lives. Taking your knife and fork and gently prising apart a piece of hake, golden brown on the outside from being pan-fried in butter, is a moment when, as Louis MacNeice writes, time is ‘away and somewhere else’. Whether I’m in a restaurant or at home, and the conversation is buzzing around me, when I cut into that plump, little fillet of fish and let it fall apart from itself, everything goes quiet, and the soft, tender, whiteness of its interior shines like its own kind of light.

What follows is a recipe for one of my favourite quick and easy fish dishes which never disappoints. Generally speaking, the only fish I really ate growing up was in the form of the Birdseye fish finger, beside a couple of potato waffles with baked beans. All I remember from the other fish I had growing up was how dry and flavourless it was, and the fish from the chip shop being too oily and had this slimy underlayer beneath the batter because it hadn’t been cooked properly. If I’ve learnt anything about cooking fish, it’s that it must be done delicately. The flavour of fish is as delicate as its composition.

Proper Fish

So, when I ate a proper piece of fish cooked properly for the first time I was blown away. My brother was working for a construction firm at the time and was based in London at the same time as me, and he took me to a restaurant where I ordered monk fish, and it came with these things called capers. I’d never had either of those things before, and was very sceptical at the time but, you know, when in Rome. Suffice to say I’ve sought them out ever since; if there is any opportunity to add capers to a fish dish I do it. I remember the fish being like nothing I’d tasted before, and the meaty but soft texture of the monkfish and the vinegary, salty capers, with a lovely glass of cold, fruit-heavy rose yielding this moment when time itself yielded. And it’s funny, because it’s not until I sit here now, about twenty years later that the whole event occurs to me as important, but of course it was. It was a kind of coming of age, an education in taste, a moment of seeing my brother in London and feeling less alone for a while, and, at the heart of that, what brought us together, was a piece of fish.

How Not to Grill a Mackerel

That was the first time I remember eating a properly cooked piece of fish; the first time I remember cooking my own was slightly different. It was in my third year of university and I’d watched someone on TV grill a mackerel, and have it with mixed peppers and little pan fried potatoes. After my first attempts, when I set off the smoke alarm and stunk the flat out much to the chagrin of my housemates, I started to get the hang of it; also, a whole mackerel was pretty cheap. I remember the look and feel of the fish as I held it in my hand in the white plastic bag after getting it from the supermarket fishmonger (they’ve all gone now as all is pre-packed). When I first cooked it, while I managed to cook the mackerel nicely, I didn’t realise I had to par boil the potatoes before pan frying them and they were, therefore, alas, inedible. Ah well. We live, cook mackerel and learn.

Hake and Friends

Anyway, recently I saw that hake was on offer at the supermarket so I thought I’d buy some, and then found a recipe online finishing it with butter, capers and lemon. Butter, capers and lemon: if there are three words in the English language which lift the heart more than butter, capers and lemon then I’d love to know what they are – perhaps apart from ‘I love you’, but I’d say they even give those words a run for their money.

Recipe

Serves 2

2 Hake fillets, boned and skinned

Butter

Capers

Juice of a large lemon

• I pan fry the hake in butter – quite a bit of butter – until it’s cooked, which can vary depending on the size and thickness of the fish. Chefs talk about ‘setting the proteins’ which makes it sound very scientific, and while they have a point, you should really be looking at it, prodding it gently, and waiting for it to become whiter than when you put it into the pan, but not dry. Getting it to the right point will require practice, but you’ll get there. Remember that we still need to rest fish in the way we rest meat but just not as long.

• After you’ve done this, remove the fish from the pan, put on a plate, and cover with foil. I usually put this into a turned off oven, so that you can contain the heat of it.

• After this, put more butter in the pan, add the capers and get that cooking for a couple of minutes until you feel the flavours are starting to mingle.

• Then add all the juice of one lemon and swirl the pan about a bit and reduce to taste. I like this sauce to have a real lemony kick to it, but adjust how you like, and cook further if you want less liquid.

• I like there to be enough liquid to spoon on top of the fish and for it to trickle down the sides.

• There should be at least enough sauce to accompany every bite of the fish when plated up.

• Serve on a bed of buttery, very buttery mashed potato.

• I also boil some petit pois and serve them in a separate bowl for guests to help themselves.

And there you go: a white fish dish that not even Ishmael could find appalling.