To understand just how readily Mediterranean peoples eat anchovies you really have to visit one of the many wonderful markets, say in Marseilles, Barcelona or Genoa. In the Mediterranean people shop for anchovies with the same sort of regularity that Americans buy breakfast cereal. In each you’ll see market stalls offering not one but four, five, six or more brands of anchovies, often displayed in large, usually quite colorful tins. Alternatively, look off to one side or up on the shelves behind the counter and you’ll probably find a few dozen varieties packed in olive oil. You’ll find large anchovies—up to four or five inches long and a couple inches across—small anchovies, or even teeny, tiny anchovies that are barely over an inch in length.

The three main options are anchovies in coarse salt, anchovies in oil, and anchovies cured in vinegar.

  Anchovies in Oil

There’s no getting around the fact that these are easiest way to eat anchovies when you’re in a hurry. There are some very good anchovies available in oil. The best will be basically free of dark spots (bruises) and bones (hand removed). They won’t be excessively salty. As with butter or cured ham, excessive amounts of salt are used either to compensate for lack of flavor, due to hasty (read sloppy) handling, or to safely ensure long shelf life in marginal products.

The best buys (I mean from a flavor standpoint, not price) in this category are going to be those packed in better oil. “Olive oil” is better than lower end offerings (sunflower or soybean) but my choice will always be fish that are packed into extra virgin olive oil. Granted, in theory some producer might well pack bad fish in good quality oil. But, given the cost differential, I think it’s safe to assume that anyone who cared enough to use extra virgin, wouldn’t be so vindictive as to use it as an excuse to palm off poor anchovies. We have a whole host of high-end, deeply delicious, well-handled and carefully cured anchovies in this category.

Ortiz, Cantabrian style anchovies
Working from their home base of Ondarroa in the Basque Country, this is probably first family of cured Spanish fish. If you wanted to take a chance on trading up to better anchovies, Ortiz would be the number one option. The curing tradition actually came to the Cantabrian Coast and the Basque Country with a series of fishing families who emigrated from Sicily, back in the day when the now- Italian island was part of Spain. The Ortiz staff buys only spring anchovies—there is a fall season but the fish’s fat is different and the cured anchovies don’t taste as good. And they buy the best fish they can get on the docks purchasing them first thing in the morning (anchovy fishing hap- pens at night). Right after arrival the fresh fish are gutted and put quickly under coarse sea salt. “It’s very important to get them under salt the same day they leave the sea,” I learned from Jacopo Múgica, the long-time export man- ager. The anchovies are then cured for about six months.

The Ortiz’ classic anchovy in oil is their Cantabrian style— it’s cured to yield a much firmer textured, maybe a bit meatier, anchovy. I have no idea how many jars of these I’ve eaten over the years but it’s many hundreds, I’m sure.

Ortiz, L’Escala style anchovies
Crossing to the Catalan coast on Spain’s east coast, not along ago the Ortiz family also began curing anchovies in the slightly more delicate but still delicious style of the town of L’Escala. The town might be to the anchovy world what Darjeeling is to tea; a place that’s gained great notoriety within the somewhat obscure circles of specialists that are actually interested in these sorts of things. Of those who are in the know about either name, only a handful will actually have been to see the places in person. Fortunately, the fish travel the world so we don’t have to go all the way there to taste them.

Nardin Anchovies
A very small producer with a very big reputation. In the coastal Basque town of Getaria, the family is in its fourth generation of commercial anchovy-curing. They do all the good things the Ortiz crew does, but they add some special twists to it that I can’t actually explain, that yield a particularly delicious, very firm Cantabrian style anchovy. Particularly meaty, with an impressively, well-balanced, but appealingly powerful flavor. Quite delicious, hard to get and highly recommended for the anchovy lover!

  Salt-Packed Anchovies

Salt-packing fish has been done in the Mediterranean since ancient times—it’s the most traditional of natural preserving processes. The salt preserves the fish while naturally maintaining their flavor. The problem over here is that, to the uninitiated, anchovies packed in salt look about as appealing as a canned corned beef hash to a deli aficionado. Anchovies in salt are the first choice for Mediterranean mavens. Just as capers in salt retain more of their natural character than those that are packed in vinegar, anchovies in salt carry more of the fish’s original flavor.

Let me say that everyone—and I do mean everyone—I’ve asked that actively eats anchovies in the Mediterranean quickly and confidently acknowledge that while they sell more and more fish in the form of filets in oil, the most flavorful fish are those that are salt-packed. (Amazingly, they’re often less salty than low quality anchovies sold in oil.) We get the lovely long anchovies packed in sea salt by the Ortiz family, following all the good fishing and curing techniques I’ve touched on above. If you’re into celebrity endorsement, actress Gwyneth Paltrow has apparently plugged the Ortiz salt anchovies on any number of occa     sions.

Granted, anchovies in salt are a bit more work for the home cook—if time is of the essence you’ll probably want to stick to those in olive oil. But if you’re up for a little extra effort in the interest of increased flavor, give theses babies a try. To use them all you have to do is rinse the fish in water to remove excess salt. Under gently running water, insert your thumb into the center of the fish and gently remove the bone from the center of the fish. Rinse the filet of any excess bones or skin. Once you’ve cleaned and boned ‘em, you’re on your way to all sorts of good eating; fry ‘em, add ‘em to pasta sauces, or, arrange ‘em atop a homemade pizza. Easiest of all, simply arrange the fish on a plate and dress with good extra virgin olive oil.

Ortiz’ Gran Anchoa: the best of all anchovy worlds?
If you want the big flavor from the biggest anchovies, but aren’t up for the work of cleaning them before you cook, you might opt for what the Ortiz family calls Gran Anchoa. The consistently creative Ortiz clan designed a special, significantly larger tin that can hold the salt-packed anchovies. They then do the work of cleaning some of their best, carefully selected, salt-cured anchovies, pack them in extra virgin olive oil, and seal them up in these jumbo-sized plastic and aluminum, flip topped “tins.” Easy to use, great flavor.

  White Anchovies

Go into almost any bar in Spain and these are the anchovies you’ll be offered. “Boquerones” they call them. I have no idea what the per capita consumption is in Spain but it’s got to be pretty big. Everyone eats ‘em. At the tapas bars these are often savored with a glass of sherry or wine in one hand, standing up, speared with wooden toothpicks off of small white plates. The white color of the anchovies comes from washing the fish with fresh water, which must be done within hours of their being caught. If you don’t pack quickly, the blood leeches out of the veins and into the body of the fish, which are then impossible to get white (unless you use artificial bleaching agents, which supposedly is done by some big companies).

Ari on Anchovies, Part 3 of 3

Although you and I see them mostly in tins or jars, anchovies actually do start out swimming in the sea. This seemingly obvious fact always makes me wonder why people who generally like fish often profess such a strong distaste for anchovies.

Technically, anchovies are members of the species engraulidae. The Mediterranean is the traditional—and generally, still the best—source but these days they’re also fished off the coasts of Norway, Africa, Argentina, Southeast Asia, Chile and China. In my research I’ve seen various numbers of species and subspecies bandied about, anywhere from a sixteen to upwards of a hundred. Although I’ve never knowingly seen ‘em in person, a couple of my favorites by name are the Buccaneer anchovy (which apparently travels the furthest of all anchovies in the open ocean) and the Sabretooth anchovy (which as its name implies is said to have exceptionally—for an anchovy at least— large and sharp teeth). Regardless, the point is that there is no single “anchovy fish” to be found, but rather a series of aquatic relatives that are caught and cured using similar enough techniques to make them recognizable to us as members of the same fishy family.

So how can you spot a superior anchovy?

   Bigger is Better    

In the anchovy world, no matter how well you use it, bigger is still considered to be better. How do you know which anchovies are bigger? Without sounding overly obtuse, usually you can tell just by looking. By definition, smaller tins will almost always contain smaller specimens—if all you do is buy a bigger tin you’ve already increased the odds of getting more flavorful fish. Similarly, the best anchovies are those packed in coarse salt, sold by the piece from five-kilo tins that are easily a foot in diameter, and the fish inside them can be nearly six inches in size.

   Look lively

Once you open the tin you can do some visual assessment. Quite simply, better fish look better; a lively looking, rich-reddish, almost mahogany color (not unlike a nicely cured piece of prosciutto) and free of the blemishes that can be caused by sloppy handling or poor knife work as the fish are being processed. Inferior anchovies tend to be limp looking and lack the luster of superior specimens. If you’re unsure of brands you can get closer to higher quality by buying anchovies in glass jars so you can see what’s inside.

   Buy Filets Free From Bones

You know how bad anchovy filets always seem to have that sort of unpleasant “crunchy” texture to them? This is because to keep costs down the producers don’t remove the bones. They just leave ‘em in and hope you don’t notice. The best anchovy filets have had the dozens of small bones removed with a tweezers. The filets are wiped clean with a cloth and then hand-packed with olive oil.

   A Smell is Worth a Thousand Words

“I want to know,” my friend Mabelle once demanded, “is there a difference in the aroma of a good anchovy and a bad anchovy?” I was actually a little embarrassed not to have already thought to check this myself. I went out and did a little homework. The embarrassingly obvious answer is, “Yes!” Having worked with fish professionally for two decades I should have known that—of course—while old, long out of the water offerings will smell something fierce (in all the worst ways), fresh fish really have hardly any aroma other than perhaps a nice, pleasant scent of the sea. And there’s no reason on earth—or I should say, in the ocean—that anchovies would be an exception to that rule.

The buyer’s problem of course is that you can’t very well open the tin and take a whiff while you’re standing in the store. I can tell you though that in the anchovy world there is a pretty direct correlation between price and product quality. Those $1.99 tins aren’t ever going to net you top-notch fish.

Ari on Anchovies, Part 2 of 3

If you are already an anchovy lover then you’re probably pretty familiar with the concept of keeping one’s fervor for these little fish on the QT. Being into anchovies isn’t generally something one gets a whole lot of social support for. Declaring my affections usually means that I have to hear that all too familiar “Ooh, gross! I hate anchovies!”

Why are so Americans so down on anchovies? The answer is actually rather simple—most Americans have never had a good one. Probably 97 percent of what people serve on pizzas and the like are downright dreadful. “Barely edible” might be overly generous; the salty, nasty, screwed up eyes and scrunched up noses happened for a reason—lousy fish, set too long in ship’s holds on the docks, then heavily salted to hide their inherent instability, just don’t taste good. Sealing up subpar stuff in stylish tins doesn’t take away the bad taste.

Without getting too political on anyone, maybe we need to initiate a bit of affirmative anchovy action. We can turn things around—there’s a whole lot more to anchovies than the standard stuff being served in subpar pizza places. It’s time, I would argue, to let go of those outdated prejudices and get to know good anchovies. To appreciate the artisan offerings, the carefully crafted offerings, made from super-fresh fish and cured almost exactly as their ancestors were a few thousand years ago. To savor the flavor of the sea, the rich, meaty, slightly salty (a good anchovy will never overwhelm with salt right off), full flavor that makes them so marvelous.

When it comes right down to it, learning to love anchovies could be one of the quickest and easiest ways there is to improve the flavor of your food. Given the choice, for life, to get as much caviar as I wanted for free, or the same offer on outstanding anchovies, there’s no question in my mind that I’d opt for the anchovies. I mean I like caviar and all. But while I can appreciate a nice ounce of Osetra on some special occasion, the reality is that I’d pretty happily eat anchovies almost every day.

Great anchovies, I’ve come to believe, could be classed as the bacon of the fish world—their small size belies their BIG flavor, and once you get to know them at their best, they too make almost everything around them better. For me, the culinary thrill is two fold:

A) Anchovies are outstanding fast food. Basically they’re ready to eat as they are when you take them out of the tin. You can add them to sandwiches, salads, sauces and pasta dishes with a minimal amount of aggravation and a maximal flavor return on your investment. A sandwich of fresh mozzarella, good anchovies and some extra virgin olive oil, with a sea salt and freshly ground black pepper on a good, thick slice of toasted country bread is pretty terrific. When the tomatoes are in season try the Catalan classic is Pa Amb Tomaquet—toast rubbed with garlic and tomato then topped with olive oil and anchovies. Add a little aged sherry vinegar and you’ll take things even higher. This time of year I skip the tomatoes and let anchovies have center stage. The same dish is superb if you sub out sherry vinegar for the amazingly delicious La Casetta vinegar from Joseph Winery in Australia.

B) Anchovies add amazing depth to the flavor of all sorts of savory sauces. In a sense, I suppose, they do for savory dishes what vanilla bean does so beautifully in baked goods—round out already good flavors and take everything else up a notch. Almost any cooked tomato dish (especially if you’re using canned ones in winter) with anchovies added will be excellent. So are salad dressings, soups, fish dishes, rice casseroles, and many pasta sauces. All can benefit greatly from the seemingly innocent addition of a couple of good anchovies. The most amazing thing is that when you use them this way hardly anyone will ever be able to identify that there are anchovies in there in the first place. Add an anchovy or two as you sauté your vegetables early on in the cooking process and within minutes the evidence—I mean the anchovy—will have vanished, literally melting its mellow way right into the sauce. Whether you tell your guests or not is up to you. Tamar Adler’s book has a very simple recipe for an all-about-anchovies salsa verde—a smooth, pesto-like sauce of chopped fresh parsley, garlic, olive oil and anchovies—to put onto boiled beef.

This culinary allegiance to the anchovy is hardly a new one. A couple thousand years ago great Roman cooks were already using enormous amounts of anchovies. They (the fish, not the Romans) were the essential ingredient in a sauce known as “garum.” According to Reay Tannahill in Food in History, it was, “. . . a clear, golden fermented fish sauce with a distinctively salty flavor.” Today the sauce is extinct—amazingly there are no recognized written recipes for it. A few years back, after a trip I took to Italy’s Amalfi Coast, I came across a source for a modern version of this superb, savory, salty, super quick to use anchovy essence called Garam Colatura. It is, as I write, on the shelves at the Zingerman’s Deli and at Zingerman’s Mail Order. Supplies are often limited but its flavor is almost infinite—a few drops do delicious things to your cooking.

Ari on Anchovies, Part 1 of 3

The food world today is filled with some seriously glamorous subjects; for openers, Bacon, of course, is as big it gets. Balsamic vinegar (the real stuff of course), bean to bar varietal chocolate, extra virgin olive oil, farmhouse cheese, sustainably grown produce, and grass-fed beef are all high on “What’s Hot” lists. Lest I forget, everyone (for good reason) loves local. And seasonal, (as it should be), is the shit.

On the other hand there are anchovies. I personally love eating them, but unlike all these others, anchovies are anything but universally loved. In fact, they’re often actually hated. Getting anchovy lovers and haters to a shared understanding is not likely to happen in my lifetime, and I feel bad about it. Because of their bad rap and the profusion of subpar product in the market place, anchovies have been unfairly maligned and inappropriately excluded from far too many people’s every day eating. Sadly the anchovy’s wonderful flavor and culinary complexity is lost to the average, disinterested observer. One experience with bad anchovies sets the stereotype in emotional cement—”I knew I wasn’t going to like these!” and “Sure enough, they suck” are comments that are all too common. Mostly anchovies are assigned blame, nearly always unfairly, for ruining what their detractors are sure would otherwise have been a good meal.

I’m ready to work to open people’s minds, to prove anchovies’ worth to those who long ago wrote them completely out of what’s possible in their cooking. While there are of course, some bad anchovies out there, there is also a wide range of really good ones that often go unnoticed. Anchovies, like people, are a complex lot, with a deep diversity of flavors and wide range differences from one end of the quality spectrum to the other. But one isolated bad anchovy served on a low -end salad bar backs up the stereotype people have heard for so long—millions of men and women reject anchovies without ever really getting to know them.

At least I know I’m not alone in my assessment of the situation. My friend Tamar Adler, whose writing makes me both think and smile at the same time, says in her very excellent book, The Everlasting Meal, that, “Anchovies divide us into lovers and fighters. No one is neutral. The little fish,” she explains, “elicit wistful gazes from their adorers—if you love them you wonder when you will get your next one—and shudders from objectors, far more numerous, who can’t fathom the injustice of ever having to see one of the nasty things again.”

I, like Tamar, take issue with the indignation so many, other- wise upstanding, food-centric citizens direct at the little fish I love so dearly. I love anchovies. I don’t mean “like.” My affection for anchovies is much bigger than that. They’re a big part of my life—I live with them. I eat them and cook with them regularly. I dedicate many a meal to them and they’re often the highlight of my evening’s eating. Because of which, I’m glad to take on the challenge of at least opening, if not ultimately changing, a few minds. As Tamar tells it, anchovies “ . . . are not all universally loved, but few powerful things are.” Rather than fighting that power, both Tamar and I would argue, the idea is to embrace it. Anchovies can help you achieve some pretty amazing things in the kitchen, and are one of the easiest ways I know to make full flavored traditional healthy food in a matter of a few minutes.