Fresh Anchovies!

I often find myself dreaming of fresh anchovies, or sardines, or even, on occasion, smelt. Yes, I am perfectly aware that this is an unnatural obsession, but I find it fairly harmless, despite its near-total grip on me.

Fresh little fish are a zephyr blown in from heaven. Oily, silvery slips of pure enjoyment, fresh anchovies or sardines are not “fishy” in the way you are thinking, although they possess a muscular flavor that asserts itself without becoming a prima donna on the plate.

Yet despite my infatuation for them, I can count the number of times I have cooked them on two hands because they are almost never seen in markets; they spoil faster than the children of the rich.

I was wandering through the Davis farmer’s market yesterday when lo and behold! I found them swimming in a bucket of ice water alongside trays of pre-filleted fish and Dungeness crabs, which are more accessible to the unadventurous. I stood next to the bucket, guarding it from what I was certain were scores of others greedily waiting to buy them all for themselves and asked, tentatively, how much: The harried fishmonger said $2 a pound.

Great weeping Jesus! These fish were pristine. I would happily have paid three times that amount for such fish. Clearly he had no idea what he had. Right? I bought two pounds of the finest ones, fish whose bellies had not yet burst. This is a problem with anchovies and sardines, as their digestive enzymes are unusually fierce; it is the reason they go rotten within a day of being caught.

As I drove home, I fretted that I should have bought more. When will I see them again? Will the fishmonger have them next week or will the zephyr pass? My God, have I lost what might be the one opportunity this year to dine on fresh, sparkling anchovies? I managed to calm down, however, and began to contemplate how I would cook them.

I tossed about the idea of charcoal grilling them, wrapped in grape leaves and stuffed with minced chanterelles, garlic and parsley. But that is a dish better suited to sardines, which are larger than anchovies. No, I knew what to do: Spaghetti con acciughe.

It is my riff off a classic Sicilian dish most often done with sardines. I toss spaghetti with a sauce made from olive oil, shallots, pine nuts, lots of minced fennel fronds, a splash of ouzo, and because I don’t like the raisins that normally go into this dish, a handful of raisined cranberries.

You then fry filleted, split and floured fresh anchovies and arrange them atop the pasta, which is finally anointed with grated bottarga – salt-cured fish roe, in this case from some shad I’d caught last year. I was sad that Holly wasn’t home to share this delight with me, and because to eat fresh anchovies alone is a sin against God and man, I invited Elise and Garrett over for dinner.

The dish was as good as I’d remembered it, a joy to eat and a joy to share. With luck, I may have spread my obsession to them. Or to you.