Fish, She Is Very Small

Editors’ Note: Troubled by stories of collapsed fisheries and ravaged reefs, Canadian author and committed piscivore Taras Grescoe went on a nine-month search for good—not just delicious—seafood. His journeys took him from New York to Nova Scotia by way of China, India, and Japan. The result is part travelogue, part menu guide, part environmental treatise. Here, we give you a small taste.

Bottomfeeder:
How to Eat Ethically in a World of Vanishing Seafood
by Taras Grescoe
Bloomsbury, 2008


I have to admit it: there were times when I wondered whether I should stop eating fish altogether.

Bottom-raking trawlers off the coast of New England. Massive fish kills in the Chesapeake. The declining cod fisheries in the North Atlantic. Toxic clones in the Mediterranean. The more I learned about dead zones, invasive species, jellyfish-slimed beaches, and rapacious supertrawlers, the harder it was not to get discouraged about the options open to a seafood lover determined to eat ethically.

Strangely, though, not halfway through my journey, I was more committed to a fish diet than ever. I had already learned some of the principles essential for navigating a seafood menu. I knew that the way a fish was caught was crucial: monkfish, Atlantic halibut and sole, orange roughy, and other species typically fished with bottom-damaging trawls would never be a good choice. I knew that big-ticket predators, such as bluefin tuna and swordfish, were not only overfished but also tended to concentrate toxins in their flesh. I had also learned there was a parallel fishing industry whose pirate vessels were stripping the seas of, among other species, Chilean sea bass and Barents Sea cod. Most of all, in restaurants and with fishmongers, I had started to ask a crucial question: Where exactly did your catch of the day come from?

But I was about to pick up the most important lesson of all. Fisheries scientists had shown me how eating high in the food chain—closer to the sharks than the oysters—was contributing to the worldwide collapse of fisheries. As satisfying as the protein hit of a tuna burger or salmon steak could be, I was beginning to view all these toxin-rich meals as, at the very most, occasional indulgences.

Besides, the oceans were clearly full of fantastic fish that fed low in the food chain. Traveling from Portugal to Brittany on the west coast of France, I was about to learn that the seas’ small fish, so unjustly neglected by chefs, were often the tastiest and healthiest choices of all. Bottomfeeding, it seemed, had its rewards.

In Brittany, I had picked up a can of sardines packed in olive oil in a local supermarket. Though it was a little more expensive than I was used to paying, I didn’t think much of it, and tucked it away into my backpack.

But this was no ordinary can of sardines: according to the label, they were “Filets de sardines de Bolinche,” bolinche being the local term for a purse seine. They had been canned in the town of Dournanez by a fishermen’s cooperative called La Pointe de Penmarc’h, less than sixteen hours after they had been caught. There were several such cooperatives in Brittany, and they helped their members process and market their catch. Rather than blindly following the diktats issued by distant Brussels, they also set opening and closing dates for certain fisheries.

My sardines, it turned out, were caught by the Wakan Tanka, and landed at the port of Le Guilvenic on October 7, 2005. I knew this because the information was printed on the top of the can, next to the pull-tab. A quick Internet search turned up a site showing that the Wakan Tanka was a small wooden purse seiner, with a 148-horsepower motor, painted a fetching blue and red—in other words, a day-boat. Another minute of surfing got me to the Web site of the International Council for Exploration of the Seas, which indicated the sardine catches off the south coast of Brittany were currently sustainable. This was a can of sardines I could eat in good conscience.

For me, this was something of a revelation. Indicating the source of fish, and their manner of harvesting—down to the boat that caught them, or the farm that raised them—was empowering for someone inclined to eat ethically. Knowing where my fish came from allowed me to select seafood that did not come from overfished areas, or regions notorious for unsound farming practices. I was starting to suspect that requiring such information be available to the consumer would go a long way to curing the systemic ills of big seafood.

In France, of course, it was also a question of connoisseurship. Some French fish-lovers treat well canned sardines like fine wines. A small but dedicated subculture is devoted to sardinopuxiphilia, the collection of sardine cans, and some Parisian restaurants still serve sardines in the traditional way: the can, already opened at the bottom, is placed on a plate with a purpose-built rectangular indentation, allowing you to admire the label. The flavor of canned sardines is actually thought to improve for up to seven years; aficionados recommend turning the can once every few months, like a good bottle of Champagne, to keep the oil seeping through the flesh.

One day, after my Dournanez sardines had spent several months on the shelf, I lifted the boneless fillets from the can, dribbled a little of the herbed olive oil onto a slice of thick toast, and used the tines of a fork to mash into the sardines’ soft flesh a pat of half-salted Breton butter, smearing the still warm sourdough with the richest instant pâté imaginable. It was divine: bursting with glutamate and other flavorful free amino acids, loaded with omega-3s, and virtually free of environmental contaminants, sardines canned à l’ancienne instantly became my favorite midnight snack.

For me, there was no looking back. From my previous travels in Europe, I had learned to love Sicilian capers, Greek kalamata olives, and sun-dried tomatoes from Puglia—all big tastes that came in small packages. The same, I now knew, applied to fish. When it came to eating seafood, I had learned the most important lesson of all: Less is definitely more.

For more information on the book visit www.tarasgrescoe.com