A Million Free Eggs

I've mentioned, from time to time, the enormous affect that fundamental necessity has on the foods people consume. People eat, obviously, the foods which are generally available. More precisely, we tend to eat the best of the foods available. In the meanest of times, people will manage to subsist on just about anything. Being human, however, means mere subsistence is rarely enough, and groups of people, given enough time, find ways to make these subsistence foods delicious. Have a thousand years or so to find a use for pigs' blood? The result will be, inevitably, tasty (and boudin noir is delicious). Famine, you might argue, is one of the key evolutionary pressures on flavor. People eventually grow to love these famine foods so much that during good times, they continue to consume them, often elevating them to “delicacy” status. Allow enough time, enough lean time, and you'll build a National cuisine.

There is an exception to this rule. All poverty foods, even the most delicious ones, don't always embed themselves in the cultural cooking repertoire. Every now and again there is a cultural backlash so violent it propels a given food or dish far out of fashion, until it is all but forbidden. For example, chestnuts were once widely used all over Europe as a flour substitute: in breads, soups, cakes, pastas, pancakes, as a porridge. The nuts replaced wheat, when even that became too expensive for the poor. Chestnuts were available free to anyone willing to harvest them. Now there is something of a stigma surrounding the sweet little nuts. You may be able to purchase them roasted by a street vendor, or to have mont blanc served to you in the Alps, but they have all but disappeared in modern European cooking – seen as a poverty food only eaten under extreme conditions.



An example closer to home (home being Sydney, Australia): Oz has a rabbit problem. They are an invasive species which have reached plague proportions and show little signs of going anywhere. Australians once made use of this overabundant resource. The suburb in which I live hosts a rugby team named after the men who walked the streets selling the same rabbits to the once impoverished inhabitants of my now gentrified neighborhood. Rabbitohs, as they vendors were called, used to shout, announcing their wares, passing through the high-density terrace housing of Redfern. More accurately, all over Australia, from before the turn of the 20th century until well past the end of the depression. Now, however, rabbit is not commonly consumed at all, despite their availability, and this is due, in no small part, to the attitude that rabbit is a foodstuff of the impoverished.

On the opposite end of all of this food-by-necessity is the odd culinary and cultural concept of necessity by means of plenty. Sometimes, there is such an abundance of a food that people have to come up with a way of using, often preserving. Romans in Gaul found the population of wild pigs so great they developed a way of preserving the meat, sometimes for years. We call it ham.

I recently found myself in an analogous situation when my fish delivery arrived packed with a few extras: several lobes of mullet roe. “What,” asked my fishmonger when I called to inquire, “will you do to wow the customers with the roe?” Well, what indeed? Mullet is viewed as a bait fish in OZ, the roe is hardly considered a food at all. The customers who dine in the bistro are not likely to choose a salad with sautéed roe as a starter. Unwilling to throw it out, I started thinking about ways I might preserve it, salting being the first to come to mind... wait, salted mullet roe? That's already been invented.

It's called bottarga in Italy, botarga in Spain, boutargue in France, avgotaraho in Greece, and batarekh in Arabic. There are Egyptian murals describing the process of salting and drying roe, and nearly every country on the Mediterranean has a version. It is now considered a delicacy and the premium examples fetch a premium price. The flavor is something like anchovies, though more buttery. Bottarga is strongly associated with Sicilian cuisine, where it is grated or sliced onto pasta.

Which is what I eventually did with my preserved roe. And it was delicious.



Spaghetti with Bottarga, Breadcrumbs and Leek

You can buy bottarga in Italian shops, if you don't want to make your own. Opt for the whole bottarga rather than the pre-grated stuff, which is not as good. Any unused bottarga will keep indefinitely wrapped tightly in your fridge.

This recipe calls for no salt or pepper, as the bottarga and chili flakes replace these. Add more bottarga or salt to adjust the seasoning to your taste.

250g spaghetti
½ leek, split, washed, and thinly sliced
4 Tbsp olive oil
1 clove garlic, crushed
pinch chili flakes
zest from half a lemon
small handful of parsley leaves
100ml pasta water (taken from the pasta pot just before the pasta is ready)
2 Tbsp breadcrumbs, toasted
2 Tbsp grated bottarga (see below)

Bring a large pot of salted water to the boil and cook the spaghetti until it is al dente. Drain, reserving 100ml of the cooking water.

Meanwhile, heat the olive oil in a large frypan on medium heat and gently cook the sliced leek until it is soft and sweet, but not colored. Add the garlic and continue cooking for a couple minutes more. Add the chili flakes, lemon zest, parsley, and pasta water. Toss together with the cooked spaghetti, sprinkle with breadcrumbs and stir in the bottarga. Serve immediately.

Bottarga

This is a very simple method of preserving, you simply pack the roe in sea salt and wait a week or two. You can then rinse off the salt and air-dry the roe further if you want, but I like the bottarga to retain a bit of moisture, as it makes grating the roe into a fine texture of individual eggs quite easy.

mullet roe
sea salt

Pack the row in salt in a container just larger than the roe, making sure that the roe is completely surrounded with salt. Refrigerate and cure for at least a week.

When cured, the roe will be hard and about 2/3 its original size. Rinse away the salt and pat dry. To use, peel away the skin with a knife and grate the bottarga on a fine grater.