Small, salty, hairy, and reeking of fish. Anchovies have to be among the most reviled of foods, especially if you're like most Americans and your first taste experience had them sitting on top of a mediocre pizza. Those dark brown, caterpillar-long, salt-loaded strips tasted plain bad.
"But not so fast!" any Mediterranean would have hollered, and then perhaps proceeded with a quiet disquisition on the subtleties of these scorned little creatures. Unfortunately that first brush with badness is the flavor memory most of us carry forward.
But those small fish can be deployed as a dazzling backdrop in other dishes. Think of them as stealth ingredients. Used in clandestine fashion, they add a luscious depth that doesn't taste fishy. The best known and most obvious example is Caesar salad, notwithstanding how many diners ask their waiter to leave off the fish while at the same time relishing a dressing positively laced with them.
Once you poll those Mediterraneans - in particular Italians - you begin to get a sense of the multiple uses to which anchovies can be put to hidden and mouthwatering use. To test out some, I invited commentary from a native Spaniard and several Italians. The Spaniard was indignant. "Anchovies should never be hidden! In my country the anchovies are so good, they're always central!" But then the Italians suggested that their cuisine is more subtle and complex than their rival to the west. They came up with many dishes that featured anchovies hidden (the same gastro wizards who saute garlic, then remove it from the pan, leaving only a flavor trace).
Infighting broke out among the Italians. A native of Lazio said, "What does a Tuscan know about anchovies?" Then the Tuscan questioned a Sicilian's use of "estratto di Pomodoro (extract of tomato). Peace was made only when they got down to tasting one another's special dishes: lamb rubbed with anchovy paste, spaghetti with tomato and anchovies, Swiss chard with chickpeas and, yes, anchovies.
If one needs proof that anchovies are not natively malodorous, it's best to try Spanish or Italian brands in a jar (everyone agrees on the superior quality of the Spanish brand Ortiz). Anchovies also come salt-packed, requiring a brief soak in water. Even more impressive are the fresh fish, which are available until October. Floured, fried in olive oil, doused with lemon, they'll never inspire an unkind word again.
Nam pla (Asian fish sauce), is made by fermenting anchovies in wooden boxes. The sauce is proficient at adding depth and complexity to just about anything. It's with good reason that you scan a Thai or Vietnamese cookbook and see how the sauce graces just about every dish. Fairly recently it was discovered that fish sauce - along with ingredients such as Parmesan, soy sauce, mushrooms, and, of course, anchovies - produces a fifth, highly seductive flavor called umami, beyond the more pedestrian sweet, sour, bitter, and salty.
Ancient Greeks and Romans were onto one of the good things in life far ahead of the rest of us. Their own coveted fish sauce, called garum, was not only eaten, but also apparently used as medicine (for dog bites, dysentery, ulcers), and of all things, makeup. Archeologists working at Pompei in 2008 used garum residue to date the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, and one can still visit an ancient garum factory in Spain at Baelo Claudia, once a major supplier to Rome.
Before we relegate this country's Anglo-American heritage to total backwater status, we can't forget Worcestershire sauce. Read the label. Worcestershire, first made in England in 1837, has anchovies listed as a principal ingredient.
Time to mix the Bloody Marys.
Ortiz anchovies are available in jars for $11.99 at some Whole Foods Markets; for $14.95 at Formaggio Kitchen, 244 Huron Ave., Cambridge, 617-354-4750; and South End Formaggio, 268 Shawmut Ave., Boston, 617-350-6996. Fresh anchovies are at New Deal Fish Market, 622 Cambridge St., Cambridge, 617-876-8227, and Courthouse Fish Market, 484 Cambridge St., Cambridge, 617-876-6716.
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