Category: Technique

Visitors to my kitchens often ask about the smell. It is not the fish; it is the anchovy, and it is deliberate. A single anchovy, melted into oil, gives a dish a secret depth, a hidden hum, a note you cannot name.

I use it in everything: the tomato sauce, the stew, the dressing, the bread. Guests who claim to dislike anchovies have eaten them for years without knowing. I find it gratifying. The aroma, which lingers, is said to have attracted 14 strays to our back door since August, and I have employed them all. Their loyalty is unmatched, and their sense of timing impeccable.

I have spent 41 years searching for the perfect sauce, and I can report that it does not exist. Every sauce is a compromise between butter, acid and fear. The mother sauces are not mothers but landladies, and they always want more.

My bechamel breaks when I am nervous. My hollandaise curdles in thunder. My jus, so beautiful on Sundays, sulks by Wednesday. Still, I make them, each day, with a whisk and a faint sense of doom. A sauce is a promise, and the best chefs are the ones who break it gracefully, in front of a full dining room, with a flourish and a smile.

A sardine is not a fish. It is a small silver letter of love, and it must be opened with reverence. First, the tin: slide the key beneath the tab, count three, and peel in a single motion. Do not rush. A rushed tin is a bitter tin.

Second, the temperature. A sardine should be served at precisely 17 degrees, which is the warmth of a floor in late afternoon. Third, the oil, which must never be wasted. I once saw a line cook pour it down the drain. He no longer works for me. He now runs a successful dog biscuit stand and sends me a card each Christmas, which I do not open.