Bar en Sel (Sea Bass in Salt)

The prospect of fish for dinner tends to make me feel either bored or hungry. I would exclude from this generalization oily, meaty fish like sardines, herring and mackerel, spice-laden curries and stews and, during the odd appearance of summer in northern Europe, poached salmon with mayonnaise. But to me, white, flaky fishes—halibut, cod, sole, sea bass and the like—usually taste abstemiously plain or only of the sauce in which they are swimming. Add to this high prices and few of the health benefits of less-glamorous fish, and it’s not surprising that months can go by without any appearing on my table.

It was only an accident of the calendar that changed things yesterday. At even the most modest fish stalls in the market, displays of oysters, clams and prawns—if not also lobster and crab—have claimed most of the square footage. Recession or no recession, the French are celebrating Christmas and New Years in the usual style: with huge platters of seafood (and champagne, geese and foie gras, but that’s material for another post.)

Oily fish has been banished entirely, so too more cost-conscious choices like mullet and bream. If not for the fact that I am generally a non-seafood eater, and that I had already purchased a good bottle of sauvignon blanc, I surely would have followed the crowds in another direction.

The best choice seemed to be the sea bass, which though expensive was very fresh and more wine-friendly than the salmon. As I walked home, fretting about the cost of that night’s protein source, I tried to think about a marinade or sauce which would inject flavour without totally overwhelming a much-anticipated side dish of a Central Asian rice pilau with herbs, pine nuts and raisins.

The answer came, as it so often does, from a recipe in one my much-beloved Moro cookbooks: fish baked in salt. I stuffed the cleaned bellies with lemon slices, fresh dill and fennel fronds and placed them on a bed of coarse sea salt studded with citrus zest and fennel seeds. The fish were covered entirely, leaving only their heads and tails protruding, and placed into a hot oven. After about 20 minutes, the crust was ready to be split, revealing moist, aromatic and—to my surprise—deeply flavourful flesh.

Adding to this a taut, mineral-laden wine, some moreish rice, and, to finish, goats cheese, and we had a meal that satisfied, impressed even. On reflection, I suppose it was regime (diet) friendly. Not a bad thing at this time of year, but hardly the point.

Salt-Baked Whole Fish

I adapted this principally from Moro 2, adding in Jamie Oliver’s suggestion to infuse the salt with citrus zest and fennel seeds. Depending on the aromatics used, I think it could easily be adapted as the centrepiece of an Indian, Southeast Asian or Middle Eastern meal. The recipe could also be doubled, or the smaller fish swapped for a larger one, with some small adjustment in baking time. And while the flesh has more than enough flavour to be served as is, it can be garnished with olive oil and lemon, or even some garlicky mayonnaise (aioli).

Serves 2
Active time: 5-10 minutes
Total time: Just under 30 minutes, not including preheating the oven

2 whole sea bass (or bream), 600-700 grams in total weight, scaled and gutted with heads on
1 kg coarse sea salt (anything cheap is fine)
Handful herb sprigs (fennel and dill work particularly well)
1 lemon
1 small orange
Small handful fennel seeds

Preheat the oven to 200C. Rinse the fish, pat dry and set aside. Pour the salt into a bowl and grate in the zest of the lemon and orange. Add the fennel seeds and mix through. On a platter or ovenproof dish which fits the fish snugly, pour in about half the salt. Place the fish on top and fill the bellies with herb sprigs and citrus slices cut from the lemon and/or orange. Cover the fish with the remainder of the salt, packing in closely but leaving the heads and tails exposed. Pour a few tablespoons of water over the dish and place in oven.

After 15 minutes, check to see whether the salt has formed a hard, dry crust. If not, leave for a few minutes longer. If you’re unsure, poke a thin knife into the flesh, holding for 10 seconds. If the knife comes out warm, the fish is done.

Remove the fish from the oven and leave to rest for a few minutes. Break the crust with a knife and scrape off any extra salt. The skin will not be very tasty, but the flesh inside should be moist and flaky. Serve immediately with olive oil or lemon, if desired.

Ouefs en Cocotte

My fairy godmother at the office—always ready with a sympathetic ear and able to decipher official documents from the gas company—has also looked kindly upon me when it comes to my cooking. Having patiently listened to my oven woes, and having decided to upgrade her own oven, she has donated her old one to Chez Petit Pois. The oven’s heating control isn’t perfect. Things tend to brown quickly on top—great when roasting chicken, as the skin goes gorgeously bronze and crispy, but less desirable when baking cookies. But it's reliable enough to allow me to revisit whole categories of food—dessert, roasts, baked pasta dishes, gratins—and to flip to cookbook sections whose perfectly clean pages make it clear that they have never been used in nearly two years of living in Paris.

The first thing I intended to make was a gratin, and I duly went out to buy an appropriate dish. Encountering Saturday afternoon crowds and what seemed like surprising high prices for a pretty anodyne item, I decided instead to buy two individual-size white china cocottes. Back home, I poured a glass of vermouth*, unpacked my purchase and plotted how to press it into service.

The answer came from a dish of slow-cooked onions, left over, as I remember, from a steak dinner some days earlier. I turned on the oven, spooned some of the onions into the dish, and broke an egg over the top, and covered both with a coarse grating of fresh gruyere** and some black pepper.

After ten minutes in the oven, the onions were warm and aromatic and the egg on the cusp of firm, with the gruyere forming a lacy, golden crown over the top. It was so good that I forgot about the salad and popped another one in the oven instead.

Ouefs en cocotte

This formula can be adapted easily to what’s in the fridge. In place of the onions, I’ve used well-drained, steamed spinach, sautéed mushrooms, tomato confit and, on a night when the fridge was particularly bare, a small dollop of good tapenade. Some diced meat (perhaps cooked or cured ham) or smoked fish could certainly be added to the bottom layer, while any cheese which melts well and isn’t overly assertive could be substituted for the gruyere. To start, I’d suggest taleggio, fontina, a creamy, rindless goats cheese and comte.

One final note: these temperature and cooking recommendations may well apply only to my own oven. To start, I’d stick with the former and check after 8 minutes, jiggling to see how liquid the egg is.

Total time: However long it takes to preheat the oven, plus another ten minutes

Makes a light dinner for one with some bread and salad. You can prepare this for more people by using individual cocottes or by adjusting the cooking time and using a larger dish.

2 tablespoons slow-cooked onion
1 large free-range egg
Somewhere between a large pinch and a small handful of freshly-grated gruyere
Special equipment: an ovenproof dish between 3 and 4 inches in diameter and 1 ½ and 2 inches tall

Preheat the oven to 175C. Place the onions at the base of the dish and crack the egg on top. Sprinkle the gruyere over both and finish with some black pepper.

Bake for 8-10 minutes, depending on how runny you like the egg. If the cheese has not browned and swelled sufficiently, put under the grill for not more than 30 seconds.


* I imagine most people only keep dry white vermouth around to make martinis. But not only does it last for ages without degrading—making it extremely useful to stow in the fridge for adding to braises, soups and the like—but the better ones are also excellent as a solo aperitif. Of the commonly-available brands I particularly like Noilly Prat, which is oak-aged and contains an appealing complex blend of herbs. And yes, I am drinking some now.

** Even in France, there is a huge difference between the pre-grated stuff that most people throw in their baskets at the supermarket, and a well-aged specimen bought from a good cheesemonger. The former is bland and sawdusty, the latter nutty, almost treacly in bits, with some residual moisture even when grated.


Finally, I've written this for La Fête du Fromage. You can find the write-up after the 15th of December at Chez Loulou.

Neither Dead nor Dieting

But only just recovered from six weeks of nonstop travel and work. Hope to be back here much more often for the forseeable future.