The Cat That Ate the Canary

Since I began cooking on yachts, I’ve been intrigued by the abundance of little fishes that gather off of the aft deck when the underwater lights are on. And what I mean by “intrigued” is, are those little guys edible? I remember the first time I asked myself that question. We’d been sidelined in Bermuda after a little mishap at sea and were anchored in the aquamarine waters of St. George. I had a bottle of Blanco Nieva Sauvignon Blanc in my personal stash of wine that I’d brought aboard (yes, I did actually bring my own personal wine stash on the yacht). The Blanco Nieva has honeysuckle on the nose. On the palette, it has a nice, crisp acidity that is almost effervescent. It’s clean with slight floral tones and not overly citrus like many Sauvignon Blancs. I took a sip and I looked out at the tiny fishes swimming off of the swim step and thought that they’d go so nicely with the wine; fried whole, sprinkled with salt and eaten like French fries… I became obsessed, wanting to find out of if they were edible or not. I’d been warned about eating fish from tropical waters because you can get poisoned if they feed on the reef.

But the obsession with little fried fishes started much younger than that. Back when I was just a little frizzy haired, buck teethed, bow legged mongrel we had a summer house on the beach at Balboa Island, off of the coast of Southern California. My brothers and I would spend our summers building sandcastles, watching the marlin boats come in, playing ski ball and eating frozen bananas at the Fun Zone, and roller skating along the boardwalk. My grandparents would come and spend the summer with us. My grandfather, Jiddo was what we called him – it’s Lebanese for “grandfather”, was my hero growing up. I’d follow him everywhere and he called me his “shadow”, a title I wore like a crown (or rather, a tiara)… My Jiddo was a big man, tall and well built, with hands as big as dinner plates and a thin moustache. He was stoic, serious and thoughtful with the demeanor of an old Hollywood actor – like Humphrey Bogart or Clark Gable. Jiddo and me would sit at the end of the dock in a lounge chair; me on his lap, Jiddo in Bermuda shorts and socks and shoes, a button up Cuban shirt and his lucky fishing hat which I would pull off of his head and wear with pride. We were fishing for smelt and the way it went was Jiddo would take a little piece of chicken or perhaps some bacon from breakfast that morning and drop it in the water. Hundreds of smelt would race up frantically pecking away at the little morsel as if it were the last meal they might ever have – and it just very well may have been. Then, he’d swoop in with his green fishing net and catch the little buggers, hand me the net of silver, slivery fish and have me run them into the house to my grandma where I’d help clean them and grandma would dredge them in flour, fry them, sprinkle them with salt and fresh lemon and send me with a grease stained, white paper plate full back out to my Jiddo where we’d resume our fishing position of me sitting on his lap as we ate the smelt like French fries and chucked their little bones back into the sea. Then, when it was time for another batch, we’d throw in a smelt bone and swoop in with the net to get another batch for grandma to fry up…

So now, whenever I’ve look off of the back of a yacht and see those little fish swimming around, I’m always reminded of my Jiddo and can’t help wonder to myself if those little fish are edible. And tonight I just grew bored with wondering and decided to find out once and for all. I asked our first mate if what he thought; not that he’s ever been to the Caribbean prior to this season, but he grew up on the Great Barrier Reef in Australia and so therefore I consider him to be expert enough on what might be edible within a close proximity to a reef. He said that he thought them similar to sardines – and so that was assurance enough for me and I asked him if he would catch me a few (he already had a line out and was catching tarpin just for fun). With a line threaded with tiny fish hooks and little red reflectors, he was able to catch three within a matter of minutes. I wrapped them in a towel and they pulsed in my hands like a human heart as I walked through the salon to the galley. I couldn’t help but say a little prayer for them as it is a rarity that I kill something myself that I am going to eat. But I assured them that their lives would not go to waste and they would be treated with the utmost respect – in my frying pan… I scaled the little fishes under running water which took all of three seconds. Then I lopped off their little heads, cut through their tiny little chests and disemboweled them – not that there was a lot of disemboweling to be had, they were only 3-inches long at best. Once they were cleaned and ready to go, I dredged them in flour, fried them in oil, sprinkled them with salt and a fresh squeeze of lime and bombs-away, gobbled them down… And, well, they were really good; just like I remember from Balboa and I’m still alive to attest to the fact that they are edible and won’t kill you. Once it was proven that they were edible, the crew (hesitantly) gave them a try and were actually surprised that they were so good…

Ha! Too bad I didn’t have another bottle of the Blanco Nieva. I would’ve sat out on the swim platform all evening drinking my wine and eating those little fishies…