The doorbell rang the other day. It was a door to door fish salesman - or rather the advance man who asked if I wanted some fish - if so, the salesman would call in a few minutes. I've seen these guys around north London a couple of times before, although I dont know whether this was the same person who called a few months back, when I was just going away for the weekend, so didnt want to buy. Like the others, they've got broad Geordie accents and says they are down selling fish from North Shields. When the second man arrives a few minutes later, he's got a basket full of largish, clingfilm-wrapped packets of what he tells me are cod, monkfish, haddock, salmon, sea bass etc for £9.80 each, which seems like good value since there's probably enough for four portions. I assume that he is happy to sell everything at that price - the economics work by putting less fish in the packets of the more expensive ones. The guy is friendly and there's no pressure to buy. He's got a white fishmongers jacket and a name on the breast pocket and shows me something which is labelled sea bass, but I look closer at it and it doesnt look like any sea bass I've ever bought - the skin is dullish green, with a line down the middle, not the bright check of a bass. In fact, it looks more like a cod or perhaps pollock. I dont think that's sea bass, I say, the packet must be mislabelled. He shrugs, doesnt say anything and continues rifling throught the packs. I should have picked up on this and pursued the point. He shows me a pack of what he says is John Dory - my kind of fish and one you dont see that often. This doesn't look like cod but I cant see the distinctive spot that appears on the side, I assume it's hidden by the way the fillet is folded. But the packet is labelled Tusk. What's this I ask? "It's Tusk, what we call John Dory up north. Big ugly, spiny things.'' He jabs his finger at the packet 'You'll see the spot there when you open it, they all have it.'' He's talking about the right fish anyway, and, although I've never heard of Tusk, who am I to disagree. He mentions a couple of other local names for monkfish and he says that herrings up there are called "finneys' or something like that. Fine. I give him a tenner and tell him to keep the change.
Its only later when I unwrap the pack that I realise that this is not John Dory. It's the wrong shape and had clearly come off a long, rather than round, fish. Two minutes research on the net tells me that Tusk, also known as Cusk, or to give the Latin name Brosme Brosme, is one of those obscure members of the Cod family found commonly on both sides of the northern North Atlantic. I know a bit about fish, but not that much, I'm afraid. And its never been an alternate name for John Dory. Although it is listed in official 'catch' records for fish markets, Tusk does not see, to be fished in huge numbers, mainly because its a slow moving bottom feeder and never gathers in sufficient quantities to be trawler friendly. And neither does it have any particular reputation for food, so you wont see it in your local fishshop. Alan Davidson, the authority on such matters, devotes scant mention to it in his definative North Atlantic Seafood, giving only one recipe, although he does say it is said to be good smoked. But I suspect that most Tusk caught by trawlers looking for cod or haddock has always gone straight into 'seafood products' or pet food because it does not have the same texture or taste as what the trade likes to call 'prime' fish.
However, as we all know, cod and haddock have been awfully overfished and we should be all be trying out less well known species, like pollock. But not Tusk, which gets top rating of 5 the Marine Conservation Society Fish to Avoid list, because it is a slowing growing, low reproductive capacity fish and stocks are low.
But, as I said in my earlier posting on hake, once a fish that should not have been caught has been caught and bought, in my view letting it go to waste only compounds the crime. So we ate the Tusk, cooked, as I had intended to cook the John Dory, by simply frying it on a griddle plate and serving with a salsa verde and some fried potatoes. It was nice, actually, a bit like pollock, although I'm not sure I'd want to eat it that often.
So, back to my door to door salesman. What was going on there? It seems inconcievable that he made a mistake but was he really a fish salesman for P.Youngs Fish, the name on his coat and the label on the packet? I wanted to remonstrate with them, but there's no listed telephone number in North Shields for P.Youngs Fish. The label also says it was packed by Peter Kinnal, Wholesale Fish Merchant with a telephone number in North Shields. I've rung it several times, but there is no reply. Did the salesman assume that I would not realise the con - which I now suspect it was - when I opened the pack? But, if that's the case, why put a traceable label on it? Was it really his fish to sell? Or is the label a con as well?
I'm still not sure what to think - apart from the sea bass, the rest of the fish in his basket looked exactly what he said it was - its difficult to mistake salmon or smoked haddock, although I didnt look closely at the monkfish. Still kicking myself for not being more alert, I'll pursue this further. But if these guys are conning, are they the same ones who called before? Or who used to call on my neighbours down in Holloway? Why con and come back? Its against the rules. As he left, I asked the salesman when he would be back. "Oh aye, we're down this way every nine weeks or so, I'll put you on my list...'' Fine, I'll be waiting for a little chat, my friend.

I love the smell (to misquote Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now) of toast in the mornings...or indeed at any time. Sourdough or granary, slices of day old brioche, baguette or ciabatta, muffins, crumpets and teacakes, bagels, hot cross buns, Cornish saffron buns, Arabic flat breads and Indian nans....there's nothing I wont put in a toaster or under the grill. There's something about the application of heat and a little light charring to bread that creates a whole new set of aromas and flavours, even to the dullest bit of white sliced - not that such a thing is ever found in my house. And, I've discovered, there is a proper name for the process by which we create toast - the Maillard reaction, of which more later. I'm musing on toast because I've just bought a new toaster after the last one finally gave up following four years of hard labour. It's not a fancy designer toaster, where form comes before function, but a fairly average Tefal job, the updated model of the last one, which worked perfectly well.
But it did make me think, while perusing the vast range of toasters on sale, that the British appear to be the world leaders in toast and, indeed, it was a British firm, Crompton & Company, that made the first electric toaster in 1893. Much as they love their bread in France, Spain and Italy, toasters are not quite a fixture of every kitchen and toast not so important as it is in this country, with our traditions of tea cakes and sweet breads of all kinds. If the French want to toast something, they bung it under the grill. The Italians of course created the paninni, which seems to have spread like wildfire to every corner cafe, but I dont think they are quite the same thing at all. There is something very English and comforting about our toast tradition - think of toasting crumpets on a fork in front of an open fire, a pot of tea and Gentlemen's relish to hand at about five pm on a winter's evening, or hot buttered toast and Marmite (actually, I'm a Vegemite convert, but thats for a later posting) at breakfast and toasted Saffron buns and hot chocolate after a walk along the Cornish cliffs. No wonder Nigel Slater entitled his wonderful and evocative childhood food memoir Toast, no wonder that in Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Graeme uses images of golden globules of melting butter on hot toast, to evoke a sense of home and fireside to a homesick Mole.
I learnt about Cromptons and the Maillard reaction from a fascinating article on a website called American Heritage. It told me, obviously, that it was Americans who actually made the toaster what it is today. More interestingly, the article says that infrared radiation is the key to making toast. "Direct heating of bread to at least 310 degrees Fahrenheit triggers what food chemists call the Maillard reaction, in which sugars and amino acids in the bread react to form numerous flavorful compounds responsible for the change in the bread’s taste, color, and aroma. The Maillard reaction also reduces the bread’s water content by about two-thirds, making the toast crunchy.''
You can read the full piece here http://www.americanheritage.com/articles/magazine/it/2005/2/2005_2_6.shtml.
But to me, it will never be about creating a Maillard reaction. For me, toast is about something far more elemental than mere scientific formula.

Still not able to blog much - computer problems and aches in my right arm are not encouraging me to do much. Its very frustrating.
But, as someone who tries to eat ethically, I just wanted to write about a dilemma I experienced. Last week, I went to Cardiff for a seminar of journalists in education, because I've got a part time job teaching news reporting at Goldsmiths starting in September, which is very exciting.
The night before the meeting, most of the journalists went for a meal at a Portugese restuarant in Cardiff. Now, I like Portugese food and this seemed a nice place, genuine, bustling, lots of happy groups of people, and interesting things on the menu.
I didnt want meat - it was a warm night, suggesting something lighter and I'd eaten a lot of meat earlier in the week - although there were great looking kebab type things, with hunks of chicken and lamb on a skewer suspended above the table. But all the main course fish on the menu was potentially problematic and the waiters didnt seem the types to know, for instance, whether the salmon was farmed, or the halibut from sustainable sources. I know this is difficult when eating out, rather , than buying from a shop, but if you are going to try and eat ethically, then you have to do your best and encourage restuarants of all kinds to name their sources, so to speak. I would not have had the chicken on the Cardiff menu, for instance, simply because I knew it was almost certainly not free range and I have and absolute ban on eating chicken that I can't be reasonably certain about. This can cause problems: I once created a bit of a scene in the restaurant at the Globe Theatre (and quite a smart one) because they could not tell me the source of the chicken on their post-show menu. My point is that restuarants like that at the Globe theatre, which operate to a certain standard and charge appropriately ought to be able to tell the customer where the chicken (or fish) is from, so that we can make informed choices. And anyway, I would expect a place like that to have free range chicken and it shocked me when the waiter eventually said he believed it wasnt free range. I ended up with a rather dull pasta dish.
So, back to Cardiff and a restuarant, despite an interesting menu, is not the kind of more upmarket place where they are going to know and cite the source of everything they sell. And their special fish of the night was hake. Now, in common with most of the Iberian peninsular, I love hake, but I also know that its one of the most endangered white fish because of over fishing and that the Spaniards particularly, have been guilty of plundering stocks without thought for the future. But I also know that they would cook and serve the hake with love and care at this place and that the greater crime was to have caught and bought it in the first place, rather than consume it once the deed has been done. That creates another ethical dilemma - the wasting of food. So, I ordered the hake. I consoled myself with the thought that, when the dish arrived - the fish steaks pan fried, with a garlicky sauce - at least it was from a large, adult fish, which would have had a decent life and spawned some offspring. Eating younger, smaller fish from endangered stocks, which is increasingly happening, is entirely wrong. But all was not well - this not being London, they served two huge steaks of hake and I could only manage one. The second would almost certainly have gone straight to the kitchen scraps bin. I couldnt really ask for a doggy bag to take back to my hotel. In London, I would have turned it into fishcakes the next day. So, it seems that whatever you try to do to eat ethically and with environmental awareness, there is some new dilemma around every corner. And the hake? It was delicious, of course. But I'm still worrying about that wasted steak.

Have not blogged for week due to following: Severe rsi in my right hand made using the computer, particularly the mouse very difficult, so I needed to limit my computer use for a few days. The problem, I think, was using the mouse a lot, rather than writing with the keyboard. Thanks to a very nice man called Martyn at the RSI Shop, I've now got a new type of joy-stick style mouse, which is just as effective, but much less demanding on my wrist and arm. I'm hoping it works. It has to. Secondly, the computer itself, my much loved Apple Mac G5, keeps crashing. Its a long and complicated story and I know what the problem is and how to deal with it, but I'm waiting for another laptop to be repaired so I've something to use when the Mac goes away for repair. Until then, my use of the computer is a bit erratic. Thirdly, had some friends over for dinner on Saturday night and went for a long walk in Epping Forest on Sunday, where, amazingly, the rain held off. All of this has kept me away from the keyboard and, yes, my arm has begun to stop aching.
So what did I cook on Saturday night? Well, a lot of dishes similar to those I cooked two weeks ago, for the white wine tasting, including the potatoes with lemon fennel and olives, on top of which I baked several red mullet, so I wont bother giving the recipe because its below in this blog. You just cook the potato dish until its almost done, then place the red mullet, slashed diagonally, top them with some thin slices of lemon, drizzle with olive oil, season and bake for another 15 minutes or so until the fish are cooked. The mullet is expensive, but there was plenty left over, so I made risotto, using heads and bones to make stock, for supper on Monday and tonight will make arrancini (one of my all time favourite leftover dishes) from the remaining risotto...

I bought the mullet from a shop that has become my favourite fishmonger, in Green Lanes in north London. He's a typical old fashioned fishmonger, who has a very knowledgeable and discerning customer base among the local Greek community and he has adapted very well to serving them. He's not phased by someone coming in and demanding twenty red snapper or a couple of large octopus and knows he has to give his customers a wide choice of spanking fresh fresh fish. And he still has traditional salmon and kippers if you want them. On a Saturday, you have to get their early to get the best choice - as I know to my cost when I arrived one lunchtime in search of cuttlefish to be greeted with a good humoured but derisive snort - but he will start discounting as the afternoon wears on so that everything is sold. He would not dream of putting Saturdays' fish on sale on Tuesday. This is the kind of brilliant local shop that we should support against the march of the supermarkets. Long may he continue in business.