Jane Grigson's Fish Book - Jane Grigson [209]
† TUNA OR TUNNY & BONITO
Thunnus thynnus & related spp.
My earliest sight of tuna was at Scarborough before the war, when tuna-fishing first became a fashionable sport there. I remember dark perfect shapes hanging against the usual grey summer sky. Their tails brushed the ground almost, but tall men had to put their heads back to look up at them. In 1933 a record-breaking tuna was landed there, weighing 425 kg (851 lb). These fish were Thunnus thynnus I suppose, the bluefin tuna or thon rouge, caught on the way north to recuperate in the rich seas after spawning, and all of 2 m (7 feet) long.
The second time I saw tuna, many years later, was in Spain on the Basque coast. This time it was a smaller species, T. alalunga, which the French call germon and the Americans albacore, the prized white tuna, the only one allowed to be sold as white meat tuna in the USA. Fat fisherwomen were pulling these tight-skinned shapes over the quays of the small port of Llanes. Natural slime and blood greased the way so that they survived the brutal handling unblemished. We did not eat tuna for dinner that evening.
Next day we were glad to blot out that over-truthful image with a visit to the cave of Pindal where a palaeolithic tuna swims gracefully on the wall. One has to step up on to a stone to make out the engraved lines. And all the time the smell of sea and wild flowers hangs about the cave. I suppose that women have been lugging these meaty, full-skinned fish over the ground hereabouts for 25,000 years and longer. Palaeolithic tuna must have been rather an indigestible chew, without the peppers and potatoes and tomatoes that now seem such an essential part of tuna cooked in the Basque style.
There are a number of other species which come under the general heading of tuna – the yellowfin (T. albacares) of the Pacific is what people in California think of as tuna. A. J. McClane, the great fish expert, is happiest when his Florida waters bring him a blackfin (T. atlanticus). The small skipjack (Euthynnus pelamis) provide the Japanese with a favourite sashimi as well as the flakes of dried fish used in making the basic stocks of their cookery: when you read the word katsuo in a list of ingredients, this is the fish that is meant. Add to that the various small fish somewhere between a mackerel and tuna proper that pass under the name of bonito – the true bonito of the Atlantic and Mediterranean (Sarda sarda) had relations in the Pacific, but the name is used for the skipjack in France and elsewhere, too, although with a qualifying adjective.
This sounds more daunting than it really is, unless you are a marine biologist. If you are a cook with a bit of experience, your eye tells you that whatever the name may be, these are solid, meaty fish and these qualities are what count in the kitchen. When I first wrote Fish Cookery, fresh tuna was a rarity in Britain. Now it is quite easy to find thanks to the immigrant communities that have so enlarged our choice of good things to eat in the last twenty years. Holidays abroad have helped, too; tuna is now more than just a handy store cupboard fish in a can. It does help to know that the best part of tuna comes from the belly. This is what you should buy at the market, and what you should look for on the can should it come from Italy – ventresca is the word.
There are various standards of canned tuna. The best consists mainly of large pieces of fish, packed in with flaky bits. The lowest quality is all flakes. For a Salade Niçoise (p. 57), you should choose the chunkiest. For sandwiches, the bitty kind is more practical. In France they often can the fish in brine – au naturel – which many people prefer to tuna in oil, especially for dishes which already contain a good deal of oil already, a salad with mayonnaise for instance. It is better, too, for the Curé’s omelette, p. 430.
Whether we shall ever see the range