THE MYSTERY OF ANCHOVY FILLETS by Howard Feigenbaum
As a young boy, I caught my first glimpse of anchovy fillets on top of a pizza. My father, a strong man with strong tastes, brought home an extra-large pie for the family. I’d never before eaten those smelly, little fish. Because I admired the man, whatever he liked, I liked. Of course, he was the type who favored a stinky wedge of Danish blue cheese as a late-night snack.
For many years I paid no attention to the origins of anchovy fillets. Who filleted them? How did they end up laid flat against each other in a tin can? A visit to the Monterey Bay Aquarium instilled admiration for the beauty of anchovies. I watched a school swim endlessly in their two-story circular tank while flashing bursts of reflected light. Who would want to harm these delightful creatures?
Appreciation for a good Caesar salad made me put aside the fish’s esthetic appeal. Anchovies made the dish work. After all, every larger fish in the ocean, and plenty of pelicans, dined on anchovies. Why shouldn’t I? Nature produced an abundant supply.
The question remained: How are fish that miniscule filleted? I asked around. Nobody knew. My experience with sardines didn’t help—and I’ve opened a lot of sardine tins. Packed sardines have all their body parts except the head, while the much smaller anchovy has no head, tail, fins, backbone, or internal organs. Clearly, someone’s done a number on the poor anchovy.
Eager to learn about the transformation, I turned to YouTube. A half-dozen videos later, this is what I discovered. The fish are caught in large nets by men shining lights on the water. Then, they’re packed in ice—the fish, not the men. At the factory, women with fast hands decapitate the unsuspecting devils—the fish, not the men.
The headless creatures are heavily salted as they’re packed in containers and left alone for a year. When the fish appear again, their outer skin is largely eroded by the salt. The quick-handed women return. Their swift fingers flick away any trace of skin, remove the tail, the fins, the backbone, and internal organs. With deliberate care, the ladies gently place the only parts left, the fillets, one on top of another in a narrow can. A dose of olive oil is added for preservation and to spread the odor over your fingers when you remove the lid.
There you have it, my friends—no elves with teensy knives filleting diminutive fish. Rather, the diabolical method relies on stripping away every element of the fish except the desired end product.
Let that be a lesson to you: Beware of any attraction to shiny lights. And avoid quick-handed women at all costs.
