Swordfish

Firm tuna or swordfish holds up to the heat of the grill in these chipotle-spiced brochetas de pescado. 

Tender grilled swordfish steaks are topped with a bright, garlicky Mediterranean-inspired dressing of chopped whole lemon and oregano.

Salting fish removes the fishy-tasting juice from the flesh.

This satisfying seafood dinner comes together in as little as 20 minutes. Cooking the fish, then making the warm, herby mustard dressing in the same skillet also means cleanup is a breeze.

Homemade harissa is simpler to make than you might think, and packs a flavorful punch on swordfish.

NVA: Mangoes originated in India, but today they are loved in cuisines all over the world. The Sanskrit word for mango is amra, meaning "of the people." I think barbecue means "of the people" in America so I have united them here. Justin and I demonstrate this dish at mango festivals from time to time. The bonus: We always bring a bowl of it premade so that the guests can have a taste. That means the batch we make up on stage comes home. You'll be left with half of the BBQ sauce from this recipe, but you'll be pleased as you can use it on any kind of thing in the world that you might barbecue. It is outrageously good on a burger.

You’ll find many recipes for swordfish in Sicily, where it is plentiful, often combined with citrus to give the meaty fish a bit of pizzazz. Here the citrus flavors come from the pesto; it’s great over grilled chicken or a steak, too.

Many Sicilian dishes feature swordfish, since it is very plentiful in the waters surrounding the island. Eggplant is also found in many dishes from this area, but I prefer the texture and taste of Japanese eggplants over the larger ones because their seeds are so tiny; there is also no need to salt the cubed eggplant because they aren’t as bitter as the fully mature ones can be.

An achiote rub is the classic Yucatan way of marinating fish. I tasted this rub for the first time in Isla Mujeres in the early 1970s, when you could still live on the beach in a palapa and hammock, eat great seafood, and drink cold beers for a few dollars per day. The fishermen would rub fish with an achiote-citrus paste and grill them on the beach over fires made from coconut husks. When I worked at Chez Panisse in the late 1970s, I duplicated this rub from my taste memory for some of their famous garlic festivals. The light citrus flavors of the achiote paste are a beautiful contrast to the oily texture of the swordfish. If you don’t have swordfish, use another meaty ocean fish such as wahoo or mahi mahi.

One departs Italy—and the European continent—for the journey to Sicilia through the narrow Straits of Messina. The city is an unlovely place, the ravages and wrecks of her face so corrected that she seems benign, with few of her old graces. Snugged inside the tumult of her port sit a few humble houses still dispatching, to the fishermen and the local citizenry, the stews and broths from the old tomes. And it was at one table there where we ate a most luscious rendition of swordfish. A dish typical of Messina, and now of the whole island, it seems, this one was extraordinary for the rich elements of its stuffing, but more for the divine splash of Malvasia in its little sauce.

Daughter-of-the-wind is her name in Arabic—Bent el-Rhia—the gorgeous island of Pantelleria sits seventy kilometers from Tunisia in the Egadian Archipelago. She is full of sea caves and strange, vaporous grottoes. She wears Neolithic ruins among her palms and oleander. And in the contrada, neighborhood, called Favarotta, we ate swordfish—thin steaks of it cut from the center of the just-caught fish, first rubbed with olive oil and then quickly roasted over a red-sparking grapevine fire. The fisherman/cook laid them over a cool tomato jam and we feasted. Too, we ate yellow-crumbed semolina bread roasted over the then quieter fire, and when its heat was nearly spent, we skewered figs—green ones and the first of the summer—onto grapevine twigs and held them near the fire until their juices were warmed and we ate them with the last sips of Pantelleria’s luscious moscato.

Whaling and swordfishing have been the tempestuous business of Bagnara for three thousand years. Wedged as the port is twixt great rocks and the Mar Tirreno at the savage hem of the Aspromonte, it forms a fittingly folkloric tableau for the lumbering black ships trudging out for the hunt. A tower, higher than the masts, is the tight, trembly perch from which one man sights the fish. As did the Greeks from whom they are descended, the harpooners tramp out onto walkways hinged a hundred feet out from the ship over the sea, spears at the ready, to wait for the fish. Once the ships are sighted from the lighthouse, the fishermen’s wives gather on the beach with carts and wagons, transport to take the fish to market. Sometimes, fires are laid right there by the water, one fish whacked into trenchers and roasted, a barrel of wine propped against the rocks, the unfolding of an old ceremony. One fishes, one builds a fire, one eats his supper.

In the autumn, as schools of swordfish swam south into the Bay of Policastro, the fishermen of the Cilento were often their conquerors, luring the great fish with oil-soaked bread and hauling them up from the sea—porting them like vanquished kings, high atop their heads up the steep paths from the water—to their camps to roast them or smoke them over smoldering fires of pine and olive and citrus woods. Sometimes, the Cilentini cured the fish under salt and foraged grasses and spiceberries, dousing the flesh with their own rough-made spirits. Served a dish such as this, one could think it the offering of some cultivated chef, yet, then and there, it was nothing more than the improvised handiwork of hungry men.

Two types of fish—flaky salmon and meaty swordfish—produce doubly delicious grilled kebabs. Thread the fish with the grain perpendicular to the skewers. If using wooden skewers, soak them in water at least fifteen minutes to prevent them from scorching.

WITH A MEATY TEXTURE AND MILD FLAVOR, swordfish pairs flawlessly with bold ingredients. The caper-onion sauce, with bracing white wine and lemon, brings big flavor to the fish. If you can’t find swordfish, substitute another meaty fish, such as mahi-mahi.

Slow cooked onions are good enough by themselves, but when you combine them with the liquid exuded by olives and tomatoes you have a gloriously juicy bed on which to serve any fish fillet or steak. This combination, I think, is best with grilled tuna or swordfish—their meatiness gives them the presence to stand up to the richly flavored mass of onions, creating an easy dish that is strikingly Provençal and perfect for summer.

Like Japan, Korea makes good use of fermented beans, in the form of soy sauce and the terrific chilibean paste known as go chu jang (page 591). If you cannot find that, use the Sesame-Chile Paste on page 591 or hoisin, spiked with a couple of pinches of cayenne or dried red chile flakes, but don’t make the dish too hot—it should be predominantly sweet, sticky, and spicy. Serve with white rice, preferably short grain (page 507), and a salad or vegetable.

Simple skewers brushed, after grilling, with an easy, traditional Sicilian sauce. Grill some vegetables at the same time if you like. For an indoor version, see the variation.

Call this fish with puttanesca sauce—strong flavored, and swordfish can really take it. Serve with plenty of crusty bread or scoop out the fish after it cooks, put the sauce over pasta, and serve the fish on the side.

Rémoulade is an all-purpose fish sauce, a super spicy, chunky variation on mayonnaise and perhaps the Platonic ideal of tartar sauce. You can use it with poached, baked, fried, even leftover fish, but I think it’s best with grilled fish. Swordfish is the most obvious candidate, but you can grill steaks of cod, mahimahi, mako, salmon, or tuna and serve them with rémoulade; monkfish is also good. This combination is pretty rich; I’d be satisfied with a decent bread and a salad or steamed vegetable dressed with no more than lemon juice.

A wonderful technique and combination of flavors that works so well with swordfish that I would be reluctant to substitute (Spanish mackerel, usually quite difficult to find, would be a good alternative). If you’re unfamiliar with lemongrass, trim its ends, then slit and peel its tough outer layer to expose the tender core; you usually get about 1 tablespoon from each stalk. See page 500 for information on Thai fish sauce (nam pla). Sticky Rice (page 508) is the thing here, along with a lightly dressed salad or very simple vegetable dish.