The Third Plate: Field Notes on the Future of Food Page 29

  The specialty seafood business gave a coterie of American chefs impeccable fish. It also gave small fishermen a viable business. And yet their thoughtful practices did not reflect the general ethos of the fishing industry.

  With advances in technology and the scorched-earth tactics of drag-netting, seafood catches looked like those towers of shrimp at an all-you-can-eat buffet: bounteous and inexhaustible. The fishing spree of the 1980s and ’90s decimated fisheries, kicking off the kind of lavish party that never ends well. Among those who understood that this was too much of a good thing were fishermen themselves. They warned of future problems. Many clamored for regulation. (And when fishermen want more government involvement, something is terribly wrong.)

  Mitchell is adamant that if Palladin and Le Coze—and all the other chefs who followed in their footsteps—hadn’t created the specialty seafood market, the big boats would have cleaned out the seas long ago. “They still might,” Mitchell told me. “Chefs helped good fishermen distinguish themselves from the ones who weren’t. These small fishermen are not the problem. They’re part of the solution. They generally catch the fish at the right time, when they’re fat and full of flavor, not young, tasteless, and unable to reproduce. You can’t do that with large boats.”

  But chefs are also to blame. Palladin and Le Coze helped create a demand—and a chain of supply—that would eventually cripple the industry. It’s not hard to see the irony. The two men who perhaps did the most to help chefs access quality seafood and introduce Americans to unknown flavors of the sea catalyzed the decline of many of the fish they promoted. (They never lived to see it. Le Coze suffered a heart attack in 1994, at the age of forty-nine, and Palladin died of lung cancer in 2002, at the age of fifty-five.)

  No one could have predicted the declines—except perhaps Carl, who warned Ángel of his efforts to popularize the unpopular. But even Carl is amazed at the rapid destruction of once plentiful fish like monkfish and skate, which Le Coze single-handedly popularized twenty years ago. The chefs’ influence was profound—and it still is.

  Mitchell called me recently after visiting the Portland Fish Exchange. Daily catches now average about seven thousand pounds. “When there’s a twenty-thousand-pound day, fishermen say, ‘Look, plenty of fish!’ Which is what we used to say in 1988 after a two-hundred-thousand-pound day.”

  It’s brought chefs into a kind of meta moment: prices have risen so drastically in the face of steep declines that a new generation of chefs is struggling to include fish on its menus. They’re asking questions about a future that appears grim. Is the answer to identify and support better fisheries management? Or are we going to have to cook with less fish? Or less local fish? Or more of the less desired fish? Or more farmed fish?

  Over the past twenty years, we’ve used our influence to identify and boycott particular species of fish—a thumbs-up for fish A, a thumbs-down for fish B. The “Give Swordfish a Break” campaign of the late 1990s was one such example. It worked spectacularly well. More than seven hundred chefs around the country pledged to drop one of their best sellers from the menu. Thousands more soon followed.

  Calling attention to certain well-managed fisheries (“Day Boat Chatham Cod,” “Alaskan King Salmon,” “Maine Diver Sea Scallops,” “Hook and Line Haddock,” “Sustainable Sea Bass”)—the widely imitated Bouley form of menu writing—may feel contrived, but it’s been another significant step toward raising the public’s consciousness and preserving the right kind of fisheries.

  And yet the question remains whether, in advertising these delicious and sustainable alternatives, we may be unwittingly endangering them for the future.

  CHAPTER 22

  WHEN ÁNGEL described the ancient tuna-fishing ritual of the almadraba over lunch with Lisa and Carl, it had sounded interesting and rewarding in the way that important museum exhibits often sound interesting and rewarding—but don’t necessarily compel you to go. It didn’t help that since the lunchtime debate between Ángel and Carl, I had gotten the suspicion that Ángel, notwithstanding his good intentions, had it wrong about the almadraba. Without seeing it, I had sided with Carl, who has an uncomplicated view of fishing bluefin (don’t do it) and sustainability (biology trumps culture). How can you disagree with outlawing the killing of a species that’s going extinct?

  But six months later, Ángel called Lisa to announce that he’d partnered with Miguel and Veta la Palma for an exciting new project. Partnered? The last I’d heard from Ángel, he hadn’t even deemed Veta la Palma worthy of a visit. I was a little jealous, then impatient to learn more. A partnership between Ángel and Miguel seemed to me inevitable, a meeting of complementary minds.

  Ángel called me himself a week or so after that to say, first, that he wanted me to see his “revolutionary new project before the world learned of its existence” and, second, to inform me that the captain of one of the almadraba boats, an admirer of his, was willing to allow me on board during the catch.

  Lisa (who would also be allowed on board) called me as soon as I hung up the phone with Ángel. “It’s incredibly rare for an outsider to get to witness the almadraba,” she said. “Especially a foreigner!”

  I reached out to Miguel, wondering how he felt about the opportunity. There was silence on the phone, and then Miguel said, “I don’t want to impose, of course, but is there any way you think I might be able to go with you? I mean, this is my dream.”

  Later that week, Ángel called one last time. “Come. Do as the Romans did,” he said. So I went.

  Lisa, Miguel, and I planned to meet the evening before our almadraba expedition at El Campero restaurant, in the town of Barbate, in Cádiz, the southernmost province of Spain. Shoehorned between the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea, the area evokes a forgotten time of small towns and picturesque coastline, before high-rises and cheap tourist attractions blighted the country’s seaboard. There’s a warmth to Cádiz, too, and it’s not just from the blazing Iberian sun. The people seem friendlier, more relaxed. Maybe too relaxed: Cádiz’s staggering unemployment rate has for decades been Spain’s highest.

  Barbate is the most famous of the almadraba towns along the coast, and El Campero, as restaurants go, is bluefin ground zero. Nose-to-tail dining is how a place like El Campero would be described in Brooklyn or Berkeley. (And that may be underplaying it; you can order tuna face, heart, ear, and semen.) But the restaurant is bright, nondescript, and totally without pretension. There is no big to-do, no fuss over a cuisine that utilizes the whole animal.

  As we waited for Miguel, Lisa explained how bluefin tuna is a way of life there. “Like Eskimos and their fifty names for snow, the people of Barbate have twenty-five words to describe parts of the tuna,” she told me. “This isn’t a trend or a fad. Tuna is to the people of Barbate what jamón ibérico is to most Spaniards—culture by way of gastronomy, with deep ties to the region’s identity.”

  While she spoke, I started to realize something that had eluded me until this moment. Miguel and Veta la Palma (and Eduardo and the dehesa) had made such strong impressions on me at least in part because of Lisa herself. Her translation made my visits possible in the first place, but more than that, I was able to better understand them thanks to the framework of information—gastronomic, historical, religious, and cultural—that she provided.

  Farm-to-table cooking, or any of the gastronomic variations associated with sustainability, usually involves something larger than delicious food. The relationship between a farmer and a chef, or the connection between a community and an ecology—the story behind the food—can be as important as the food itself. (Jamón is delicious, but jamón as an expression of a two-thousand-year-old landscape is something to savor.) The waiter is often that conduit. Food writers can be, too. At Stone Barns, the education center plays that role, bridging the gap between farm and restaurant. But here in Spain, it took someone like Lisa, a deeply knowledgeable interpreter of the language and culture,
to illuminate the meaning of the experiences.

  Miguel arrived looking exuberant. He and his wife were adopting a baby from China. He said he had been busy lately, taking a course on Chinese history. He had also spent the past year learning Mandarin, which he found tiring and difficult but worth the effort. “She will be Spanish, of course, but she will know who she is as well.”

  It was a beautiful early evening, the sun’s brilliant light settling into the town. I asked the waitress if we could move to one of the outdoor tables, which were all unoccupied. She looked at me, puzzled. When we arrived at a table, it seemed as though she still couldn’t believe we actually wanted to sit outside. She spoke quickly in Spanish, then cried out, “Levante!” I must have seemed confused, because she looked at Lisa and Miguel with an expression that said, Tourist?

  Miguel said he’d heard warnings of the levante on the radio while driving to meet us. He explained that the levante is one of the strong winds that historically plagued the region’s fishermen. One belief has it that during the worst of the winds, dead people’s souls are being blown from their graves; another tradition, like that of the French mistral, suggests that the winds make you a little loopy. Either way, their existence, defined by the direction of the wind, determines the fate of the fishermen’s catch, and therefore their survival.

  The waitress returned with our beers, inquiring about our comfort. I didn’t even feel a breeze, or the hint that one might appear. But she was very concerned. When we assured her we were fine, she shrugged, washing her hands of responsibility.

  By the second beer Miguel had relaxed in his chair and looked out over the town, the fading light painting the sides of Barbate’s ramshackle homes. I asked about Veta la Palma. I knew that changes were imminent, especially with the farm’s sea bass on the verge of being available in New York City. Miguel didn’t look very excited by the prospect.

  “Any day now they tell me the papers will clear,” he said. “We’ve entered into a kind of spiral that we can’t get out of.” And then, as if catching himself, he added, “In a good way.”

  He got up and excused himself for the bathroom. I asked Lisa how a spiral could be good—maybe the stress of the job was getting to him. The waitress appeared with more drinks. Lisa shrugged and whispered, “Maybe it’s the levante.”

  When Miguel returned, I asked him if he had second thoughts about selling his fish abroad. “No, no, this is very exciting. But I worry about how much bass we will have to sell.” Since I had been under the impression that Veta la Palma could sell a lot more fish if only they had greater demand, I found the admission surprising and asked him to clarify.

  “True, absolutely, we do have a lot more fish to sell, except chefs want the sea bass. Right now the farm produces twelve hundred tons of fish per year—nine hundred of this is sea bass. We don’t have trouble selling bass.”

  I told him I didn’t see the problem. “I think the carrying capacity of the system is about two thousand tons,” he said. “I don’t believe we can go beyond this without compromising the quality or hurting the farm.” Two thousand tons did not amount to a lot of fish. Should New York City chefs taste what I tasted, the farm’s supply would be exhausted in a few days. Factor in chefs from Las Vegas, San Francisco, and Los Angeles—all popular spots for Rod Mitchell’s deliveries—and it would last a few hours. Miguel nodded.

  We sat in silence until Lisa asked, “Could Veta la Palma produce more if some of the other fish you raised were popular?”

  “Yes,” he said, looking at her with an expression of relief and bewilderment—relief, perhaps, that such a bewilderingly obvious question hadn’t been asked before. “Yes, absolutely. The sea bass, as I have explained, is raised in a semiextensive regime. That is to say, from at least March until October, and sometimes longer, the natural productivity within the system—the phytoplankton, zooplankton, crustaceans such as shrimps, small wild fishes, et cetera—feeds the bass. For the other times, the feed is complemented with a supply of dry food, or fishmeal.”

  “Isn’t this true of all your fish?” I asked him.

  “Oh, no, not at all.” Miguel pushed his beer aside and sat forward in his chair. “The mullets, for example, their regime is absolutely extensive.” He paused to make sure I understood. “No feed. Nothing. It is important to remember that the bass are active predators. They are carnivorous and rank high on the ecological network—the amount of energy needed to raise them is greater than the mostly herbivorous mullet. Mullets need less energy to live and reproduce. This is the second law of thermodynamics, and it’s applicable to the laws of ecology—well, actually, it’s a principle of ecology, as ecology doesn’t have a lot of laws.”

  Just then, a strong wind arrived so suddenly, it was as if a switch had been flipped. A brutal current of air threatened, for a moment, to levitate our table and the three of us along with it. And then, just as suddenly, it died. The calm returned, only now it felt a little eerie.

  Miguel hardly noticed. “Mullets are filter-feeding fish. They are all the time removing excess nutrients—nitrogen and phosphorus, to name the two most important. If they don’t get taken up by the mullets or the other filter feeders in the system, these nutrients become concentrated.”

  “Algae blooms,” I said, wanting to show him that I followed his logic.

  “Yes,” he said, sitting back a little in his chair. “They do the work for you. This is the ecological network. They are the keystone to the network. My belief is that within this network we could double the rate of mullet production, if we had a market for mullets.”

  “That’s the problem,” I said. “Mullet. Tough to sell mullet.” Miguel nodded sympathetically.

  “It sounds like I fell for the wrong fish,” I said.

  “You fell in love with a fish that has the highest commercial value but the lowest ecological value. So, maybe,” he said. “Yes.”

  We moved inside for our dinner reservation. Ángel had arranged for the mayor of Barbate to welcome us at some point during dinner. Lisa was on the phone with him when we sat.

  “By now I’m sure you’ve heard,” the mayor said into the phone, without introducing himself. “The levante is fucking us.”

  “Does this mean the almadraba is going to be impossible?” Lisa pressed. “Because we’ve come all the way—”

  The mayor interrupted her. “Please, Miss Lisa, we’re in Barbate. Nothing is impossible,” he said. He promised to join us soon.

  As we waited for menus, Lisa diagrammed the almadraba. She made a rough outline of southern Spain on the back of her napkin. “We’re here,” she said, marking an X near the southernmost tip of Spain. “Africa is right down here.” She sketched Africa. Morocco’s shores, at the northwest tip of Africa, were not far away. The Strait of Gibraltar, dividing two countries—and two continents—measures only eight miles wide, making the waterway more riverlike than the geographic distinction seems to warrant.

  “The Strait of Gibraltar, of course, connects the Atlantic over here”—Lisa drew an X for the Atlantic, to the left of Barbate—“and the Mediterranean over here,” where she drew another X, across the Strait and far to the right of Barbate. “So the tuna enter from the Atlantic, looking to spawn in the Mediterranean, which is what they’re programmed to do. The labyrinth of almadraba nets is set up along the coast here.” She made a line that passed several towns along the coast, including Barbate.

  “As the tuna flood into the Strait—well, they don’t so much flood as sort of trickle these days—some of them swim closer to the shore. That’s when they enter the nets, which are placed in the water from the middle of May until sometime in June or July, depending on the quotas and the weather and the number of tunas. They move into successively smaller nets, until they reach the last chamber, roughly the size of a football field. And that’s when the levantá [literally the raising or lifting up—and not to be confused with levante] begins.”


  The mesh holes of the nets are large enough to allow smaller tuna, the ones that haven’t reached maturity, to escape and forge on to the Mediterranean, where they continue their life cycle.

  A waiter arrived with raw, thinly sliced bluefin tuna belly, perplexingly served with chopsticks, soy sauce, and wasabi. For a restaurant specializing in classic southern Spanish cuisine, it seemed incongruous. I hadn’t cooked bluefin (or eaten it) since that fateful day I prepared it for Caroline Bates. The memory, and all that I’d learned over the past few years, didn’t make me especially hungry. I allowed myself the thought of not touching it, but then what was I doing at a restaurant devoted to bluefin tuna?

  Miguel, apparently free of guilt, had nearly finished by the time I picked up my chopsticks. “I like this very much,” he said between bites. “The wasabi reminds me of the Indian food I had in Tanzania. I like it!”

  If there was anything disconcerting about watching a champion of sustainability tear into the toro, I didn’t get far forming the thought. The chef of El Campero, Pepe Melero, suddenly appeared at our table. Pepe was short and stocky, with a round, weather-beaten face. His outsize mustache was exaggerated by small, recessed eyes that darted around as we introduced ourselves. “Ángel asked that I prepare a little tasting menu of tuna,” he said shyly. Miguel smiled, nodding approval.

  I asked about the Japanese influence, pointing to the pool of soy sauce on my plate. Pepe explained that the Japanese arrived in Barbate and the surrounding towns about thirty years ago as bluefin in the Sea of Japan became harder to find. Impressed by the quality of the almadraba tuna, which they began buying in large numbers, Japanese boats arrived to survey the scene. At the time, tuna in Spain was still mostly preserved or canned. There was no tradition of raw tuna. Sensing an opportunity, Pepe invited the boat captains’ personal chefs into his kitchen.