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Pompano Without Pomp
One day we puttered around down the lagoon from our fishing shack near Rio de Janeiro, tied up our punt, outboard motor and all, for there is no stealing in those parts, and climbed a rocky promontory that jutted out into the sea. We were going to try surf casting for groupers, something we had planned to do for a couple of years. In our packsack were some not too fresh mullet for bait, a couple of 100-meter ropy handlines dyed brown with Brazil wood, equipped with hooks and weights, ready to go; and, in case we were hungry before we caught fish, we had some oranges, olives, a loaf of bread, and a bundle of bacon for bacon sandwiches.
Well, we cast and cast till the old soup bones ached, perhaps not far enough out, although we'd seen natives doing it on this very spot, with success. We threw our lines like lassos, whirling away, trying various spots that looked like possible lurking places for those big rock bass. But not a single strike.
Far below us we could see another fisherman, all alone, hard at work surf-casting at the mouth of the lagoon. He had landed one fighting silver fish, and we saw him unhook it over a pool in the rocks to keep it alive. It looked like a fine fat pompano, that king of southern fish epicures go for in Florida. After that he had no luck either, although from the way he went at it we saw he was a native, probably a professional, and knew the tricks better than we did. Finally we got so hungry we just had to have his fish. So we hollared to attract his attention, and then wigwagged, in what South American sign language we knew, for him to bring it to us, making the Brazilian Indian motion of rubbing our thumbs across the tips of our fingers, which means "money." He proved to be a professional surf caster for pompano, and when he climbed up to bring us his beauty, he stayed to kill and gut it for us, and was tickled when we gave him half a dollar, which is more than he would have got after carrying it all the way to the Rio market. So there we were with our whole fish, on the bare rocks, modern Robinson Crusoes, with almost no fuel, not a cooking utensil, and no salt. Our lines were set and we didn't want to leave them, so we explored and found the remains of an old fire that had evidently been used many times for night fishing. Ends of faggots lay about, and chunks of wood burned to charcoal.
Soon we had three loose rocks laid together in a U with the open side to windward, and by using up all the paper in our pockets and pack, got a cook fire going. With the help of the charcoal it was beautiful in short order. Meanwhile, we had slit our bacon into ribbons and larded that already fat fish, using a dirk-like native knife to make the incisions and poke the bacon into them. We larded our pompano because that was the only way we had of seasoning him, except with those olives, which we cut up and popped inside him with more bacon and a squeeze of orange juice.
We laid charred faggots across the stones for a grill, put the fish on top, laid a strip of bacon over the skin just for more salt, and started cooking. But the bacon strip had to come off just as soon as too much fat dripped into the fire and sent up a greasy smoke. So we kept dribbling orange juice over Pompey instead, and turned him a couple times. He got done just in the nick of time, for the supporting faggots had almost burned in two and might have dropped him into the ashes.
We had hit on a fisherman's recipe brand new to us, and so good we not only passed it on, but have used it in many a kitchen since, adding any civilized improvements the occasion suggested, but still cooking our pompano without any pomp.
Buried in the anecdote is a workable method: a whole fat fish larded with bacon, stuffed with chopped olives, basted with orange juice, and grilled over coals. Here is what needs translating for a kitchen or a backyard grill.
- The hinge: bacon is the saltWith no salt on the rocks, the seasoning comes entirely from bacon pushed into slits in the flesh, plus the brine of the olives. If you use a modern cured bacon and salt-packed olives, do not add further salt until you taste the cooked fish.
- Larding, properly doneCut bacon into narrow ribbons the thickness of a pencil, slash the fish diagonally through the skin about half an inch deep at two-inch intervals on both sides, and push a ribbon into each slit with the back of a knife. The original used a stiff native knife both to make the incisions and to poke the bacon in.
- Size and yieldA market pompano runs 1 1/2 to 3 lb whole, which serves two to four. Anything much over 3 lb will need the flesh scored deeper so the interior cooks before the skin burns.
- SubstitutesTrue pompano (Trachinotus carolinus) is not cheap and not everywhere. Any firm whole fish of moderate oiliness takes this treatment: bluefish, small jack, branzino, mackerel for the strongly flavoured version.
- The fireThe U of stones open to windward is a draft channel; on a kettle grill, bank the coals to one side and cook the fish over medium-hot coals with the lid vented, not directly over a roaring bed. Charcoal rather than flaming wood is what made this work.
- Why the bacon strip comes offThe strip laid over the skin exists only to add salt to the surface. Once its fat starts dripping and flaring, it is doing nothing but coating the fish in sooty smoke. Pull it at the first greasy flare, as the original does.
- Basting with orangeHaving pulled the bacon, the original kept dribbling orange juice over the fish in its place, and turned it a couple of times. Use fresh juice, not concentrate, and baste at each turn.
- DonenessA 2 lb whole fish over medium coals takes roughly 6 to 10 minutes a side, depending on the bed. It is done when the flesh at the thickest point behind the head comes away from the backbone cleanly; cooks often pull it at around 135F at the spine, though official guidance for fish is 145F. Pompano dries fast; err early.
- Turning a whole fishThe improvised grill of charred sticks is the weak point of the original method and nearly dropped the fish in the ashes. A hinged fish basket, or two wide spatulas, will spare you the same anxiety.
Pompano was a fish American food writers of the last century reached for when they wanted to invoke luxury without invoking France, and its reputation as a "king of southern fish" -- the phrase the author himself uses -- owes much to New Orleans and the Florida coast, where pompano en papillote was a restaurant set piece. Species of the same genus range down the Atlantic coast of South America, which is why a Rio surf caster on a rock outside a lagoon could land one on a handline. The technique here, larding with strips of pork fat driven into slits in the flesh, is long-established European practice for lean meat and for anything cooked over dry heat. The handlines dyed with brazilwood are worth noting too: the tree gave the country its name long before it gave anyone a fish.