The 50 Greatest Dishes of the World

by James Steen

  HÁKARL

  Nose pegs on! Here comes the putrid but character-building shark meat of Iceland.

  Hákarl is the dish which has defied disgust. By some remarkable feat of endurance, it has survived the centuries since its invention and continues to be produced – and eaten – even though its taste is arrantly revolting, its aroma utterly repugnant. There are legends about hákarl and how it is made.

  This dish is, quite simply, the fermented flesh of the Greenland shark. Some describe it as ‘putrid’. The meat of this species is poisonous when raw.

  To make it – and I hesitate before using the word – edible, it is chopped into pieces which are then tightly wrapped in cloth or paper and buried in the ground. There they stay for anywhere between one and three months, undergoing a fermentation process: a reaction of enzymes which, in this case, kills the toxins in the meat and renders it tender and digestible. The meat is then unwrapped and left to dry in the sun for a few weeks. There are Icelanders who consider it unnecessary or even wrong to bury the meat: instead they cut it into strips which are hung in the elements.

  Either way, once preserved it can be stored away in a dark cupboard and brought out for special occasions or just nibbles. The ‘rind’ is not eaten. If you lack olfactory sensory neurons, or are courageous enough to ignore the smell, you will notice that the beige meat has a fatty texture, and the after-taste is fishy.

  Shark is not always an unappealing fish to eat, and edible species include Hammerhead, Angel and Dogfish. Shark fin is a delicacy in China, and believed to give strength to the consumer. It is served in a chicken broth; the quality of the broth gives flavour; the fin has little taste but brings a gelatinous texture much appreciated by the Chinese.

  There is a debateable and controversial element to the story of hákarl: apart from being buried, is the shark meat also doused in human urine? The ammonia of urine is said to assist the cure and to neutralise the nasty pong of ammonia in the flesh. Urine is also high in salt, which would aid the cure of the shark meat.

  During my first and, sadly, only visit to beautiful Iceland, I raised this subject with a member of staff at the tourism board. She said,: ‘My grandfather used to make hákarl. He wrapped the shark meat in newspaper and then buried it under rocks. Every now and again, he would dig up the newspaper bundle and urinate on it. Then it was returned to the ground. He loved to eat it.’ Others have also told me of this peculiar custom.

  By contrast, I have since been told by another Icelander that ‘this practice, if it did happen, certainly does not happen any longer’. So step back, Health and Safety. Yet hákarl continues to be the subject of myth and fable.

  There is no doubt that it possesses a taste which has yet to be acquired by most visitors to the country, and many of its 332,529 inhabitants (particularly the younger generation).

  However, it is served by hip chefs in the capital city of Reykjavik, which food-wise is home to only a few restaurants, and a stationary van by the port which sells Icelandic frankfurters to a never-ending queue.

  Hákarl is sliced into little bite-sized cubes, but even though intriguing to the eye, this presentation does little to diminish its wretched effect on the other senses. The prosecution calls two witnesses, both renowned gourmets and men who would consider themselves capable of eating anything.

  First, Dan Doherty, executive chef at the Duck & Waffle in the City of London. He winces as he recounts to me his experience of this dish: ‘It came to the table as a small cube in a jar. I opened the jar and the smell of ammonia was so strong that it burnt my nose. I put the cube on my tongue and it started to fizz. I ate it in one go, and then necked a whole pint of beer. It was absolutely horrific.’

  Second, Heston Blumenthal, owner of the three-Michelin-starred Fat Duck in Bray-on-Thames, Berkshire. He remains shocked by the Icelandic delicacy. ‘Two of the most bizarre foods of my life were tasted in Iceland, and within two days of each other,’ he tells me. ‘First there was hákarl. One mouthful and I thought I was in anaphylactic shock. It was horrific.’ (His second most bizarre food was skata, ‘which is skate and smells like it’s rotting. It was as if my throat was suddenly controlling my body and saying, “I’m not eating that!” I spat it out.’)

  Aside from hákarl, Iceland has excellent lamb (the testicles, when boiled, are a delicacy) and dairy produce, including skyr, a very tasty, creamy yoghurt, which is served with berries and enjoyed at breakfast but can also double as a dessert. Skyr has become a popular export, now found in the chilled section of many supermarkets in Britain.

  Minke whale is cut up and cooked as huge steaks, or finely sliced and eaten raw as the Icelandic version of carpaccio. This can be found at The Grill Market restaurant, a popular eatery in Reyjavik, which also serves small burgers made from puffin.

  Reindeer, meanwhile, makes a hearty stew, or is turned into mincemeat patties, which are fried and placed in between a couple of slices of bread. Sheep’s head – a popular dish in Britain, but not since Edwardian times – is a treat, and the Icelanders make it into a spread which is smothered onto hot toast. The blood of the sheep is used to produce blood pudding – a bit like Britain’s black pudding – which is sometimes eaten with sugar sprinkled over it. Other customary dishes include fish guts and cod’s tongues.

  The cold weather is firmly addressed by shots of lethal alcoholic drinks. Hákarl is usually washed down with brennivin (‘burning wine’), a type of schnapps made from potatoes and caraway seeds. Iceland also produces potent spirits which are concocted from the bark of birch trees – birkir, which is quite bitter, and björk, which, like the Icelandic singer of the same name, is sweet. A shot or two is said to improve skin, hair and sex drive. Any more than that; expect the reverse effects.

  BOUILLABAISSE

  A big, bright bowl of Provence, made with fish, shellfish, saffron and olive oil; adorned with a dollop of rouille, and served with crunchy, garlicky croutons to soak up the soup.

  Do you ever yearn to be in lavender-scented Provence or the aniseed-fragranced South of France? One spoonful of bouillabaisse will zoom you there in a flash. It combines not just a couple of flavours of the Mediterranean, but unites a multitude of them. And successfully so; there are no clashes of taste in this soupy stew.

  Each cook, however, makes it similarly but differently, which means that there is, as such, no authentic recipe. In 1960 Elizabeth David observed:

  Every French gastronomic writer and cook for the past hundred years (and some before that) has expounded his theories on the dish so beloved of the Marseillais, and each one gives his own recipe – the only authentic one. And, however many Marseillais, Toulonnais, Antibois, or other natives of Provence you ask for the correct recipe, you will never receive the same instructions twice.

  There are three common rules. First, you might need to be in Provence to make it particularly well, as the best bouillabaisse requires fish which is fresh-out-of-the-water fresh. Second, the oil (always olive oil), water and wine must be boiled to form an emulsion. Third, the fish and shellfish must not be spared – or so you would think. There are in fact a couple of accepted Provençal recipes for bouillabaisse that do not contain fish. Elizabeth David insists that ‘rascasse is essential, and the fish is always served with its head’.

  Bouillabaisse stems from bouillon abaissé, literally ‘broth lowered’: the soup ‘reduces’, lowers in volume, as it simmers and the liquid evaporates. It may well have started life as a fisherman’s dish, cooked on the beach in one large, black pot or cauldron. In his Oxford Companion to Food, Alan Davidson cites the first known recipe as appearing in 1830 (in La Cuisine Durand). Entitled ‘Bouillabaisse à la Marseillaise,’ its ingredients featured expensive sea bass and spiny lobster.

  The choice of Mediterranean fish is yours. With sheer love for this dish, Rick Stein makes a superb version with monkfish tails, fillets of gurnard and John Dory, lobsters (using the thinner legs, with fish bones, for the stock), conger eel and pollack. He enriches the dish with
its other traditional ingredients: white wine, tomato purée, bouquet garni (a small bundle of thyme, parsley and bay leaf), garlic and, of course, saffron (without which, I believe, this dish could not be called bouillabaisse).

  Stein adds a kick or two by incorporating dried chilli powder, cayenne pepper and curry powder. It is cooked for about an hour, and the most tender of the fish is added towards the end as it requires little cooking. Traditionally bouillabaisse is served with rouille (mayonnaise enriched with puréed potato or roasted red (bell) peppers and garlic). ‘Bouillabaisse without rouille,’ so the saying goes, ‘is like Provence without sunshine.’ Croutons, which can be rubbed with garlic, are tossed on top of the dish, or served on the side.

  The lobster and other shellfish are often served as a first course, in a bowl with the soup poured around it. The fish is dished up as a main course, perhaps with a fantastic salad of coarsely-sliced Marmande tomatoes, fennel and black olives.

  *

  Raymond Blanc was raised in the Franche-Comté region of France, but will never forget his first visit, aged twelve, to Provence, to see his friend René – and his discovery of bouillabaisse. In A Taste of My Life he speaks with wondrous passion of how he watched René’s mother, Madame Simon, cook the dish:

  In Franche-Comté my mother used butter, and sometimes vegetable oil. Here, in Provence, Madame Simon used olive oil, which went into the large casserole followed by chopped onions, garlic, bay leaf, thyme, celery, and was it fennel? … In Franche-Comté we had tarragon, chives, chervil, parsley, bay leaves and thyme. René’s mother cooked with Provençal favourites like rosemary, fennel, basil, marjoram, coriander, star anise and saffron.

  Once the vegetables and herbs were sweetened, she added the rock-fish and the saffron. The chopped tomatoes went in too, along with a generous splash of white wine. I remember being intrigued when she added a splash of pastis, the alcoholic aniseed drink, because although I had seen it drunk before I had absolutely no idea it could be used in cooking. Then the ingredients were covered with water and simmered for twenty or thirty minutes, just enough to cook them and create the exchange of flavours. After that she pushed the soup through a mouli.

  While the soup was cooking Madame Simon made the aïoli, that delicious garlic mayonnaise made with the best extra virgin olive oil. If you add saffron and puréed potato you will have a rouille. Both reek of garlic, and you wonder why the French are in such rude health.

  There you have your fish soup, which can be served with a spoonful of the aïoli and croutons rubbed with garlic. This soup was also a base to cook the fillets of rascasse and lotte. Then it becomes a bouillabaisse, and it was this that Madame Simon made for us. A bottle of rosé, the local Bandol, was uncorked to toast the reunion.

  Of the feast, Blanc is almost licking his lips as he concludes: ‘In one mouthful I discovered all these new flavours, as well as having my first taste of bouillabaisse.’

  *

  Sometimes cooks are frightened by the prospect of cooking fish. Moules Marinière is a great dish for beginners and will build confidence because it is so simple to make. All you need (to serve four) is a kilo of fresh mussels, 150 millilitres dry white wine and 100 millilitres double cream. Cider can be used instead of wine. The dish will also benefit from a few sprigs of thyme or any of your favourite fresh herbs. But no other ingredients are necessary, and certainly no salt as that’ll be inside the shells of the mussels.

  Begin by washing the mussels under cold running water to remove any grit. Pull away any seaweed ‘beards’ which are protruding through the shell. Discard any mussels which are open but which don’t close when you tap the shell. If they don’t close it means they are dead. You want live mussels.

  Heat a casserole dish or large saucepan (which has a lid). Pour in the wine, bring it to the boil and let it boil for about twenty seconds. Add the mussels. Put on the lid to let the mussels steam over a medium-high heat for four minutes. Lift the lid. If all the mussels have opened, they are done. Pour in the cream, add the herbs, put on the lid and give the pan a good shake. Discard any mussels which have not opened.

  Serve immediately with a baguette that can be happily ripped apart at the table.

  CEVICHE

  A light, refreshing, South American dish in which the finely-sliced flesh of fish or shellfish is marinated, typically for only a matter of minutes, in citric juice.

  Ceviche may well be one of the earliest ways of preparing food for consumption, as well as preserving it. The technique requires no heat, and just two ingredients: fish and the juice of citrus fruit.

  There you are, a savage foraging and scavenging around in early civilisation, searching for the next piece of food. You catch a fish from the sea, or gather some shellfish. You pull it apart with your fingers, tear strips from the flesh and pluck a lime from the branch of a tree. You squirt the lime juice onto the fish, unaware, of course, that a few thousand years later scientists would identify this as the ‘denaturing’ process caused by the citric juice. It is not cooking as no heat is applied to the fish, but the acid has a similar effect to heat on fish, in that it breaks down the protein. The sousing of the fish also preserves it.

  But ceviche is not as old as it might seem, surfacing comparatively recently, in the 1500s.

  It originated in South America, possibly Peru. One theory is that, following their 16th century conquest of Peru, Spaniards introduced lemons to the Incas, as well as the Spanish custom of using lemon as a seasoning (which, incidentally, is often a healthy replacement to salt). Soon afterwards ceviche came about (it sounds similar to the Spanish fish stew, cebiche). Others point to an Arabian influence.

  The dish is easily made: usually the fillet of the fish is sliced finely, and the citric juice is squeezed over it. A few minutes later, depending a little on the type of fish, it is ready to eat. But from that ceviche base, embellishments and other ingredients and seasonings can be added.

  Most South American countries have their own ceviche dishes. Shark and sea bass are favourites for ceviche in Peru, where it is served with corn on the cob and potatoes. In Costa Rica they make ceviche from mahi mahi and marlin, while Chile opts for halibut and Patagonian toothfish. Ecuador ceviche uses the flesh of crab and octopus. Some use the juice of lemon; some use the juice of lime, and some use the juice of orange. Onions, garlic, peppers, tomatoes – all of them can be added, or served as an accompaniment. In Hawaii, soy sauce is a favourite. Olive oil can be added to the juice at the point of marinating. Another Spanish influence? White-fleshed fish are best. A snip of coriander often improves the dish. For many, ceviche (or seviche) may seem to have appeared from nowhere, and then become a modern-day food trend. But it has caught on. The Spanish, of course, eat it; and Britain has a growing number of Peruvian restaurants, many of them called ceviche-something-or-other.

  Ceviche is not to be confused with escabeche, in which fish is first fried and then mixed into a vinegar sauce. This practice is used in Spain and Italy and, although it crops up in Britain’s 17th century cookbooks, clearly it did not catch on and is not a common cooking technique in the United Kingdom. If mushrooms and/or red (bell) peppers are added to the vinegar the result is a sweet and sour taste, and there are similarities with ketchup, which is believed to have come from China, the Chinese being great admirers of the sweet-sour taste.

  LOBSTERS THERMIDOR AND NEWBERG

  A pair of classic 19th century dishes, in which pieces of lobster are served in creamy sauces. Luxurious and indulgent.

  Lobster Thermidor is the French cousin of America’s Lobster Newburg. They are made in a similar style, and both were created by chefs in restaurants – Thermidor in Paris, Newburg in New England – in the 1800s. Each has a bewitching story of drama – what some might call a curse – behind its creation. For both, the lobster is first cooked (either grilled or boiled), and then the flesh is removed and sliced into thick pieces. Each dish is served in a sauce, at which point they differ.

  Thermidor sauce begins wit
h a base of Béchamel sauce (also known as white sauce), made by combining flour and butter in a saucepan, to which milk is added slowly, first stirring and then whisking (by hand, with a balloon whisk) and seasoning well with salt and white pepper, to create a glossy, custard-thick sauce. Very finely sliced shallots may be used at the flour–butter stage. Cream is added to enrich the sauce, and bring a silky texture. A little white wine or white wine vinegar may be added to the finished Béchamel, for acidity and to create depth of flavour. Herbs, such as tarragon or parsley are optional. Fish stock (or fish ‘fumet’) is often included: it is strained through a sieve, and incorporated with the Béchamel.

  Thermidor sauce is then finished with Dijon mustard, to your taste. Sometimes cheese is added to the hot Béchamel. While various chefs suggest cheeses such as Parmesan, if you intend to head down the cheese route, then Gruyère works well here. If using cheese, add salt to the sauce when it is finished, as Gruyère will introduce its own saltiness. Auguste Escoffier succinctly concludes: ‘… In the bottom of the two half shells, replace the slices of lobster neatly on top and coat with the sauce. Glaze lightly in a hot oven or under the salamander [grill].’

  America’s Lobster Newburg tends not to be served in the shell, but on its own, and sometimes on toasted bread. As with Thermidor, the shellfish is first cooked, the pieces of flesh are removed from their shell and then they are sautéed quickly in a pan with clarified butter on a medium-high heat. No more than half a cup of Madeira (or cognac) is added and reduced over a boil. Then the heat is turned down and a mixture of cream and egg yolks is poured in and stirred over the gentle heat; it should not be allowed to boil. Continue to stir until the sauce has thickened. Add cayenne pepper and a little more butter, stir again. Taste, season if necessary, and serve (sometimes on the toast).