Fish head soup

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Ingredients:
2 heads of Sea Bream
Sea salt
Herbes de Provence
Squeeze of lemon
Soy Sauce
3 Bay leaves
Dash of Angostura bitters
4 chopped shallots and 4 cloves of garlic, fried in sunflower oil
1 ½ carrots, chopped
Small tin of tuna steak
Anchovy paste
Tomato puree
Mayonnaise


Story and how to:

Standing in the queue at the supermarket, the man in front of me asked for the heads on two Sea Bream to be removed. The fishmonger chopped them off and left the heads on his cutting board. When it was my turn, I ordered a Scottish kipper and asked for the two fish heads. He popped them in a bag – after a slight quizzical hesitation – and gave them to me for free.

“The head is the best bit of the fish”, I said.
“You were lucky; they were just going in the bin,” he said.

At home in the kitchen, I popped the fish heads in a pot, and nearly covered them with filtered tap water. I found some Sel de Camargue sea salt, and sprinkled the heads liberally with it. I pitched in a large pinch of Herbes de Provence (kept in a jar near the TV, and hardly ever used); that is mainly thyme, rosemary and lavender – I think.

In the fridge, I found a small plastic bottle of soy sauce, left over from previous sushi take-aways. That went in, plus a squeeze from a slightly bedraggled lemon. I chopped up the remaining 1 ½ carrots from the bottom of my fridge. Despite being way past their ‘use by date’, they looked firm and crunchy. So they went in too. I turned the gas on to gently heat the mixture. What next?

I spied my ancient bottle of Angostura Bitters, and shook several large drops of the pink liquid in. Inspiration struck when I thought what might be in my garden. Oh Yes! I hopped outside and snipped off three leaves from the large bay tree.

Putting the lid on, I let the soup start to simmer away. A small frying pan with sunflower oil was heated on the adjacent gas ring. I ferreted around in the garage and came up with 4 shallots and 4 cloves of garlic. These were assiduously peeled and chopped and thrown into the frying pan, where they sizzled quickly.

The soup mixture was bubbling merrily. The shallots and garlic were throwing out delicious smells. Oops. Better put the extractor fan on. Done.

I stirred the soup mixture and thought it might need a bit more thickening. Another search for ingredients: I found tubes of anchovy paste and tomato puree in the fridge door. A quick squeeze of these into the increasingly potent brew, and things were looking good.

Before the shallots and garlic browned too much, I killed the flame under the frying pan and tossed them in the soup. Put the lid back on and let it simmer slowly.

Let’s eat outside, I thought. I set up a chair on the lawn, in the brilliant July sunshine, within reach of an area of shade. Found my trusty hat. Laid out a tray, with eating tools and a paper napkin. Found a bottle of cold Vanilla Coke in the fridge.

I sliced some Ciabatta bread and toasted it lightly. While that was going on, I dug out the potato masher, and plunged it into the fish soup. The fish heads broke up immediately, and the vegetable bits started disintegrating nicely.

Still needs a bit more fishy substance, I thought. So I located a small tin of tuna steak on a garage shelf; drained the oil and shovelled it into the soup. More simmering. More mashing.

Time for a taste. I ladled a sample onto a small plate, let it cool and tasted. Heavenly! A touch more lemon. All systems go.

I put a sieve on a pyrex bowl, and poured the soup mixture through. The fish and vegetable substance remaining above the sieve need more mashing and coaxing through. It didn’t go through the narrow mesh too well, and I was wondering whether I should have chopped it up in a food processor. Can’t be bothered. Anyway, I’m getting hungry.

The soup was briefly reheated, with large dollops of mayonnaise added. The solid fish/vegetable gunge I tipped onto a flat plate. It had a clear sieve mesh pattern on it. Gathered up the bread, soup bowl and everything onto the tray.

Out the door to the garden, with hat on (it was a summer day).

The soup was glorious, and the view of the Surrey Hills from my back garden idyllic. The fish plate had to be picked at carefully, due to the many bones and bits. However it was quite acceptable food. I watched my tortoise scratch around in the dried leaves under the hedge. I was pestered only by a few wasps, who kept settling on the fish plate. The soup bowl was hot on my legs, but every drop of soup was inspiring.