When I cook, I often get hungry. I like to nibble on something, so I’ll open the fridge and grab the unsalted butter and the small jar of salt-packed anchovies that is always sitting in a corner. A slice of bread will do. I’ll slather it with butter, then tackle the anchovy. I rinse a fillet under cold running water, remove the bones, and then place it on my buttered bread. If I’m feeling sophisticated, I’ll add a tiny wedge of lemon; otherwise, I’ll greedily bite into my pane e acciuga with utter satisfaction. In its stark simplicity, this is food fit for a king.
I’m an anchovy advocate, born into a family of anchovy lovers. Trust me: Don’t let your past bad experiences with overcooked, shriveled anchovies on pizza prevent you from discovering the extraordinary qualities of good anchovies, ones that have been treated or cooked with care.
