Stuffed anchovies

There's a fish that around here was, for centuries, the food of the poor, and that today is one of the finest things you can have on your table. It's the anchovy. Small, silvery, cheap, and in June so tasty you wonder how it ever got treated as humble fare.

The truth is that the anchovy is the bread of the sea, and the Ligurian Sea is full of it. From April to October it comes close to shore to spawn, and the fishermen catch it at night with the lampara, that powerful light that draws the schools up to the surface. The best flesh is exactly this one, between mid and late June, when the fish is fatty just right. That's why I'm writing you this recipe today: this is the moment.

Stuffed anchovies are one of those dishes that, in our house, mean "Sunday" and "everyone at the table". They aren't hard, but they ask a little patience from your hands. It's slow work, to do calmly, maybe while chatting: that's the good part of it.

First of all: where you buy them

On the quality of the anchovy you can't cheat. It has to be very fresh, the eye bright and the flesh firm. I get mine at the Balincio, down on Calata Cuneo: it's the oldest fishmonger in Imperia, going since 1960, and the anchovies reach the counter the morning after the night's fishing. It's hard to do fresher than that. Giovanni, behind the counter, always tells you how the fishing went and what's worth taking that day. Do ask him to clean them for you: if it's a quiet day, he'll snap off the heads in two minutes and you take home half the job already done.

Butterflying them open

This is the hurdle, but it's easier done than said. Take the anchovy, press gently at the gills and pull off the head: it comes away bringing the innards with it. Then, with your thumb, open the anchovy butterfly-style from head to tail, as if leafing through a little book. You find the central spine: lift it and remove it, taking care not to tear the tail, which stays attached and looks the part.

You rinse everything under cold water and lay the opened anchovies to dry on kitchen paper. The first two or three will come out badly, that's normal. From the fourth you get the hang of it and it becomes almost a mechanical gesture, the kind that relaxes you.

The filling

Here everyone has their own version, and that's just fine. The base, though, is always that of Ponente cooking: stale bread crumb soaked in milk and then squeezed well dry, eggs, parmesan, and the herbs. Marjoram above all, which is the fragrant soul of half the Ligurian kitchen. A little parsley, a clove of finely chopped garlic, and a few chopped anchovies into the filling itself, so the taste of the sea runs on the inside too.

One word of warning: go easy on the salt. The anchovy is savoury enough on its own, and overdoing it is just around the corner.

The sea sandwich

Now you assemble. Take half the anchovies and lay them on the board skin-side down. On each you put a teaspoon of filling, without overfilling, and cover with another anchovy, this time skin-side up. You get a kind of sandwich, two anchovies and the filling in between. Press gently so it closes.

You coat each sandwich in breadcrumbs, on both sides, and flatten it just a touch so the coating holds. At this point they're ready to cook.

And here's the best part: no smoke

The traditional version calls for the anchovies fried in oil. Delicious, no question, crisp outside and soft within. But if you live in a flat, you know well what frying means: the pan of oil, the spitting, and that fried smell that clings to the house for two good days.

I solved it with the air fryer, and honestly I'm not going back. Lay the breaded anchovies in the basket without overlapping them, a pass of oil on top with a brush or a spray, and off they go at 190 degrees for twelve, fifteen minutes, until nicely golden. No smoke, no grease, no windows flung open in January. And the result is light, crisp, honest. If you'd rather use the regular oven they work fine there too: 180 degrees, a quarter of an hour, always with their dusting of breadcrumbs and oil.

You serve them warm, with a grating of lemon if you like, and maybe a glass of cool Pigato. If you've fried them, good oil matters, and around here good oil is a chapter of its own: I wrote about it in where to buy the olive oil.

This recipe was brought back to me by my friend Alessandro, who besides being a lawyer is a cook with clear ideas and an enviable memory for flavours. He was right: it's a dish that tells you everything about the Ponente in a single bite. The sea a few steps away, the garden vegetables in the herbs, the bread that's never thrown out, and the patience of someone cooking to make others happy. Try them, and you'll see why here the anchovy, poor or not, gets treated like a queen.