A STORY FOR YOU HERRING LOVERS OUT THERE 💓
In fact, so great was our disgust with the smelly,
slithering fish, that for a while, we made my father eat the herring outside.
In the New York winter. In the snow.
While herring never touched my lips for the first 30 years
of my life, I knew things about herring, just like a child who
grows up in the schmatte business knows a thing or two about exports and
imports. For example, I knew that not all herring is created equal. In fact,
herring is so varied that a man’s choice in herring is nothing less than a
window to his soul, a way of showing the world whether he is a kind,
philosophical man, or a bore who never once stopped to smell the flowers. In
the class hierarchy of herring, I was taught that matjes, my family’s choice,
was for the classy, discerning, sophisticated people; pickled was for people
who, though good and upright, did not have the finest taste; and schmaltz—God
forbid, schmaltz—was for the shtetl folks, the peasant people who
temperamentally are simply not able to discriminate.
Whether it’s true or not, I accepted the wisdom that herring
was just another one of the Eastern European Jewish foods destined to fade away
from modern cuisine, becoming the provenance of a small group of passionate
connoisseurs. It was to be relegated to that dusty shelf, to sit
alongside ptcha—warm,
garlic jelly made out of calves’ feet—and kishka, stuffed derma so high in fat
that the USDA classification system can barely categorize it. As far as my
palate was concerned, I could have gone on living my life content without
herring, even learning to make a certain peace with it, like an American in
England watching people eat marmite—tolerant, if not a little disdainful.
But after years of theatrically gagging upon seeing my
father eat herring, I gave in. For the first time, at age 30, I tasted it.
It was one of those Saturday mornings when I happened to be
home. My father took out the herring; I made a horrified face. He said, “Shira,
you like sushi right?” I nodded. “And sushi is raw fish?” I nodded,
increasingly aware that I was being backed into a logical corner from which
there would be no escape. My father continued: “Well, herring is raw fish also,
just cured with spices, salt, and oil.” Now, I can recognize a good, logical
argument when I hear one. I like—no, I love—sushi. Sushi is like herring.
Therefore, perhaps, I loved herring?
I pierced the herring with a fork. I lifted it to my mouth
with the ceremony of someone taking an elixir that, though vile, must be
imbibed. I dropped it into my mouth.
It was intense. Acidic and biting, yet soft, almost
meltingly tender. Sweet but salty, robust yet elusive. After my first bite, I
was confused. The herring wasn’t necessarily delicious, but it was undeniably
intriguing. It was as if herring was unknowable, so perplexing and disarming a
combination of tastes that it was addictive by sheer virtue of its mystery. And
I wanted to, well, know it again. So, I took a second piece.
More flavors, more contradictions. Suddenly, after years of dismissing this
modest fish, I understood my father’s passion for it, the artisan and poet’s
search for the beauty and perfection that is found in a good piece of fish.
That’s how, in a matter of minutes, after a lifetime of
forswearing this particular food, I came to sit down with my father at the same
herring table. These days, when Saturday mornings arrive and I am at my
parents’ house, I join my father in his weekly ritual, as we carefully open the
lid of the herring container and eagerly await the first taste of our beloved
fish. Will this week’s vintage be too salty, too oily, or will it achieve
herring nirvana, that perfect harmony of spices and wine?
Recently I asked my father how he felt about my herring
turnaround. “It was the happiest day of my life,” he answered, jokingly. “The
only thing better will be your wedding day.” But I know he’s delighted about
it, and I can detect a new enthusiasm in the texts and emails he sends before
visiting me in D.C. “Mommy and I are going now to buy the herring,” he’ll
write. “How much do you want? And if they have herring in cream, do you want to
try that also?”
These days, when my father and I sit down to eat herring, my
young nephew is the one who looks at the shiny, pink fish and wrinkles his
nose. Like my father used to do, I dismiss this child with a laugh and a wave
of my hand, knowing that in 20 years time, he’ll be sitting with us at the
table.
(In the meantime, the annual “new
catch” Holland herring arrives next week, promising herring nirvana for
everyone.)
