STAR INGREDIENT

Diana Henry cooks with salt cod

It all started with a Nordic dinner to celebrate midsummer. In Fergus Henderson’s St John Bread and Wine in East London, we were warmed, on a chilly summer evening, with a feast of Norwegian fsh. We associate salt cod with Mediterranean countries – that’s where it’s mostly used – but this was a northern salt cod pie, made up of layers of poached fsh and buttery mash. My interest was piqued. A year later, I found myself in Arctic Norway, near the Russian border, watching cod – some of the specimens as big as toddlers – being hoisted of day boats in huge plastic tubs. It’s hard to believe there was ever a crisis in cod stocks here, but the Norwegians are patient and have played a long game. They started limiting the harvest of cod in the 1980s and are reaping the rewards. In 1989, after an ‘extreme cooling’ in the Barents Sea when stocks declined, Norway and Russia completely closed the fshery. Cooperation between the two countries has meant this area now has the biggest stock in the world – and it’s growing. Norway exports fresh cod but, as they’ve done for centuries, salt cod too (it’s the biggest producer of it in the world).

I inspect paletts of the stuf, layer upon layer of stif white fesh sparkling with salt. It looks as pure as fresh snow. There are various grades, from thick prime loins to skinny end pieces that taper of in a little black tail. Cod’s low fat content makes it uniquely suited to drying. But why eat it when you can get fresh stuf? Because salt, as well as preserving fsh, transforms its favour. You might as well say ‘why eat Parma ham when you can get fresh pork?’; salt cod is the prosciutto of the sea. That’s why it’s still eaten with tomatoes and olives in Portugal and Spain, spiced with hot peppers in the Caribbean and Africa and whipped into brandade, an olive oil and garlic-rich purée, in Provence. The flavour is addictive. When you’re buying salt cod, look for fllets that are thick and white (not yellowing) and soak it in cold water for two days, changing the water every eight hours or so. What you’re left with is frmer than fresh cod, slightly chewy – the flesh is in longer, thinner strands – and a taste that is gently fshy rather than salty. The pork and prosciutto analogy really is the best way to put it.

For years I’ve made salt cod myself from time to time (the instructions are in the frst recipe on p108), especially when I wanted to serve a whole side of salt cod as they do for the Provençal le grand aïoli (salted cod with vegetables and garlic mayo), but if you can get good quality stuf you won’t need to go down the DIY route. On my trip to Norway, I fell in love with salt cod’s slightly funky favour and robust texture. It’s a shame to ignore dishes where the main ingredient is unfamiliar. Don’t. Once you’ve tried it, you won’t look back.