Eat Them Up, Yum

Japan: Fish Soup Inspired by Ushio Jiro

My paternal grandmother was an intimidating figure—six feet tall, built like a linebacker, always clad in gray long sleeve top and black knee-length skirt, and rarely smiling. My mother said she looked like Karl Malden in drag.

She only visited a handful of times, so my memories of her are only a few observations and stories. Perhaps it was the language difference but I don’t remember her ever actually speaking to me directly. She didn’t seem to have much use for little girls, but she showed she cared with little gifts- a Spanish fan, folk dancer dolls, and one gift I remember particularly well because it smelled like her. It was a donkey, more decoration than toy, a hard molded shape covered in rabbit fur with a delicate ribbon halter. She must have packed it next to her Maja cologne.

Abuela Carmucha was no country bumpkin. She may have been from a small fishing village, but she had raised my dad in Madrid on her own. She was a survivor, tough and smart and distincly ‘old world.’ Our suburban community confounded her. She mortified my mother at Foodtown when she tried to haggle with the butcher. She repeatedly tried to convince my father to open a small market in our garage because the grocery store was too far, too big, too expensive . ‘There is no place for the neighborhood women to walk, what do they do when they need some milk or olive oil? They would all come here!’ Our backyard was a waste of space. We should grow something or have chickens. We could sell the eggs.

My father was different when she was around. Less lighthearted, more serious. Trying to impress or please a woman who could not be impressed or pleased. We also ate differently when she was around. It was the only time I remember my mother serving fish whole. It was the most pleased I remember seeing my grandmother.

I was horrified the first time I saw it. My Abuela sat directly across the table from me, picked up the fish on her plate with her hands and sucked out the eyeballs. I stared openly. She then stuck a finger through it’s face and pulled a small chunk of meat from the cheek, and smiled as I’d never seen, pronouncing it the best part of the fish. When she saw that my mother had removed the heads from the rest of our fish, she insisted we pass them all to her, lecturing the room about our wastefulness and ignorance. My father dutifully ate his fish head, but at least the man used bread.

When I asked my friend Lori to send me a Japanese recipe for this project, she sent a photo of a cookbook page with a recipe for Ushio jiro, fish bone soup. The author begins with a story of their grandmother’s fury upon learning that the head of a prized fish had been thrown away. Japanese and Gallega grandmothers sound very similar.

When I proposed making this dish to my husband and mother, they were not particularly enthused about fish heads. I searched the internet to find a version that is more of a fish and noodle soup. It called for a little bit of sake, which reminded me I had a bottle tucked away that Jason had brought me years ago from a business trip to Tokyo. It was quite delicious, and the soup was perfectly warm and delicious for a cold and rainy night.

Like Japan’s second goal against Spain, it may be questionably authentic, but it gets the job done.

Fish Soup

Cut one pound cod in pieces, marinate 30 minutes in a mixture of 3T each Mirin, Light Miso, and Sake.

Cook somen noodles in salted water, then drain, rinse, and set aside.

Simmer four or five cups of water, whisk in light miso to taste. Add a large splash of sake, a tablespoon of light soy sauce or hontsuyu, and a few slices of fresh ginger. (Or just use or make dashi broth).

Chop a baby bok choy and add to pot.

Add a little vegetable oil to a pan and fry the pieces of cod until just cooked.

Divide the noodles and fish in individual serving bowls. Pour the hot broth in each bowl. Serve with chopped scallions and lime wedges to taste.