Latvia is known for its sprats.
This marvelous non-sequiter came to me on a serendipitous visit to an exotic market last weekend, but after my most recent adventure, it rings very true.
By their very nature, import and 'ethnic' markets like this hold certain foods in different esteem than the standard supermarket. A tiny plastic carton of basil at Whole Foods might cost $1.99, because most of their shoppers consider it a flavorant, a precious herb to be used sparingly. But down at Hiep Thanh, you can cram a red plastic sack with a bunch of basil as big as your head for 50 cents. Why is this? Because in Vietnamese cuisine, basil’s a key player, and therefore, simply cannot be allowed to be expensive.
Thrift is hip these days, so instead of flying across the world and gorging on luxe dinners, why not wander the aisles of a specialty grocery store? On this line of thinking, I recently voyaged into the distant Outer Richmond District of San Francisco, where the Europa Plus market beckoned with Russian and Eastern European delights. I was hoping for a similar value discrepancy on its shelves, and when I saw the huge aisles of canned fish, I knew I had found it.
Now, in my day-to-day shopping, I’m accustomed to two varieties of canned seafood – the cheap ho-hum kind (sardines, bay shrimp, etc) and the not-so-cheap kind (mostly $12 cans of Italian tuna with super twee packaging). The variety doesn’t go much further, save the occasional smoked oyster. Not so in the former Soviet world! Sprats, herring, and sardines, smoked or unsmoked, in oil, tomato sauce, curry sauce, you name it, those Latvians are canning it. Tempted by the popularity implied by its abundance at Europa Plus, I picked up a can of Sprats in Oil for myself, and was pleased to find that 300g cans were priced between $2 and $4.
I have a confession to make before I continue. I didn’t have high hopes for these little guys. I mean, honestly, sprats? Likely linguistic fodder for a Monty Python sketch alongside lupins and shrubbery, the word sounds far too much like ‘squats’ or ‘spurts’ to be anywhere near appetizing. But I soldiered on.
Thirty seconds of internet research and I learned that people like their sprats fried. So with blind eagerness, I mixed up a quick dredge of flour, salt and pepper, and some baking powder. A couple of inches of oil heating in a saucepan, and a fluffy bed of butter lettuce at the ready, I popped open the can.
My experience with sardines led me to expect a briny, fishy smell, but there was none. Instead, my sprats had a pleasant dry brown smoked aroma. Crammed into their oily metal coffin, they weren’t unlike sardines, albeit a bit smaller, a bit darker, and much less silvery.
Some undisciplined dredging on my part led to a minor mess. It’s hard to separate individual sprats, since they like to break apart with the slightest disturbance. But, undeterred by this potential derailment, I loaded the first batch onto the spider, dropped it into the oil, and let the magic begin.
The smoked fish hit the oil and immediately, tiny particles atomized into the air. There was no tomatoey tang of barbecue, but rather a powerful note of…campfire. I could clearly detect woodsmoke as the fish crisped up and sizzled in the oil. My low expectations were quickly being overtaken by the sensory story being told of some distant fish fry in the Latvian woods.
Standard frying procedure followed, with a rest on paper towels and a sprinkle of coarse salt before removal to the serving plate. I placed them gently onto the greens, splashed them with some white wine vinegar, and sat down to enjoy my unexpectedly gourmet dinner.
I see great possibilities with these little things, and I certainly understand why Eastern Europeans have been keeping them secret. Next time (yes, there will be a next time), I may augment with horseradish or pickled beets, and a glass or two of beer or vodka.
Latvia, I tip my hat to your pleasantly surprising sprats - keep up the good work.
This marvelous non-sequiter came to me on a serendipitous visit to an exotic market last weekend, but after my most recent adventure, it rings very true.
By their very nature, import and 'ethnic' markets like this hold certain foods in different esteem than the standard supermarket. A tiny plastic carton of basil at Whole Foods might cost $1.99, because most of their shoppers consider it a flavorant, a precious herb to be used sparingly. But down at Hiep Thanh, you can cram a red plastic sack with a bunch of basil as big as your head for 50 cents. Why is this? Because in Vietnamese cuisine, basil’s a key player, and therefore, simply cannot be allowed to be expensive.
Thrift is hip these days, so instead of flying across the world and gorging on luxe dinners, why not wander the aisles of a specialty grocery store? On this line of thinking, I recently voyaged into the distant Outer Richmond District of San Francisco, where the Europa Plus market beckoned with Russian and Eastern European delights. I was hoping for a similar value discrepancy on its shelves, and when I saw the huge aisles of canned fish, I knew I had found it.
Now, in my day-to-day shopping, I’m accustomed to two varieties of canned seafood – the cheap ho-hum kind (sardines, bay shrimp, etc) and the not-so-cheap kind (mostly $12 cans of Italian tuna with super twee packaging). The variety doesn’t go much further, save the occasional smoked oyster. Not so in the former Soviet world! Sprats, herring, and sardines, smoked or unsmoked, in oil, tomato sauce, curry sauce, you name it, those Latvians are canning it. Tempted by the popularity implied by its abundance at Europa Plus, I picked up a can of Sprats in Oil for myself, and was pleased to find that 300g cans were priced between $2 and $4.
I have a confession to make before I continue. I didn’t have high hopes for these little guys. I mean, honestly, sprats? Likely linguistic fodder for a Monty Python sketch alongside lupins and shrubbery, the word sounds far too much like ‘squats’ or ‘spurts’ to be anywhere near appetizing. But I soldiered on.
Thirty seconds of internet research and I learned that people like their sprats fried. So with blind eagerness, I mixed up a quick dredge of flour, salt and pepper, and some baking powder. A couple of inches of oil heating in a saucepan, and a fluffy bed of butter lettuce at the ready, I popped open the can.
From top, clockwise: White wine vinegar, butter lettuce, sprats in oil, seasoned flour dredge
My experience with sardines led me to expect a briny, fishy smell, but there was none. Instead, my sprats had a pleasant dry brown smoked aroma. Crammed into their oily metal coffin, they weren’t unlike sardines, albeit a bit smaller, a bit darker, and much less silvery.
Some undisciplined dredging on my part led to a minor mess. It’s hard to separate individual sprats, since they like to break apart with the slightest disturbance. But, undeterred by this potential derailment, I loaded the first batch onto the spider, dropped it into the oil, and let the magic begin.
Delightful aroma ensuing
The smoked fish hit the oil and immediately, tiny particles atomized into the air. There was no tomatoey tang of barbecue, but rather a powerful note of…campfire. I could clearly detect woodsmoke as the fish crisped up and sizzled in the oil. My low expectations were quickly being overtaken by the sensory story being told of some distant fish fry in the Latvian woods.
Standard frying procedure followed, with a rest on paper towels and a sprinkle of coarse salt before removal to the serving plate. I placed them gently onto the greens, splashed them with some white wine vinegar, and sat down to enjoy my unexpectedly gourmet dinner.
Tasty, not so much pretty
I see great possibilities with these little things, and I certainly understand why Eastern Europeans have been keeping them secret. Next time (yes, there will be a next time), I may augment with horseradish or pickled beets, and a glass or two of beer or vodka.
Latvia, I tip my hat to your pleasantly surprising sprats - keep up the good work.
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