Anguilla Arrosto alla Comacchiese

Comacchio sits in the marshlands where the Po River meets the Adriatic, a town built on thirteen small islands connected by bridges, its entire existence shaped by eels. The Valli di Comacchio, those vast brackish lagoons, trap eels migrating from the Sargasso Sea. For centuries, the people of Comacchio have understood what the rest of the world often forgets: eel is one of the finest eating fish in existence.

Americans avoid eel. They find it strange, perhaps unsettling. This is their loss. Properly prepared, eel has flesh that is rich, silken, and sweet, nothing like the muddy taste people fear. The secret is freshness and simplicity. The eel's abundant natural fat bastes the flesh as it cooks. You need only bay leaves, salt, and heat.

The fishermen of Comacchio roast their eels over wood fires, turning them on hinged grills until the skin crackles. Your oven will do the job adequately. What you cannot compromise on is the eel itself. It must be impeccably fresh, its skin glistening, its eyes clear. The eel tells you when it is done: the skin turns bronze and crisp, the flesh beneath yields to gentle pressure. Trust your senses more than any timer I could give you.