Fritto Misto di Mare

In Cesenatico, the fishing village where I grew up, fritto misto was what the fishermen's wives made when the boats came in. Whatever the nets brought that morning went into the pot: tiny sole, fresh sardines, shrimp still twitching, squid pulled from the catch. The coating was barely there, just enough flour to create a golden shell around the sweet flesh of the sea.

This is not the heavy, battered fried seafood of British fish shops or American boardwalks. Italian frying is about restraint. The flour coating must be so light you can see through it. The oil must be hot enough that the seafood cooks before it can absorb grease. The result is something ethereal: crisp outside, tender inside, tasting purely of the sea.

What you keep out matters as much as what you put in. No batter. No breadcrumbs. No garlic. No herbs in the coating. The seafood is the star, and nothing must compete with it. A squeeze of lemon is the only accompaniment. Anyone who serves fritto misto with cocktail sauce or tartar sauce has missed the point entirely.