Gestoomde Makreel

In Yerseke, fish arrived with its own clock. Mussels had their months, herring had its brief June glory, and mackerel came in with that blue-black back like wet slate, a travelling fish that looked as if it had stolen its colours from the North Sea itself. The fishmonger sold it whole, split, peppered, smoked, wrapped in paper. You carried it home warm if you were lucky, and the paper went translucent where the good fat touched it.

But let me tell you a secret. Gestoomde makreel is one of those Dutch names that lies politely. It says gestoomd, steamed, but in the fish shop it usually means warm gerookt, hot-smoked: cooked through in a smoking oven until the flesh turns soft, bronze-skinned, and rich enough to need lemon, onion, and very little else. The name already tells you something about Dutch kitchen speech, which often cares more for practical result than technical purity. The fish is cooked gently. It stays juicy. Good enough, says the language.

Makreel needs this simplicity. It is an oily fish, generous but unforgiving, and if you cook it hard it will punish you with dryness and bitterness. Salt it briefly so the flesh firms, dry it well so the smoke can cling, then let mild wood do the work. Hou het altijd simpel, always keep it simple: brown bread, butter, a squeeze of lemon, a few rings of raw onion. A dish without its story is half a meal, but this one is still best eaten with your fingers.