Salmon Life

Barbara’s table is where I often taste the first catch of the season. Many years it is spring king, thick and fatty. Her fish recipe, like mine, is simple, a variation on one you find all across Alaska. It involves a splash of soy sauce and perhaps thin rounds of lemon and a sprinkle of dill. The fish goes to the grill on a sheet of foil. Always, it is eaten around a crowded table, always with rice, hot sourdough bread, butter, steamed broccoli, and hollandaise sauce.

Summer in Alaska is like no other place. You might compare the feeling of spring coming on to that of driving a really nice car off a lot, a car that you bought outright with your own money after years spent riding a bus. There is a grand sense of liberation as the light returns and crocus buds appear, an intoxicated appreciation for all that is green and alive. If that feeling could have a flavor, it would be salmon, perfectly cooked, hot off the grill. The perfectly cooked part is harder than it seems, but stay with me, I can help.

Fresh salmon is Alaska’s food, our most famous culinary export, one of our few proud flags on the world’s food map. Alaska Airlines flies the first batch of Copper River reds to Seattle in a “Salmon-Thirty-Salmon” jet, painted to look like a king salmon. Photos move on the Associated Press wire soon after: a fat, cold fish being carried down a red carpet to a line of chefs on the Seattle tarmac. The fish soon appears on menus of the country’s finest restaurants and in the seafood cases at Whole Foods. The price of Copper River salmon in the spring might easily top thirty dollars a pound.

I’ve pulled in exactly one salmon in my thirty-six years. I was sixteen and Aunt Barbara was my guide. We rose early to drive to the Kasilof River, listening to oldies on the radio until we got out of range. Aunt Barbara chain-smoked. We ate nothing except a roll of Sweet Tarts. Fishing on a full stomach = bad luck.

Following Barb was an education in superstitious fish rituals. As I drove, I shared the front seat with two cantaloupes. When we arrived at the home of the guide who would pilot us downriver, Barbara gave him the melons. I knew enough to understand it was not so much a gesture of friendliness as an offering.

Barbara thought hard before selecting a seat in the open skiff, her mind working through the various treats of other lucky seats in other boats. She went left side, close to the guide. Soon we set off into the river and drifted dreamily for several hours, the guide gently rowing as we bounced our hooks on the river floor, each baited with a cluster of hot-pink eggs.

Then, like a lightning strike, came a tug. You can’t forget that sensation, the pleasure of the weight at the end of the line and the wave of adrenaline. The boat came alive, everybody shouting to set the hook! and reel-reel-reel! I did my best. Soon the fish appeared, first a flash of silver, then a ribbon of muscle just beneath the surface. In a flurry of shouting and netting, it was in with us. Eyes wide. Needle teeth. Red fans visible inside the gill flaps. If I remember correctly, after some coaching, I clubbed it myself. I totally enjoyed every minute of that trip, but I have a secret: I have never had much of a desire to catch a fish again.

I might love reds best because I grew up eating them. Back then, we relied on my uncle Bob for fish. He is the husband of my mother’s sister Alicia. He is British and old enough to remember World War II. He was a petroleum engineer who came to Alaska to work for ARCO during the pipeline.

Bob packed to go fishing meticulously. His tidy lists, written in pencil, sat on the counter until each item was checked off. I remember coolers marked with duct tape labels and what seemed to be an entire duffle bag filled with peanut M&Ms.

Sometimes, after he’d left, a call would come in with the number of fish he’d netted. Dozens often, but sometimes none. The possibility of failure made the catch all the more precious.

If he got a haul, then there was an assembly line in the kitchen, fillet after fillet, packed into bags, vacuum-sealed, frozen. A few filets would be distributed among the family. And always, afterward, a big fishing victory dinner. A salad of romaine dressed with balsamic. Grilled zucchini. The salmon marinated in Yoshida’s teriyaki sauce or coated with olive oil and a shake of Tony Chachere’s Creole seasoning.

Soon afterward, Alicia would start up the Little Chief smoker in the yard.

Alicia died years ago, but Bob still goes to the Copper. Now the next generation of the family makes the trip. Sara goes. So does my cousin’s husband, John. They stay up all night waiting for the rush of fish. Sometimes they tie themselves to the bank to guard against the current.

Seems simple, right? Don’t be fooled. Next comes the hardest and most essential part of my recipe. It is not an ingredient, but technique: to experience the sacred deliciousness of fresh salmon, impossibly moist, and perfect, you just not overcook it. This is really hard.

Everybody overcooks fish. That changes the flavors of its delicate oils and the texture. Done wrong, fish is flaky and bitter. People eat so much like this, they become accustomed. It is the norm. They don’t know what they are missing. Done right, grilled fresh salmon’s texture is closer to custard, its flavor mild, sweet, and faintly briny.

I can’t give you a cooking time once you have the fish on the grill, because every fish is a different size, but the key is to be vigilant. Err on the side of rawness. Also, for the fish to taste most delicious, you have to be the right kind of hungry. You should be hungry the way you only get in May, on a day when the sun feels warm and you can smell sap, and teenagers skateboard by with no coats on. It should have been months since you last had a piece of salmon. You’ll know it’s right, because you’ll smell your neighbors grilling, too, for the first time since last year.

You’ll want to grill some asparagus, too. And set a pan of rice going on the stove.

You might stand at the grill in flip-flops on grass that isn’t quite greened up. (you are free to do this with a beer in your hand.) Check the fish just about the time you start to notice your feet are cold, because even though it’s sunny, there is still a chill. If you’ve hit it right, you can tell, because when you take a fork and slip it between the layers of flesh, you will see that in the center of the fish it is not quite done and is instead just slightly translucent. With a long spatula, separate the fish from the skin on the grill. Place it on a warm plate. Serve immediately.