Without further delay, start salivating now..

On Monday I went fishing on the Miura Peninsula. It was a wonderful ‘Japanese’ winter’s day, very crisp and dry but also sunny, so when the wind died down it was actually quite warm and pleasant. It was a bit hazy over Yokohama (the best views being of course, from Sagami Bay) but even from where we were Mt Fuji was in fine form, dusted bone-white and regal, keeping an eye on us at sea. Anyway, it was a rather pleasant outing and I secured some quite delicious food for the next few days: three large Japanese Cuttlefish (common name: Golden Cuttlefish, scientific name: Sepia Esculenta). In Japanese they are known as sumiika, or ‘Ink Squid’. One look at the photograph of the squid in my kitchen sink should make the reason for this obvious: they are absolutely brimming with ink, and spew it about most liberally when upset, such as when yanked out of the sea by the eager fisherman.

Cuttlefish have been prized since the Edo Period in Japan, primarily as an ingredient for tenpura, but almost every part of the animal can be eaten. Only the stomach, ink sac (after removing and freezing the ink, perhaps for a pasta sauce) and beak is discarded; even the cuttlefish’s bony plate can be fed to pet birds or terrestrial molluscs. The most obvious dish is tenpura: my own batter is a half-half mixture of flour and cornflour, folded into cold water in which an egg yolk has been whisked, and deep-fried in sesame oil. The next dish is cuttlefish sashimi, that has been cut into thin strips and mixed with finely chopped garlic, ginger, onion, rice vinegar, brown sugar and Korean chilli paste (go chu jang) that gives it its wonderful blood-red colour and a fierce chilli heat. It becomes especially good when left in the fridge for a day or two for all the flavours to blend into each other, but this time sadly none survived the first night.

The curious things wrapped in foil are the livers of the cuttlefish, grilled with nothing more than a shake of sea salt, and served with lemon. The surrounding white flesh is also delicious. The rather stumpy and short tentacles are excellent when par-boiled (then chilled rapidly in icewater) and then tossed in an olive oil and balsamic vinegar dressing. I served mine with a mixture of crunchy vegetables – red and yellow peppers, spring onions, watercress and cherry tomatoes – and plenty of black pepper and crushed garlic.

I hope you enjoy the pictures; I certainly enjoyed the eating, Adam Guy.

How do you catch fish in water over ten meters deep using a rod that does not have a reel, or even guides for your line? Simple: fashion the rod from bamboo, hollow out the centre and run the line through the middle and out the very end of the rod. Wrap your spare line around a couple of pegs at the other end, and you are ready to indulge in the traditional Japanese fishing technique known as tebane.

I first started using this technique to catch a fish known in Japanese as haze. Its scientific name is Acanthogobius flavimanus; however, there appears to be a lack of consensus over its common name in English, with references calling it spiny goby, yellowfin goby or spotted goby. For the sake of simplicity, from here on I will refer to the creatures as just ‘goby’. Gobies are a small, seasonal fish widespread throughout Pacific Asia, and grow up to 20cm in size; they favor muddy habitats and are tolerant of a wide range of temperature and salinity. The traditional goby fishing season starts in September, when the fish migrate from rivers and estuaries to the sea, in order to spawn. Boats packed with goby fans leave port early in the morning from all over Tokyo and Yokohama, and head to sheltered coves and bay areas where the gobies are known to congregate; although the general regions are fairly well known, each skipper has his own secret spot, usually well-managed and handed down from generation to generation by word of mouth. The best goby points are those that are inaccessible from land, preventing others from casting or throwing nets from the shore, and where the waters and tides are relatively calm. When I go fishing for goby, I always use the services of a boathouse called Fukagawa Fujimi, which is located in the southeast of Tokyo. Fujimi is one of the longest-running such businesses in Japan: they have been a family-run affair since before the beginning of the Edo Period, over four hundred years ago. The skipper, a lean, sun-tanned Tokyoite known to regulars as ‘Captain Beard’ due to his whiskers, is famous for both his prowess at catching gobies (which is quite fearsome) and for his no-nonsense, old school approach to not just fishing, but to life in general. Although his countenance is often intimidating to newcomers, he is always happy to take the time to teach beginners – in his thick, east Tokyo accent – the science of traditional goby fishing with bamboo rods, and as a novice I count myself lucky to be able to learn from his vast experience.

Continue reading A Different Kind of Fishing, by Adam Guy