Red mullet fever was common in ancient Rome, although it almost always struck the rich. Symptoms included insatiable cravings, driving some to dig out huge ponds in which to breed the two species, Mullus barbatus and Mullus surmuletus, caress them and train them to recognise that a bell meant feeding, by hand. Alan Davidson describes the ancient Roman enthusiasm for red mullet brilliantly in his Oxford Companion to Food, in particular the preoccupation with size, which led to absurd prices for really big ones. Servius Asinius Celer, a Roman senator during the reign of Caligula, is said to have paid 8,000 sesterces for a red mullet (for comparison, a loaf of bread cost half a sestertius). According to poet Pliny the Elder, the best red mullet was delicate, plentiful and tasted like oysters, while Juvenal complained that raging gluttony and raking the waters with non-stop nets was exhausting the seas.
Also via Davidson, who never held back from bringing death and savage irony to the table, we have Seneca. The philosopher describes the ancient Roman fashion for presenting live red mullet at the banquet table to watch their changing colours as they gasped. Seneca also claimed a Roman “would no longer attend the bedside of his dying father, however much he desired his father to die, if the rival attraction of a dying red mullet was on offer”.
More appealing (as we move towards a recipe!) are the various mosaics depicting red mullet. A particularly exquisite section, the tiny tiles reflecting all the shades of red and cream, was found in the House of the Faun at Pompeii (and is now in the National Archaeological Museum of Naples). More beautiful still are red mullets at sea. The vermilion-streaked M. barbatus feeds in deeper water, while yellow-striped M. surmuletus swims at shallower depths, close to the sandy and rocky bottom. It pays to be more like Davidson, I think, and not shy away from life, then death, in order that we can make soup. Because, in doing so, we remember the value of these fish, which should be a rare treat, and where and how they were caught, and therefore which fishers we give our money to. Hopefully it’ll be nowhere near 8,000 sesterces, however high your red mullet fever.
The recipe is also inspired by Davidson’s Mediterranean Seafood, an illustrated catalogue of fish and marine animals, and suggestions on how to cook them. He notes that the delicate, firm flesh of the mullet is best grilled or fried, and needs no sauce. I agree, but also adore it in fish soup, along with a handful of shellfish. It is a basic and brothy dish that comes together quickly (and can be varied infinitely).
Fish soup
Serves 4
4 tbsp olive oil
2–3 garlic cloves, gently crushed but otherwise intact
A handful of parsley, stems chopped, leaves finely chopped
1 small red chilli
200ml dry white wine
1 tbsp tomato concentrate, dissolved in 300ml warm water
4–8 whole red mullet, bones in, guts removed
300g clams or mussels, scrubbed and soaked in water for 30 minutes
Salt, to taste
4 slices of bread, toasted and rubbed with garlic and olive oil, or a few boiled potatoes, to serve
In a large, deep frying pan or casserole with a lid, warm the olive oil on a low-medium heat, then add the garlic, parsley stems and chilli and cook until the garlic is fragrant (be careful not to let it catch). Add the wine and tomato water, cover and simmer for five minutes.
Add the mullet, cover again, and simmer for a further five minutes. Add the shellfish, cover and leave to cook for five minutes, or until they have all opened.
Lift the lid and check for the mullet’s doneness and that all the shellfish are open – if not, give them a few more minutes; if at this point some are still shut, pull them out and discard. If you wish, pull the bones from the fish, for easier eating. Add the minced parsley leaves and taste for salt.
If you are serving with boiled potatoes, add them now. If you are serving it over toast, put a slice in the bottom of four deep bowls and ladle the fish soup over the top.
