Rite of Spring: Shad Roe
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Credit: Betsy Andrews
Like the Victorians, I prefer shad roe for breakfast. I like to pan-fry the lobes in butter until they're firm to the touch and a dark golden brown. Then I blanket them in plenty of carmelly, custardy sauteed shallots, and drizzle on a caper–brown butter sauce, made with a little white wine and squeeze of lemon. Served alongside teensy roasted potatoes and a fried egg, the lily gilded with chopped parsley and chives, it's a ridiculously luxurious way to wake up: the shad roe is wonderfully meaty, slightly livery, and with a deeply umami taste. In its richness and flavor, it falls somewhere between kidneys and sweetbreads, rather as if the animal that it came from didn't swim in the river so much as walked its banks. It wants a glass of wine before noon. It wants a nap directly afterwards.
As a meal, it's terribly sophisticated and satisfying. And it makes me feel part of a legacy of legendary bon vivants: Joseph Mitchell, the midcentury New Yorker's streetwise columnist, gathering tales of the Fulton Fish Market over an early-morning shad roe omelet at a fishmongers' hangout. Or Eartha Kitt singing Cole Porter: "Why ask if shad do it? Waiter, bring me shad roe."
As a meal, it's terribly sophisticated and satisfying. And it makes me feel part of a legacy of legendary bon vivants: Joseph Mitchell, the midcentury New Yorker's streetwise columnist, gathering tales of the Fulton Fish Market over an early-morning shad roe omelet at a fishmongers' hangout. Or Eartha Kitt singing Cole Porter: "Why ask if shad do it? Waiter, bring me shad roe."
Squeeze the roe gently out of the uncooked roe sack, using the back edge of a spoon moving along the outside of the sack. Mix in fresh whipped cream and salt to taste. Spread on buttered toast. Top with finely chopped red onion and white pepper. Oh, and don't forget a shot or two of nicely chilled schnapps. Cheers