Talking cod tongues

By CINDA CHAVICH

If cod could use their tongues to talk, they might ask you why anyone would want to eat them.

Unlike anything in the seafood world, the tongue of the Atlantic cod (actually a gelatinous bit of flesh from the fish’s throat) is an acquired taste. But since I’m in Newfoundland, I’m taking the opportunity to sample a little tongue at every opportunity.

Here on The Rock – where they say the cod were once so thick you could walk across the bay on their backs – the cod tongue is a local delicacy, as iconic here as other oddities from moose nose to seal flipper pie.

Like the former, the tongue of the cod was first consumed out of necessity – a morsel that could be had for nothing by anyone who was willing to take the time to sift through the piles of discarded fish heads on the docks and cut it out. In fact, almost every Newfoundlander of a certain vintage can remember when heading to the docks to collect cod tongues was a “job” for kids – a way to make some pocket money for the Saturday matinees or simply to feed the family.

“We use to get 15 cents a dozen,” says Loyola O’Brien, a former cod fisherman turned guide, as we shared a plate in his Bay Bulls tour company cafe. “Now they’re a lot dearer.”

Walk down Water Street in St. John’s today, from Velma’s, a traditional local café, to what Newfoundlanders simply call The Hotel (the fancy Fairmont Hotel Newfoundland) and you’ll see these coveted little morsels on the menu – lightly battered and fried, topped with everything from the traditional scrunchions (crispy bits of salted side pork) to fruit salsa and aioli in upscale eateries featuring regional cuisine.

At The Hotel, chef Roary MacPherson delivers the mother of all cod tongue dishes, fat crispy tongues piled high with pork scrunchions for 13 bucks.

“All of a sudden they’re like gold – they don’t give them away,” says MacPherson, who recently lost 150 pounds, certainly not eating this kind of local cuisine.

With the collapse of the eastern cod fishery, cod tongues have become as rare as hen’s teeth so they’re no longer considered discards. At St. John’s food stores like historic Belbins Grocery or the massive Bidgoods, both known for their selection of local Newfoundland ingredients, cod tongues are available, fresh or frozen, for around $8.50 a pound, alongside the seal flippers and partridge berries.

At his cooking school in a big historic house just outside downtown St. Johns, chef Bob Arniel gives me a quick lesson in cooking the cod’s tongue. Just toss the bits of raw fish – each about the size of a sea scallop – in milk and seasoned flour, then sauté them in hot oil until nicely browned on both sides. Arniel serves the tongues on a pretty plate, garnished with a nasturtium blossom from his garden, with a tiny dish of golden nasturtium-infused aioli on the side.

If the cod could only talk.

(Cinda Chavich’s Local Bounty columns appear in the Globe and Mail newspaper)

©Cinda Chavich 2007

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