This monsoon, turn your ilish into a nose-to-tail feast

Come monsoon and in Bengal, the talk inevitably turns to ilish. The Bengali’s fondness for all things “maach” and “mangsho” is a well-known fact. This affection becomes almost fanatical when it comes to the Gangetic hilsa aka ilish.

This love for the ilish (and its contribution to the GDP) on both sides of the border and the corresponding overfishing is driving the population of the hilsa slowly but steadily to the brink. Increasingly, there are measures that are being put in place to move towards a more sustainable consumption of the fish. Apart from regulated fishing, a significant part of the story starts in the kitchen. And whether it is in a restaurant or at home, minimising wastage is central to conscious eating.

Thankfully, the traditional Bengali way of cooking and eating ilish is a homage to the entire fish from muro (head) to lyaja (tail). Over my last five years of running restaurants and eating across Bengal, I have discovered a few things about what makes every part of this fish so unique and delicious. And here is the breakdown.

How to enjoy your ilish and waste nothing?

Fergus Henderson, the iconic chef behind everything related to nose-to-tail eating, once said—if you’re going to kill an animal, it seems only polite to use the whole thing. The problem is a lot of the world doesn’t eat that way. And the focus on prime cuts like the raan, fillet or as in the case of ilish—smoked and boneless pieces for paturi—were, are and will continue to be the preferred way of eating for “discerning” diners in many parts of the world. However, the longstanding “waste-not, want-not” culture across South Asia ensures due attention to offal and offcuts. And the ilish in Bengal is no exception.

So what is the best way to enjoy ilish?

And any Bengali grandmother would have the answer down pat—“Eat it muro to lyaja.”

Thus, any time a family puts in the significant investment of buying one (currently, a well-sized ilish costs upwards of Rs2,000/kg), they plan each and every course around the whole fish. To begin with, there’s the muro (head), roe, and the tel or the offcuts (the fat, liver, and intestines). And then there is the bony tail. These are the parts that most kitchens throw away. And every single part is open to culinary interpretation.

All that is wonderful about ilish offal

Interestingly, the ilish tel means the offal and innards of the fish like the liver or tripe nestled in its abdominal cavity. This offal is usually left inside the peti steak—almost like a tender-gamey chicken oyster—so that everyone gets a little succulent bite to enjoy.

The tel also refers to the rendered fat of the fish after it has been gently fried in mustard oil. The remaining oil in the kadhai is more delicious and precious than the much-lauded duck fat.

Over the years, I’ve experimented with and used these components in many ways. I’ve served the roe and organs as Ilish Liver Pate on Toast; I’ve used the rendered oil and fresh radhuni herbs for a pasta dish and called it the Ilish e Olio.

But truth be told, there’s only one way of really enjoying the rendered tel and that is the way it was and continues to be eaten across Bengali households—mixed into steamed rice with a pinch of salt and a side of fresh green chilli that’s also been gently fried in the same oil.

Head or Tail?

The muro is quite often used in making chorchori or daal—as a meaty-umami backbone to a stronger vegetal base—just like the meat stock in a French onion Soup or fish paste in Southeast Asian curries. But I think the most unique and delicious preparation with the off cuts can only be a tok—a light jhol made using a sweet and sour element like raw mango or tamarind. That union of fatty umami with tok-jhaal-mishti (sour-sweet-spicy) is just one of those combinations that’s right up there with pork and barbecue sauce or even foie gras and sauternes.

And then there is the other oft overlooked offcut—the lyaja. This is a cut for hardcore enthusiasts as it’s the boniest part of an already bony fish. But in many ways, this cut is the wild card winner as it’s all dark meat combined with generous marbling. Even when just prepared as bhaaja, this cut is already quite delicious. The flavours and textures quite often remind me of crisp confit of duck leg or Japanese grilled eel. But nothing is as ethereal as a mouthful of a bharta or bata—a Bengali form of sambal-meets-choka—especially when made in the kitchens of a Bangal (East Bengal) home. The flaked tail meat, when caramelised patiently with onions and some ground spices, extracts the deepest-strongest flavours of this maach. Every mouthful pops like an ilish flavour bomb.

Steak your piece

Last but not least, there are the steaks. Splitting the steak into two parts—the gaada (back and loin) and the peti (belly)—allows for more diversity on the table in terms of preparations. And there are many from bhaaja (fry) to shorshe bhaapa (steamed with mustard), shukto, tel jhol, patla jhol, jhaal, paturi…the list goes on.

After all, it is Bengal’s most cherished natural resource and it comes as no surprise that the community has found endless ways of enjoying it. The various colonial influences in the region yielded new recipes and a way for the British sahibs to enjoy the ilish smoked and off-the-bone. I feel tremendously conflicted about this mode of preparation: while I’m always in awe of the technical craft it requires, I also abhor it as it’s tremendously wasteful to fillet the fish, especially when it’s done as a restaurant mis en place. A less wasteful way to go off the bone is to flake the maach like crab meat. It’s a technique I saw chef Aditya Raghavan employ in his recent pop-up in Mumbai. It’s also what I’ve been doing ever since I moved to Kolkata and started exploring new ways of preparing the maach. Ilish Cakes with a Lebu Hollandaise are sensational; it’s also gorgeous when flaked into a puttanesca-like tomato sauce with capers (all experiments I’ve served as blackboard specials in the past).

All said and done, however, my favourite way of eating the steak is a preparation that is as traditional as it is forward thinking. And it’s lovingly made by Soma di, my colleague Avinandan’s mom, as a birthday dinner for me over the last few years. The prep is a Microwave Shorshe Bhaapa (forgive me, grandparents). It’s a technique I’ve seen and heard many other Bengali homemakers employ, and it really is magical. Since you’re working with a more consistent and controlled cooking device versus a steamer, it’s very hard to overcook the mustard slathered fish, and it really does make for the most succulent, melt-in-your-mouth experience.

I really could just go on and on about the subject of ilish. But I’ll end on the simplest and most important note: when you indulge in the fish, do it the polite and reasonable way. Don’t buy fish that are under a kilo in size, only eat it in season (that is, from the monsoons into Durga Puja), and, more than anything, don’t be wasteful—eat, enjoy and celebrate the whole ilish maach.

Chef Auroni Mookerjee is Executive Chef & General Manager at the Sienna Store & Cafe in Kolkata. In ilish season, he often has a surprising tribute to the fish (and its many parts) as a blackboard special.