During our Norfolk break we spent half a day over the border in Southwold. The idea had been to fish off the pier, but as the wind was blowing directly from Siberia and we had not taken our sumo suits (far more descriptive than flotation suits) we walked down to the river instead and bought cockles and some smoked sprats. For some reason the latter have never, unless I missed it, enjoyed foodie fame. Pity, they deserve it, though if they came into vogue doubtless the extremely reasonable price would rocket. Like rocket.
The fish can be cooked if you must, but the perfect way to eat them is as they come, with fingers, stripping the oily flesh from bones and if you must from the skin too, only brown bread and butter to accompany the feast. Another entry to our family game of messy menus for pompous prigs. I am sure this has featured in a previous post, so just a recap: imagine you are feeding someone whose dignity exceeds their charm. What do you put on the menu to bring them down a peg or two? Crab from the shell; spaghetti; prawns that need to be peeled; corn-on-the-cob with loads of dripping butter. Add your own ideas at liberty.
We bought about 15 for just over £2, so they're an austerity treat too. And 50 times better value than the sandwiches later in The Lord Nelson, Adnams you should be ashamed: £6.95 for a butty and a handful of chips, and the bread was close to stale. If it hadn't been for the Jocastas, Gileses, Indias and Quentins five-deep at the bar I'd have complained. And I'll take a wild guess that none of those chinless second-homers had a smoked sprat that weekend, especially when there is a lovely little place they know here that sells the most divine olives daaahhling.
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