Sardine supper

Shame. They were so pretty.

I have never grilled sardines, only eaten them from La Mancha's stand at the annual Atlantic Antic. My mom has a far more romantic sardine story, involving a yacht, an island, and swimming in to supper. I only have Brooklyn.

I had not gone in search of sardines for supper but when I saw them on the ice at Fish Tales on Court Street my vague plans suddenly changed. Out went ceviche and in swam sardines. I asked for a dozen and they were taken away, gutted and scaled, while I had a friendly conversation about cooking methods and the apparently outrageously good pastrami sandwich from Mile End in Boerum Hill, the next hood to the east. I promised to try it. Looking at the menu online, maybe the Frenchie can have some Montreal-style poutine.

I was worried that the fishies would stick to the grill, but no problem. I flipped them easily, holding the tails in tongues. That sounds funny. Tongs?

I've been buying real charcoal from the Union Market: it contains lumps of all sizes, so I tried the smaller pieces for this fire, as I knew I would not need it for long. What I do with the huge, log-size lumps, I don't know. Sledgehammer, maybe. One bag usually provides for three to four braais.

The hosta is not a fan of fire.

The sardines, which were impeccably fresh, tasted delicious. Getting all the bones out was a very, very long process. And I like picky eating - but this was patience-testing, even for me. Perhaps in the past I have eaten smaller ones, so just crunched up the bones?

Finger bowl of Brooklyn water and Floridian lime. Roof tomatoes, cucumbers and herbs. Foreign avocado. Foreign mozzarella.

I forgot to ask where the sardines came from. The sea, I imagine, or what's left of it.