Chef Al Brown has written his first fishing "how-to" book, called Hooked: Learning to Fish. Photo / Michael Craig
His fish recipes are legendary but, until now, Al Brown has never written a book about catching the key ingredient. Kim Knight and photographer Michael Craig hung out on Cornwallis Wharf with the chef who says what you put back is as important as what you take home.
At Cornwallis Wharf, two dozen fishing rods are already in the water. Divers stand in the shallows, slurping first-of-the-season scallops. Someone backs a boat badly off the beach and into the harbour.
Forty-five minutes from downtown Auckland, the day smells soft and briny.
“The word that always comes to my mind around fishing is anticipation,” says Al Brown.
“Even as a kid, going eeling. Are you going to see an eel? Are you going to catch an eel? And around anticipation is hope. If you’re waiting for a bus to come, that isn’t much fun. But if you’re waiting for an eel to turn up ... there’s something about that. What’s happening? What’s coming?”
Seven minutes after my line spools into Manukau Harbour, I am wondering the same.
Brown is a chef, restaurateur and television personality whose business interests include a line of sauces, Best Ugly Bagels, Auckland restaurants Fed Deli and Depot, and multiple cookbooks.
He has always fished but, until now, has never written a book about it. Hooked: Learning to Fish (Allen & Unwin, $35) started life as a how-to guide for young anglers.
I am neither young nor an angler. If Brown can teach a kid to fish, can he also teach a Kim?
The red-and-yellow plastic float on my line bobs gently. A sabiki rig normally has at least six small hooks with flashy nylon tail feathers, but Brown has helpfully halved my odds of a tangle if something takes the bait.
“Am I going to catch three fish?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I doubt you’re going to catch any.”
And that might be the point of this exercise.
“We have all these words these days – being ‘mindful’ and noticing what’s going on around you – well, that’s kind of what you do with fishing,” says Brown. “You’re in nature, and you’re aware of what’s going on.
“You’re looking to see if there’s a trout sipping mayflies off the top of the water, or you’re out at sea and you see some birds in the distance, some gannets bombing – those are the things that shorten the odds of catching a fish.”
A blue heron swoops low. A rogue whitecap in the distance turns out to be a seagull. I am noticing, noticing, noticing. What I have yet to observe is a fish on my line.
“There are a lot of things you learn with fishing that help you every day, with everything else,” says Brown.
I went to Cornwallis Wharf to talk to a man about his book, but what I was really looking for was a salty Yoda. What has fishing taught Brown about patience? Perseverance? Love? What can fishing teach anyone about life?
We were still in his truck eating chicken sandwiches (the good ones, from Fed Deli, with hunks of thigh and crispy skin and caraway seed) when I ask about the state of his mental health. It’s a work in progress; something he’s been seriously tackling for almost 10 years now.
“I used to have these dark moods that would be triggered by tiny little things, insignificant things. I thought, when I was growing up, ‘Oh, I’m happy half the time, I’m sad sometimes and I’m moody other times.’ But I realised that my moodiness, you know, there was something wrong, definitely.
“I still get triggered by tiny little things, normally by people who I’m close to ... I’m trying to catch myself when that feeling happens. And it happens in a millisecond and I am still lost. I don’t have words, it just ambushes me. And it’s anger, washed over fairly quickly with shame.”
Brown was just four days old when he was adopted by a farming couple from Wairarapa.
“I was scared of my father, and couldn’t relate to my mother either, and was off to boarding school at a very early age. And so I built up a sort of armour ...”
The farm kid who became a celebrity chef uses words like “perfectionist” and “impostor syndrome” to help him understand what happened next.
“I was trying to prove to the world that I wasn’t damaged goods ... to understand that I am loveable. I still struggle with that.”
Brown, 60, has two adult daughters and is in a newish relationship with businesswoman Wendy Francis-Ching. Fishing has not saved him: “But I’d certainly be lost without it.”
He loves to fish solo.
“I don’t have to prove anything. Because it’s exhausting, of course, wanting to be good at everything, holding up your armour and not seeing any kinks.”
But if solo trips help clear his head, “it’s often more of a good time when you are with a couple of mates ... there is a tonne of pleasure that comes with witnessing good buddies catch a fish”.
The secret? “Being in the right location at the right time with the right gear.”
Hooked’s target audience was, initially, kids aged 8 to 12. Brown says it’s morphed into something he hopes will appeal “to all those who, from time to time, like to wet a line”.
The book contains gear lists for wharf, fly, boat and kayak fishing and surf casting. It covers how to tie knots, bait hooks, cast lures, fillet and cook a catch, and how to speak angler. There are sections on safety, sustainability and te hī ika – Māori fishing.
I learn that a large fish is a donkey and a tiny fish is a sprat; that if you don’t land anything, you’ve been “skunked” – and that there are at least seven styles of lucky fishing hat (if yours is a Brixton fiddler cap, it’s a very fine line between salty sea dog and slightly arrogant 747 pilot).
Brown is a trucker cap kind of guy. His thermos contains instant coffee that he takes with sugar and cream and a chocolate wheaten. I have a counter-offer.
“Lucky chocolate fish slice?” It’s from the recipe section of his book that includes instructions for chowder, fritters, roasted fish belly, Depot’s sashimi and the fish slider that’s made every Iconic Auckland Eats list. An alleged “best fish pie ever” contains two cups of frozen peas. Controversial?
“Peas have always been one of my favourite vegetables. I love peas!”
We’re on the wharf now, scoring a possie two-thirds of the way out. All around us, people are pulling in what look like miniature marlin. Piper (or “garfish” if you’re Australian) are a slick of silver with a pointy beak. Fishing forums recommend running a rolling pin down their length to separate the spiny bones from the tasty flesh. I’d test the theory but, so far, I haven’t caught a thing.
Suddenly, a tug on the line. I shriek and flap my arms, winding wildly.
“Look at that,” says Brown. “What a beautiful little sprat.”
If this yellow-eyed mullet was at least three times bigger, he promises we’d eat it.
“Whether you’re digging a vegetable or catching a fish or shooting a rabbit, there’s an inherent pride that comes with bringing something home and cooking it. And you’re never going to get it fresher. Think about digging a potato. The volume of flavour in that potato is extraordinary, compared to a regular potato. And it’s the same with fish.”
The daily catch limit should never, he says, be your target.
“The first question to ask yourself is, ‘How much fish do I really need?’ You can catch fish with barbless hooks and, if you handle them with a rag that you’ve dipped in salty water and look after them when you catch them and put them back, well then you can fish your heart out.”
My teeny tiny mullet is long gone. Four minutes later, I haul in a trevally. I am ecstatic. This is my all-time favourite eating fish. And, when this one is at least another 22 centimetres longer, I am sure it will be delicious.
Brown says catching (and keeping) as many fish as you’re allowed, or targeting just one or two “popular” species, puts pressure on a precious resource.
“So many people start wasting fish. They just whip the fillets off and they don’t care about anything else.”
He roasts their bellies. Chops their heads into pieces for smoking or stock. Uses a spoon to scrape residual flesh from the frames of big fish to make ceviche.
“I’ve got photos of, you know, 12 kahawai in the sun on the lawn in front of the bach, like you’re a big tiger hunter or something. I’m ashamed of those now.
“It’s wonderful to eat snapper ... but the thrill, of course, is in the fight. In the battle. That’s why I say just take what you need. The fun part is the anticipation.”
Brown must be having maximum fun today. At the half-hour mark, I’ve caught three fish and he has exactly none.
Our hooks are baited with tiny bits of frozen prawn (“if we don’t catch anything, we can still have a feed on the way home)” and he’s dropping spoonfuls of burley to attract attention.
“Fish guts?” I ask.
“Bagels,” he replies. A flurry of silvery bodies bypasses his hook for the slurry of waterlogged crumbs.
“I think what’s probably gone wrong here is that my fishing hat is up at the bach ... ”
His daughters prefer eating fish to catching it, but: “Fishing is very good for family. When you have time to sit in nature, you have better conversations – you know, when you’re walking, or you’re doing something else? A lot of lovely moments happen between adults and children in this situation. The fish is the bonus.”
Brown will fish anywhere, any time. Squid in the dead of the night near Auckland’s harbour bridge, up north from his e-kayak or in Rarotonga, where he targeted the elusive bonefish with his brother Jeremy.
“I got one, I think, in four days and Jeremy got half a dozen. But you know what,” he says, looking at me pointedly, “He never, ever, ever gloats.”
His all-time favourite fishing is up a river, stalking trout with mates who take turns on the rod and spend the day competing to spot the most heart-shaped rock.
Because?
“They’re hard to find ... you know, there’s something beautiful about the shape of a heart.”
Brown says he does his best thinking while he’s fishing: Where is the business going? Was he a dick at home that morning? If he needs to come up with six salmon dishes, what are they?
“There’s plenty of time to cover lots of topics without any pressure. It gives you time to reflect ... You suddenly give your mind some space.”
And you don’t always catch a fish?
“That’s life. You don’t always get it your way. You’ll lie in bed that night and you’ll think, what did I do wrong? Was my tension too high on my reel? Were my knots not tight enough?
“There’s nothing worse than having a fish on and then it gets off and you pull up your line and it’s just got this curly tail of nylon. And all that is, is a bad knot, and so that’s humbling.
“We talked about patience? You cut corners. The knot calls for five loops, but you do three because you’re in a hurry to get it out there, and then you’re humbled by the fish that came along, but you didn’t take the time to tie the knot correctly ...
“You have good days and you have bad days. You can’t have one without the other, and the bad days somehow make the good days better. Life is not always a fish on your line.”
The tide is coming in, and the big guns are arriving. Serious anglers with the gear to target kingfish and kahawai wheel their chilly bins down the wharf. We pack up our gear and add up our day. Four fish for me and a single trevally for Brown. No keepies – but definitely some take-home thoughts.
“There’s nothing better than a slice of sweet goodness when you are out on the ocean or walking up a stream. Eating outdoors seems to amplify the flavour of whatever you’re eating. It also lifts your spirits and breaks the monotony if the fish aren’t biting. This slice is super fun to make, as it’s a no-bake affair. I have made this for a couple of fishing trips recently, and both times I had a PB (personal best) — hence the name ‘Lucky’!”
Step 1: Slice
100g (3 1/2 oz) butter, roughly chopped
395g (14 oz) sweetened condensed milk
150g (5 1/2 oz) dark chocolate, broken into pieces
250g (9 oz) vanilla wine biscuits or similar
1/2 cup desiccated coconut
1/2 cup currants
2 tablespoons cocoa
18 mini chocolate fish
Place a saucepan on low heat. Add the butter, condensed milk and dark chocolate.
Let the butter and chocolate melt, then stir to combine.
In a bowl, crush the vanilla wine biscuits to a rough-cut crumb, then add the coconut, currants and cocoa. Mix.
Pour the melted chocolate over the crushed biscuits and mix everything together.
Line a slice tin with baking paper. Place the mixture in the lined tin, then pat down until evenly spread. Gently press the mini chocolate fish into the warm mixture.
Step 2: Chocolate icing
300g (10 oz) dark chocolate, broken into pieces
2 tablespoons vegetable oil or coconut oil
Place a saucepan on medium heat with some boiling water in the bottom.
Place a stainless steel bowl on top of the saucepan. Add the chocolate and oil to the bowl and melt until combined.
Once the chocolate is shiny and smooth, pour it over the slice, moving the tin around so all the fish are covered.
Chill, then slice into 18 pieces with a fish in the middle of each. Store in an airtight container or cake tin.
