Erica De Mane

Orange Gown, by Anita Volschenk.

Recipe below: Anchovy Butter

Last week I invited a few friends over to taste test my recipe for a Moroccan-inspired braised squid (which I’ve posted here). I needed an easy antipasto that everyone would like and that wouldn’t require enough thinking to take my mind off the squid (which came out really well). Anchovy butter came to mind. I love the stuff, just a fluffy mix of anchovies and good butter, plus maybe an herb, marjoram, thyme, or mint, served on crostini or on radishes or endive leaves. It was always a big hit during my catering days in the 1980s. I have to say I don’t miss catering. It’s too strange and stressful a job. But it does come with the bonus, especially in Manhattan, of getting to see lots of fancy-ass apartments. A cheap thrill, I know, but a thrill nonetheless. I remember one weird gig in particular where anchovy butter came into play.

This was a cocktail party in an I guess Edwardian-style former mansion, two floors of which now belonged to Shere Hite, the author of The Hite Report, a controversial book about female sexuality that had come out in the 1970s. The party was on Fifth Avenue around 64th or 65th Street. It revolved around a piano recital given by her classical pianist husband. From what I could tell it was a benefit or celebration for some type of Portuguese version of the Knights of Malta (there are so many strange clubs out there). As the evening got underway, men dressed in what looked like drum major outfits, with thick sashes across their chests, filled up Miss Hite’s pastel blue main room, under a high ceiling decorated with white cherubs, angels, and ribbons. There was an intensely polished parquet floor. and long, ornate windows, more cherubs around them. A grand piano sat in the middle of it all. I had never seen a dwelling of such old-fashioned opulence, except in a museum.

I hadn’t met Miss Hite before, and when I saw her gliding toward me as I set up the kitchen I wasn’t sure she was real. Her age was hard to figure, either teenage or a well preserved fiftyish. Fascinating. She was dressed in a bright orange strapless ball gown, and her arms and neck were skinny and fragile. Her long, wavy hair glowed a strange shade of peach. Her face didn’t glow. It was white and lineless, Kabuki-like. She was kind of gorgeous. I stared blankly as she gave me vague commands. And then the piano music began.

I can’t remember what else I put on the menu that night, possibly chives, salmon roe, crème fraîche, or other 1980s catering standards (with chervil? We used a lot of chervil back then), but the anchovy butter I do recall, because it tasted a little flat. It was to be spread on crostini and then topped with a twirl of roasted pepper. I opened the refrigerator to look for something to pep it up, not sure what exactly, mustard or lemon, maybe, but Miss Hite’s fridge contained nothing that resembled food. It was filled with rows of vials, of medicines or vitamins, maybe. Glass ampules that seemed completely in place with the surroundings. What century was this? There was writing on them, but I couldn’t figure out what it indicated. I did, however, have a sense that they were somehow connected to her otherworldly beauty. Needless to say, the anchovy butter went out as is. The rest of the party is a blur. I got moderately drunk on her good champagne, and the next thing I knew, the drum majors had left and I was cleaning up the mess.

I wasn’t sure what had become of my hosts, so there was no one to ask about a freight elevator or some inconspicuous way I could dispose of two black bags full of garbage. I went down and asked the doorman, and he said just bring them down on the regular elevator and he’d take care of them. Okay. So I dragged the bags onto the elevator, figuring since it was late I’d run into no one. But there was a woman there. I said hello. She said, “ Can help you with that?” “Oh no, that’s all right. It’s messy.” “I’m used to messy,” she said. This was a black woman, and it was late, so in this insanely fancy building I first guessed she might be someone’s maid. Terrible, I know. But she looked familiar. Pretty, with a turned up nose and lovely eyes. Then I got it. “Excuse me, are you Donna Summer?” “Yes. I live on the next floor.” “Oh, wow. You’re the best. I love you” is the stupidity I think I came out with. She smiled and said, “You sure you don’t need help with that?”

So, here’s how you make anchovy butter:

Anchovy Butter

Let a stick of good quality unsalted butter sit out until soft. While it’s softening, soak 7 or 8 oil-packed anchovies (I like Agostino Recca) in a little warm water for about 10 minutes, and then drain them. Put the butter and the drained anchovies in a food processor bowl. Add a few turns of black pepper, a touch of nutmeg, and the leaves from 3 or 4 sprigs of thyme. Pulse just until you have a fluffy mass, maybe about 5 pulses. Taste it, and add a few drops of lemon juice or tarragon vinegar, or possibly even salt, if you think it needs them. Scrape out the anchovy butter into a small bowl.

It’s best used right away, but if you need to refrigerate it, that’s okay; just make sure you get it back to room temperature softness so you can spread it. I use it for many things. It’s wonderful on a tomato sandwich, or melted over braised fennel, or on endive leaves, radishes, or celery, for an antipasto. Or try tossing it with al dente spaghetti or working a little into scrambled eggs. And it’s great melted over grilled steak or lamb chops, too.