step he took. When you were Richie Matta’s friend, his loyalty and devotion to you were unshakable and not for sale. He also introduced me to the world of Cajun seasoning and food.
On a moonless summer night, in the middle of the summer, Richie took me flounder gigging at the end of Fripp Island. We put his johnboat into the Fripp inlet and he fixed a lantern that hung off the bow.
“The tide’s perfect,” he said as he stood and navigated over sand flats, looking much like a gondolier. We drifted over a sandbar where Richie had come across a trove of flounder. Carefully, we traded places, and I poled us across the shallow water on the starriest night of the year. Orion, the Hunter, had left us for the summer, and I longed for his return to the night sky. Richie lunged with his gig and came up with a two-pound flounder that he laid on ice in a cooler. With quick thrusts, he brought six more fish into the boat. Then he demanded that we trade places and we did so again, gingerly. I stood in the front of the boat and saw the lantern’s light revealing the clean-sand bottom of the bar we were passing over. I didn’t see a thing that lived or moved.
“There’s nothing down there,” I said to Richie.
“They’re buried. Look for their shape in the sand. Look for their eyes.”
It was a full two minutes before my eyes adjusted enough to follow Richie’s instructions. I saw the first flounder dimpling the sand. There was a slight, odd-shaped mound in the sand, like the slightly raised women of cameos. I struck with the gig and raised my first flounder into the air.
We took in an even dozen that night. Richie was expert in all phases of outdoor life, and he made a beautifully built fire on the beach at the end of Fripp. He tossed a couple of nuggets of butter into a steel fryingpan, then gutted, floured, seasoned, and filleted two of the fish. In those days I could not cook a quail’s egg and took no interest in his preparations for the cooking. The stars were too brilliant and the smell of the marsh, with its aromas of salt and spartina and working tides that took the essence of the mud and marsh grass back to the sea, was something I could never get enough of. Now I am old enough to know I will never get enough of it.
Nor will I forget the delicious one-of-a-kind taste of the flounder we ate that night. The fish were not only good but cooked to perfection, and that meal remains high on the list of top ten meals I have ever eaten.
“Richie, this is fabulous. The best thing I’ve ever eaten,” I said. “What’s that taste?”
He handed me a plastic cup of white wine and said, “That’s Cajun, son. That’s Cajun seasoning you’re tasting.”
Several years ago a woman came up to me on Bay Street in Beaufort and asked me if I knew that Richie Matta had died in New Orleans. I did not and suffered that I had not done enough to keep that seminal and valuable friendship alive. But when the woman gave me such dispiriting news, the first thing I thought of was flounder. • SERVES 4
Four 6- to 8-ounce flounder fillets
Coarse or kosher salt
1½ cups all-purpose flour
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
3 cups fresh toasted bread crumbs
2 tablespoons bacon drippings
Peanut oil
Lemon wedges
Tartar sauce
1. Rinse the flounder under cool gently running water and pat dry with paper towels. Lightly salt and set aside.
2. Place flour, eggs, and bread crumbs in three large shallow bowls (pie tins work well) and arrange on work surface in that order. Dredge fillets in flour, working carefully to make sure entire surface is coated. Shake gently to remove excess. Dip fillets into eggs, again making sure surface is completely coated. Lift the fish slightly, allowing excess to drip back into the bowl. Place the fillets in bread crumbs, pressing down lightly with your fingertips so crumbs stick to the fish. Place the breaded fillets on a plate, cover with wax paper, and refrigerate for at least 1 hour before
On a moonless summer night, in the middle of the summer, Richie took me flounder gigging at the end of Fripp Island. We put his johnboat into the Fripp inlet and he fixed a lantern that hung off the bow.
“The tide’s perfect,” he said as he stood and navigated over sand flats, looking much like a gondolier. We drifted over a sandbar where Richie had come across a trove of flounder. Carefully, we traded places, and I poled us across the shallow water on the starriest night of the year. Orion, the Hunter, had left us for the summer, and I longed for his return to the night sky. Richie lunged with his gig and came up with a two-pound flounder that he laid on ice in a cooler. With quick thrusts, he brought six more fish into the boat. Then he demanded that we trade places and we did so again, gingerly. I stood in the front of the boat and saw the lantern’s light revealing the clean-sand bottom of the bar we were passing over. I didn’t see a thing that lived or moved.
“There’s nothing down there,” I said to Richie.
“They’re buried. Look for their shape in the sand. Look for their eyes.”
It was a full two minutes before my eyes adjusted enough to follow Richie’s instructions. I saw the first flounder dimpling the sand. There was a slight, odd-shaped mound in the sand, like the slightly raised women of cameos. I struck with the gig and raised my first flounder into the air.
We took in an even dozen that night. Richie was expert in all phases of outdoor life, and he made a beautifully built fire on the beach at the end of Fripp. He tossed a couple of nuggets of butter into a steel fryingpan, then gutted, floured, seasoned, and filleted two of the fish. In those days I could not cook a quail’s egg and took no interest in his preparations for the cooking. The stars were too brilliant and the smell of the marsh, with its aromas of salt and spartina and working tides that took the essence of the mud and marsh grass back to the sea, was something I could never get enough of. Now I am old enough to know I will never get enough of it.
Nor will I forget the delicious one-of-a-kind taste of the flounder we ate that night. The fish were not only good but cooked to perfection, and that meal remains high on the list of top ten meals I have ever eaten.
“Richie, this is fabulous. The best thing I’ve ever eaten,” I said. “What’s that taste?”
He handed me a plastic cup of white wine and said, “That’s Cajun, son. That’s Cajun seasoning you’re tasting.”
Several years ago a woman came up to me on Bay Street in Beaufort and asked me if I knew that Richie Matta had died in New Orleans. I did not and suffered that I had not done enough to keep that seminal and valuable friendship alive. But when the woman gave me such dispiriting news, the first thing I thought of was flounder. • SERVES 4
Four 6- to 8-ounce flounder fillets
Coarse or kosher salt
1½ cups all-purpose flour
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
3 cups fresh toasted bread crumbs
2 tablespoons bacon drippings
Peanut oil
Lemon wedges
Tartar sauce
1. Rinse the flounder under cool gently running water and pat dry with paper towels. Lightly salt and set aside.
2. Place flour, eggs, and bread crumbs in three large shallow bowls (pie tins work well) and arrange on work surface in that order. Dredge fillets in flour, working carefully to make sure entire surface is coated. Shake gently to remove excess. Dip fillets into eggs, again making sure surface is completely coated. Lift the fish slightly, allowing excess to drip back into the bowl. Place the fillets in bread crumbs, pressing down lightly with your fingertips so crumbs stick to the fish. Place the breaded fillets on a plate, cover with wax paper, and refrigerate for at least 1 hour before
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