Amberjack is splendid, tasty and a little muddled. Or rather, muddled is what we are, when it comes to deciding what to call it. In Latin we’re quick to identify it as Seriola, from the Carangidae family of fast-swimming fish that inhabit warmer oceanic waters. In our vernacular tongues, we seem unsure. In American English, the greater amberjack is alternatively known as yellow jack, but on occasion as pompano, which may also designate the whole of the jack genus. In French-speaking countries, it could be a sériole couronnée or a sériole ambrée – when it’s not a limon or, endearingly, a carangue amoureuse. Formal Italian uses ricciola, but regional dialects cling to their leccia, fijtula or jarrupe.
Japan, which farms more amberjack than any other fish, combines precision and haziness in referring to its native species, the Seriola quinqueradiata. There’s certainly a full stack of lexicon tied to the age of the animal, with hamachi (young fish, weighing around 3 kilograms) and buri (mature fish, 5 kilograms and up) the names most commonly seen on menus and stalls. But what to Osakans is hamachi can be sold in Tokyo as inada; buri, especially when farmed, may turn up as hamachi; and all are rendered in English as yellowtail, at the risk of being mistaken for the entirely different fish that is yellowtail tuna.
The potential for consumer frustration, in other words, is great. Or perhaps we should just relax into this normative bouillabaisse and hail the amberjack in its wealth of guises. The hotchpotch of names attached to the creature conveys a form of organic authenticity: it suggests amberjack was embedded in local fishing and food cultures long before speech and commerce were standardized. Today, amberjack has nothing like the global following that cod and tuna have. But it soon might: this is one fish that’s both plentiful in the wild and easy to farm. It lives 15 years at most, but it breeds prolifically. The flesh is buttery, packed with protein, and rich in phosphorus and potassium – the kind of minerals on which our muscles, nerves and teeth thrive. Not least, amberjacks catch the eye: they can exceed 1.5 metres in length, the female outstripping the male. Shades of gold – and, indeed, amber – light up the fins. Or, depending on the species, a citron line may bisect the fish from eye to tail, like a sunbeam slicing the clouds.
In a pattern some of us mammals might recognize, amberjacks are sociable animals when young, but grow more solitary with age. The Japanese market tends to allocate the younger fish, raised in pens off the southern islands, for sushi. The mature fish are usually caught in the wild: richer and more sapid, they are frequently paired with teriyaki sauce. To make this finger-licking dish, sprinkle salt over a couple of thick amberjack steaks and set them aside for five minutes: the salt will draw out the blood. Wipe the steaks off (but do not wash them), dust them with flour, then fry them in a pan with a little hot oil. Press down on the steaks with a spatula to maximize crispness. Once the fish is seared on both sides, remove it from the pan, soak up the excess grease with kitchen paper, and set aside. For the teriyaki sauce, add equal amounts of soy, sake, mirin rice wine and sugar to the pan and reduce to a liquid glaze. Return the fish to the pan and slow-cook for another minute, basting it with the glaze. The flour on the steaks should further thicken the sauce: dilute with a few drops of water if needed. Serve over rice, with charred leeks and peppers, alongside green tea or cold beer.
Unless you catch your amberjack in the open sea – and a good few people do: amberjack is a popular recreational game fish – you will come across pre-cut fillets, steaks, or sushi and sashimi pieces. In finer Italian restaurants, amberjack may be served as carpaccio, raw and sliced thin to the point of transparency, though it’s rarely sold that way. If imported from Japan, the fish will almost certainly be farmed. It should be labelled yellowtail (again, watch out for any mix-ups with yellowtail tuna), or Japanese amberjack, or some combination of these terms. Elsewhere, amberjack may be from capture. Either way, the label ought to make this clear. In the European Union, the FAO fishing zone must be specified. If you’re not sure, ask – but don’t let the answer sway you. Wild or farmed, it’ll be good regardless. Amberjack is an oily fish: look for flesh that is plump, firm and supple. It should be rose-coloured in younger individuals, possibly with a bluish tinge; in mature fish, the flesh may run to a warm mauve. If the cut comes from the back of the animal, the bloodline is sometimes sharply delineated, brick red against pink. Try not to overcook amberjack; you’ll want to keep some fat on the fish, or it might go stringy and lose flavour. Flash-fry it, grill it or braise it with enough liquid to retain moisture. Roasting oily fish risks drying it out, unless you swaddle it well or watch your timing like a hawk. Our featured recipe comes from Cabo Verde, off the coast of West Africa. It calls for steam-poaching the fish, known locally as charuteiro, into a scrumptious Creole chowder.
Officially, Seriola dumerili, Carangidae family. That’s what it says on my mailbox, should you wish to write to me. Beyond that, I have many folk names that often reference good things, such as gold or love. But even within the same language, people struggle to agree on one.
From Nova Scotia to Brazil in the western Atlantic, and off South Africa, in the Persian Gulf and around Australia, Japan and Hawaii in the Pacific. Also in the Mediterranean, and from the Gulf of Biscay to Senegal. In UK waters, not so much. In Japan, I also live in pens.
Antoine Joseph (also known as Antonio Giuseppe) Risso, in 1810. He was a naturalist from Nice, who published, among other things, an ichthyological study of what we now know as the French Riviera. He gave me the dumerili name in honour of another French scientist of the era, André Marie Constant Duméril.
You say we might want to write to you. But I don’t know where you live.In tropical and subtropical (45° north–28° south) areas of the Atlantic and Indo-Pacific Oceans.
I’m gonochoric, which means I split into male and female. This tends to happen when I’m 4 or 5 months old and about 25 centimetres long. But there’s no sexual dimorphism: I don’t look different if I’m one sex or the other. In that, I differ from other fish such as salmon – not to mention most humans, or lions and lionesses, or mandarin ducks.
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