Seabass

Seabass may well be globalization’s poster fish, a signifier of mass exclusivity from Athens to Vancouver, like Belgian chocolates or an Economist subscription. It certainly tastes very good. The flesh structured and buttery, its marine flavour distinct but politely reined in, you could describe seabass as a larger, preppier, upwardly mobile sardine. This, of course, is only a functional analogy: biologically, seabass is nowhere near a sardine.

Then again, seabass is not really one thing. Nearly 500 species of the vast Serranidae and Moronidae families may be crammed under that label. Overall, they tend to be elongated ocean fish, silver to grey or even black in colour. But there is also much variance. You may find seabass just a few centimetres long, or a stonking two metres on occasion, or anything inbetween. The category will unambiguously include the European seabass (Dicentrarchus labrax), which hugs the Atlantic shores from southern Sweden to Senegal, and extends through the Mediterranean into the Black Sea. Yet “bass” may also cover a clutch of American species – such as the white seabass (Atractoscion nobilis, also known as weakfish) – which are actually groupers or croakers; or the Asian barramundi (Lates calcarifer), wildly popular in Australia, often in the guise of fish-and-chips; or else a big American freshwater species, the Morone chrysops, frequently hybridized with a marine species to create “striped bass”; and many more.

Of all claimants to the name, the European labrax is the one most commonly labelled seabass for commercial purposes. This is an intensively farmed fish, cultured for the most part in net-pens in the eastern Mediterranean. Türkiye and Greece supply two-thirds of the market, worth around a quarter of a million tonnes a year, with Egypt some way behind. At the Mediterranean’s opposite end, Morocco and Portugal also produce it.

Seabass tends to be sold at 30–50 centimetres long, just the right size for serving whole on a plate or a table dish. It’s an immensely versatile food fish, good fried or braised; roast or poached; or done in a court bouillon of diced carrot, celery and onion; or else raw as sushi and sashimi. Its flesh – low in calories, high in protein and rich in vitamin B6 – is oily enough to keep it moist even when (slightly) overcooked.

The first-century author Pliny the Elder, in his sometimes fanciful Natural History, tells us that “violent animosity rages between the mullet and the seabass,” but there’s otherwise little known lore attached to the labrax. It’s also the case that outside the Mediterranean, the fish is a relatively recent discovery: it doesn’t, so to speak, have a storied personality. What it does have, like all fresh celebrities, is imitators. In 1977, in a move that became a case study in marketing strategy, an entirely unrelated animal, the Patagonian toothfish (Dissostichus eleginoides), was ingeniously rebranded as “Chilean seabass” for the benefit of US consumers. This fish was in reality a type of cod; and while succulent, it was exceptionally ugly to look at. Yet in a market dominated by fish fillets, the aspect of the Patagonian toothfish, with its utter dissemblance to seabass, had no impact. Thriving on the ambiguous nomenclature, the fish became so popular as to be brought to the edge of extinction. A restaurant-led backlash has since reduced pressure and allowed stocks to rebuild. In the process, management techniques have improved, labelling rules have tightened, and consumer awareness has shot up. “Chilean seabass,” that convincing interloper, is sustainably back on world menus.