Whipped salt cod on grilled polenta
Every bàcaro worth its salt in Venice has a pot of this going by noon — salt cod beaten into submission until it's pale, fluffy, almost cloud-like. It arrived as poor man's ballast in Venetian holds centuries ago and never left. We serve it on grilled polenta, winter gold against winter cream, and people stop talking.
Place the dried salt cod in a large bowl and cover with cold water. Change the water every 6–8 hours over 24–36 hours. You're leaching out the salt; taste a tiny shred now and then — it should go from jaw-clenchingly briny to pleasantly saline, with a gentle ocean note. When ready, it should bend without cracking.
Drain the soaked baccalà and tear it into rough chunks, removing any stubborn bones. Heat 600ml whole milk in a wide, shallow pan until it steams but doesn't boil. Add the cod and poach for 12–15 minutes — it should be tender and flaking. The milk will turn milky-white and slightly fishy; that's exactly right. Drain, reserving the milk, and let the fish cool slightly.
Transfer the warm poached cod to a large mortar and pestle (or a mixer with paddle attachment if you're not masochistic). Begin beating it hard — you're breaking down the fibres into a silky emulsion. Slowly, as if making mayonnaise, drizzle in the olive oil while you pound or mix. The mixture will transform: from shreds to paste to pale, fluffy mousse. This takes patience and muscle; don't rush it. You'll know it's done when it holds soft peaks and is nearly white.
Bring 800ml stock to a gentle boil in a large, heavy-bottomed pot. Whisk in the polenta slowly in a thin stream, stirring constantly to avoid lumps. Reduce heat to very low and stir every 2–3 minutes for 30–40 minutes. The polenta is done when it's thick, creamy, and pulls away from the sides of the pot. Stir in the butter and a pinch of salt. Pour onto a parchment-lined tray, smooth to about 1cm thick, and cool to room temperature (or chill if you have time).
Once set, cut the polenta into triangles or rectangles about 8cm across. Heat a cast-iron griddle or heavy frying pan over medium-high heat until it's smoking slightly. Brush each piece lightly with oil and lay them on the hot pan. Grill 2–3 minutes per side until deep golden lines appear and the outside is crisp. They should have a slight crust and a warm, soft centre.
Lay a grilled polenta triangle on a warm plate. Top with a generous dollop of the whipped baccalà — pile it high, let it tumble a little. Grind fresh black pepper over it generously, scatter torn parsley leaves, and drizzle with a thread of good olive oil. Serve at once, while the polenta is still warm and the cod still has a slight chill to it.
“This isn't fussy. Warm plates. Grilled polenta triangle, creamy side up. A good spoonful of baccalà mantecato piled on top — let it look generous, not architectural. Black pepper ground over it like it means something. A few flicks of fresh parsley. A final thread of oil. The contrast between the warm polenta and the cool, billowing cod is half the pleasure. Serve it as the Venetians do: standing at a high table with a glass in your other hand.”
First bite: the grilled polenta has that crisp edge, then melts into butter and corn sweetness. The baccalà hits you next — saline, oceanic, but whipped so pale and fluffy it's almost delicate. There's a marine umami underneath, then a whisper of the olive oil, peppery and alive. It shouldn't work — whipped salt fish on cornmeal — but it does. Addictive. You'll eat four pieces before you mean to.
Replace the baccalà with 400g of pressed and pan-fried tofu (extra-firm, crumbled), seasoned aggressively with salt, smoked paprika, and nori powder to mimic the fish's umami and brine. Whip it with the same olive oil using the same method until pale and fluffy — it will take slightly longer to emulsify, but it works. Keep the milk-free polenta exactly the same but use vegetable stock and swap the butter for a good quality vegan butter or extra olive oil. The result is creamy, saline, and surprisingly honest.
Crisp, mineral, cuts through the baccalà's richness without fuss — the default pour in every Venetian bàcaro for a reason
If you can find a Greco from further afield, its stone-fruit notes balance the salt beautifully
Cold, clean, lets the baccalà speak without competing
Prosecco's pretend cousin — refreshing, cuts the salt, proper Venetian
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