What the sea leaves on the Cornish shore, roasted till it sings.
Monkfish is the lobster of the poor — meaty, sweet, and honest. Brown shrimp from the estuary are autumn-fat, and capers give you that vinegary snap. I learned this from a fishmonger in Penzance who'd cook it in his back room between filleting. He never fussed, just butter and heat, and let the fish do the talking.
Pat the monkfish dry with kitchen paper — moisture is the enemy of a proper crust. Heat a heavy-bottomed pan (cast iron or stainless) over medium-high heat until a drop of water skitters across it like a bead of mercury. Season the fish generously with fleur de sel and cracked pepper on both sides.
Add a knob of butter to the hot pan — let it foam and brown slightly — then lay the monkfish in with confidence. Don't move it for 4 minutes. You want a golden, crackling crust that seals in the sweetness. Flip, sear the other side for 3 minutes, then remove to a warm plate.
Split leeks lengthways, rinse grit from between the layers, and pat dry. In the same pan (don't wash it — all that fond is liquid gold), lay the leeks flat-side down. Let them char hard and dark, about 3 minutes each side, then tear onto a warm plate. They should be tender inside, blackened outside.
Lower heat to medium. Add the remaining butter to the pan and let it melt slowly, tilting and listening. When the milk solids turn hazelnut-brown and smell like toasted nuts — about 2 minutes — add the capers and brown shrimp. Warm through gently for 1 minute. This is your sauce: nutty, briny, alive.
Slice the monkfish into thick steaks. Arrange leeks on warm plates, nestle the monkfish on top, then pour the brown butter, shrimp and capers over the lot. Finish with a squeeze of fresh lemon and a wisp of lemon zest. Don't overthink it.
“Put the charred leeks down first — they're your anchor. Monkfish on top, split so it's not a wall. Then spoon the brown butter and its cargo over everything, letting it pool around the edges. The shrimp catch the light. The capers give you flecks of dark brine. It should look warm and messy and real, not like you've tweezered it with a steady hand and a spirit level. A wisp of lemon zest, a few cracks of pepper, done.”
First bite: the monkfish is sweet, almost buttery, with a slight give that says it's just cooked through — meaty without being heavy. The brown shrimp add a whisper of salt and umami. Then comes the caper — a little jolt of vinegar and brine that wakes your mouth up. The leek underneath is soft and smoky where it's charred, and the brown butter ties it all together with a warm, almost caramel note. By the last mouthful, you're chasing that noisette finish, every plate scraped clean.
Swap the monkfish for a thick slab of firm aubergine (200g), charred hard in the same pan to mimic the meaty texture. Brown the butter as you would, but use vegan butter (a good one, not margarine) and finish with capers, a handful of toasted breadcrumbs instead of shrimp, and crispy chickpeas or white beans for umami and body. The capers and lemon bring the same vinegary snap. Leeks stay as-is — they don't know the difference. Plate it the same way: it looks honest and tastes properly savoury, not like an apology.
Crisp, mineral, with enough body not to vanish. The salinity matches the shrimp; the acidity cuts the butter. A Cornish cook's white wine.
Spanish, but it behaves like a Cornish coast — salty, precise, slightly oily. Matches the monkfish's sweetness without competing.
If you're staying local, a proper dry scrumpy with some tannin won't embarrass you. The acidity works, the funk doesn't fight the fish.
Sharp, floral, clean. Dilute it 1:3 with water and ice. The acidity mirrors wine; the elderflower doesn't shout over the seafood.
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