BY DAVID KATZ

When Edible Marin & Wine Country asked us to cook an “Indian Summer” dinner out among the dunes of Stinson Beach, I went to my happy place. There is nothing on this earth as soul-satisfying as a well-made pot of chowder, and nothing as flexible for casual entertaining.

In my native New England, chowder is much beloved, and the source of bitter contention between warring factions. The history of this simple, staple, masterpiece is clouded at best. The word “chowder” is most likely derived from the French “chaudiere,” meaning cauldron. Essentially a French fisherman’s stew, it landed in New England well over two hundred years ago as a coastal staple comprised of cod, salt-cured pork, hardtack (sailor’s crackers), onion and butter. The next century would bring simple but fabulous innovation to the chowder pot, most notably the addition of milk or cream, and sliced potatoes. New England soft shell clams, both plentiful and cheap, also landed in the pot, which in hindsight seems more like divine intervention than innovation.

I am a child of the New England chowder pot. I spent my first fifteen summers in the town of Manchester-By-The-Sea, located on Cape Ann, north of Boston. Our summer home was an ancient barnlike structure, perched rather precariously on a sea wall just three feet from Manchester harbor, and next to the town boatyard. There was a small kitchen against one corner of the one-room ground floor, and up the stairs were a few bedrooms with open ceilings and curtained doors. Our light was provided by open barn doors by day, and, in part, by kerosene lanterns at night.

The origin of the building is somewhat in question, but it was certainly a working market building for the local fishery at some period, because scrawled in rough lettering on one ancient wall was the year “1818,” and the cautionary words, “do not pick the face of a fish.” I can only imagine that a century and a half earlier, fish buyers had attempted to pick the faces of fish in our living room with enough frequency to warrant the ominous warning—God only knows the punishment for an infraction. In short, the place was perfect. These are my chowder bona-fides. Beat ‘em, and you can tell me what a chowder should be.

Chowders migrated around the Eastern Seaboard in the 19th Century, gaining all manner of twists and garnishes. By the early 20th Century, a particularly aberrant variation, disdainfully known by my fellow Bostonians as “Manhattan clam chowder,” was popular in parts of Maine, Rhode Island, Connecticut and New York. This inferior tomato-tinted soup is a blasphemy in my mother’s kitchen. That said, even among New Englanders, there’s more than one school of thought about the best use of the chowder pot. It comes down to the fine points, such as the use of salt pork vs. smoked bacon, and the type and size of the pieces of fish in the pot.

My own take on chowder is far too fancified for my mother’s taste, proof that twenty-two years of Northern California living have taken a terrible toll. Reckless employment of leeks and celery (even a taboo fennel bulb from time to time), have cemented my place as a ne’er-do-well chowder cook. In my defense, my version isn’t a far cry from my grandfather’s recipe where it really counts. One guiding principle of our clan’s chowder is an ever-so-slightly thickened texture, created only by milk or cream, the natural breakdown of potatoes, and maybe a crumbled oyster cracker at the table. The gloppy, starch-thickened mess that fills bowls made of sourdough bread here in California and elsewhere is fit only for seagulls and gullible tourists, who flock to wharf front chowder houses in equal number.

Another key to proper preparation is to add fresh fish or steamed shellfish just before serving. For our Indian Summer supper on Stinson Beach, Mimi, my wife and fellow chef, and I prepared the mixed fish chowder, the recipe for which you will find below. Our pot contained California halibut, sea bass, black cod and scallops. To finish the dish, we steamed local clams in Lagunitas Brewing Company’s “Gnarly Wine,” a barley beer, adding the flavorful cooking liquid and clams to the pot at the last possible moment. The result is large chunks of moist fish, juicy clams, and potatoes, mounding out of a flavorful base of creamy broth.

Choosing the fish for a chowder pot depends upon the season. White fish and any number of types of steamed shellfish may be used. As a rule of thumb, thin, delicate fillets tend to fall apart. Meaty, firm fish such as tuna or swordfish tend to be dry and lackluster in the pot. Salmon is a fantastic fish, but not for chowder (forgive me Seattle, but the result is greasy). Local California halibut is the poster child for perfect chowder fish, with enough firmness to hold together and a tender, flavorful result. The chowder base can be made and refrigerated (or frozen) in advance for easy entertaining.

RECIPES

FISH CHOWDER

BEER-STEAMED CLAMS