Among my real-world friends there is only ONE person of whom I can think who loves herring. Virtual world and social media do contain numerous others, but here in SF it's only one. Who isn't even Netherlandish.
Proving that you don't have to be Dutch or a penguin.
A very sad state of affairs.
I ascribe this to the culturally impoverished upbringing of America's children.They dwell in poor benighted savagery, snapping at passing cheese burgers for sustenance.
By "herring" is meant the tender and almost raw first year fish, as preferred in Amsterdam, NOT the ghastly pickled "mops" of further east, nor the inedible overcooked fish of England, and certainly not the terrifying fermented thing of Scandinavia.
[A very light salt cure after all guts except the pancreas have been removed will leave the flesh translucent, buttery, and worthy of sushi or sashimi treatment, instead of opaque, cooked, and indigestible. It will frighten most Americans. The secret is the pancreatic enzymes.]
Perfect for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, and fit subject for painting, poetry, and song.
It's not available locally. We are not the culinary metropole we pride ourselves on being here in SF, but a mere provincial outpost at the utmost edge of the known world, with a few decent dishes.
Tierra Del Fuego with bells.
My disappointment is boundless.
You folks are incorrigible.
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