It is not out of place, I hope, to put
in here a plea for the humble pilchard—though there is really no reason for using any such derogatory adjective about so succulent a pelagic denizen (I borrow the term from the present Minister of Agriculture and Fisheries). I see that a Cornish fisherman named Fender from Mousehole (he ought surely to have been from Sennen Cove, where they are all called Pender, unless they are called George or Nicholas) presented the American Ambassador with a crab and a bunch of pilchards. Anyone could have the crab if they would give me the pilchards. Herrings are well enough, and everyone ought to eat them once a week. But for richness and flavour a Cornish pilchard properly fried drives any herring out of the field. That, perhaps, is why the pilchards all go to Italy, while the herrings won't even go to Russia.
Previous page
