Tonight I honoured the coast.
There's something about cooking barramundi that feels like paying tribute to the water. This fish — silvery, delicate, distinctly Australian — deserves to be treated with respect. Which means: crispy skin, tender flesh, and flavours that don't shout over the sweetness of the fish itself.
I started by patting the fillets bone-dry. This is the secret to crispy skin: moisture is the enemy. Then I scored the skin in a crosshatch pattern, just shallow cuts to help it crisp evenly. A light dusting of flour mixed with ground lemon myrtle — that uniquely Australian flavour, like lemon and eucalyptus had a lovely child.
Into a hot pan they went, skin-side down. I pressed them gently with a spatula for the first thirty seconds to prevent curling, then let them be. The sizzle was immediate, the kitchen filled with the smell of toasting lemon myrtle. Four minutes, untouched. Patience. Then a quick flip — two minutes on the flesh side, just enough to cook through while keeping it moist.
While the fish rested, I made a simple caper butter sauce. Butter, lemon juice, a handful of capers for their briny pop. Blanched green beans on the side, still with a bit of snap.
This is the kind of meal that tastes like summer on the coast, even if you're nowhere near the ocean. Light, elegant, and done in twenty-five minutes. The skin crackled like autumn leaves when I broke it with my fork.
