[New York Times] When I was about two years old, my favorite food wasn’t chocolate, or Cheerios, or anything else expected from a toddler. It was smoked bluefish pâté. During the summer in Massachusetts, when my parents and their friends would sit out on the patio with wine and hors d'oeuvres, I would crawl under the table and sneak off with the pâté—to devour with a spoon, out of adult sight, just me and the tub of seafood spread. Old habits die hard, and while I'll now give that pâté the dignity of a cracker to rest on, I still have a soft spot in my heart for bluefish. Sure, it’s a bit oily, a bit less delicate than...
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