Tuna salad used to be so basic. And so boring. You bought a can of whatever was on special, dumped it in a bowl with a blob of mayo and a little celery, stuck it on a lettuce leaf or between two slices of white and that was it. Nothing to set off fireworks, but for a reasonably nutritious and satisfying brown-bag lunch, it did the job.
In the past century, Americans have steadily shifted from fishier-tasting canned seafood, such as sardines and salmon, to milder tuna, especially albacore. Maybe that's why pop singer Jessica Simpson couldn't figure out whether her can of Chicken of the Sea held tuna or chicken. But in recent years, the pantry staple has begun to shake its bland, white-bread image. Granted, we're eating slightly less of it than we were a decade ago, when tuna was the most commonly consumed seafood in the United States (today, it's second to shrimp). At the same time, we've gotten pickier about what tuna we buy as more options crowd the shelves.
New pouch packages are attracting buyers who don't like the mess of cans. Flavored tunas, from jalapeno to hickory-smoked, are broadening the appeal beyond the lunchbox. Pricey imported canned ventresca, the fatty tuna belly that sushi lovers know as toro, is showing up in some specialty stores and winning raves from the likes of Cook's Illustrated. Line-caught albacore from the Pacific Northwest, packed in its own juices by boutique canneries, is finding buyers at $8 for a 6-ounce can.
StarKist, Chicken of the Sea and Bumblebee still dominate the canned-tuna market, but even the big guys are offering more choices. Water vs. oil. Light vs. albacore. Can vs. pouch. Premium fillets vs. flake-filled chunk. Olive oil vs. vegetable oil.
Tuna lovers are branching out beyond what's on sale. They're buying based on taste, dolphin friendliness, mercury levels and pedigree. At the most basic, the choices come down to oil and water. Like partisan politics, the lines are drawn early and sharply defined. “Tuna packed in olive oil just has a richer, meatier flavor," says Joie Warner, author of Take a Tin of Tuna (Chronicle, $19.95). "Water-packed is a blander flavor.†Yet 85 percent of Americans pick lower-calorie water-packed tuna, according to market research firm ACNielsen. Many sandwich shops serve it, too. “We feel it's a little more healthy,†says Sadie Kennedy, an owner of the Fancy Pantry in Alpharetta, Ga., which uses water-packed. “Some people would argue and say the oil-packed has more flavor. I don't agree with that. If you add enough spices, herbs, lemon juice, other flavorings, it's going to taste good no matter what.â€
At Alon's in Atlanta, the Tunisian Spicy Tuna Sandwich is a blend of strong flavors — preserved lemons, harissa sauce, capers, olive oil — and water-packed tuna that won't compete with them. But owner Alon Balshan admits that at home, he loves to eat oil-packed Italian tuna, even on the Tunisian sandwich. He uses that Italian tuna on the bakery's new niçoise salad, since the tuna's flavor needs to stand out. There's little guessing about what's in most tuna salads: mayonnaise, celery, lemon juice, maybe pickle relish or capers. Yet the mild taste of tuna encourages some chefs to experiment with bolder flavors, from the Old Bay, Dijon mustard and red wine vinegar-enhanced tuna of Fancy Pantry to Alon's spicy, Middle-Eastern influenced salad.
At My Friend's Place, a 29-restaurant sandwich chain based in Sandy Springs, Ga., founder Roz Katz likes to eat tuna three times a week, spread on a cracker or bread and paired with salad. The chain uses tongol tuna, a less-common species with lighter meat, and mixes it with salt, finely chopped celery and mayonnaise. “That is it,†Katz says. “We go for the taste of the tuna.†But with a little pressing, Katz admits that the mayonnaise, created just for the restaurant, is key to the taste. And that's all she'll say about what's in the tuna salad at My Friend's Place. This is one recipe that won't get netted. “I checked with our principals,†Katz says, “and they likened it to Coca-Cola.â€