One Sardine, Two Philosophies: Portugal, Japan and the Art of Elevating the Humble

Some ingredients become prestigious because they are rare.

Others become extraordinary because a culture refuses to treat them as ordinary.

The sardine belongs firmly to the second category.

Few countries have embraced this small, oily fish as deeply as Portugal and Japan. Thousands of kilometres apart, both have developed a remarkable relationship with a fish historically associated with affordability and everyday food.

Yet what fascinates me is not simply that both cultures love sardines.

It is how differently they have learned to value them.

Portugal: Let the Sardine Be a Sardine

In Portugal, the sardine needs little introduction.

Summer arrives and the smell of sardines hitting charcoal begins to fill streets, terraces and neighbourhood celebrations. During the Santos Populares, particularly in Lisbon, the sardine becomes more than food. It becomes part of the cultural landscape.

And the preparation could hardly be simpler.

Fresh sardine. Salt. Fire.

Perhaps bread underneath to absorb the juices. Grilled peppers or potatoes alongside. Very little stands between the ingredient and the person eating it.

There is considerable wisdom in that simplicity.

Portugal understands that the quality of a sardine is seasonal. Traditionally, the warmer months bring fish with the characteristics most prized for eating fresh, when greater fat content makes them particularly suited to the grill.

When the ingredient is at its best, the philosophy is essentially: interfere as little as possible.

But Portugal also developed another extraordinary relationship with the sardine.

It learned how to capture it in a tin.

The Portuguese Art of Preservation

Portugal's conserva tradition transformed a seasonal and highly perishable fish into something capable of travelling across the world.

The country's first factory producing sterilised fish preserves was established in Setúbal in 1880, and Portuguese sardines preserved in olive oil were being exhibited in Paris only a few years later.

Over time, the tin became part of Portuguese culinary identity in its own right.

And what is particularly interesting is that the objective remained largely the same.

Preserve the sardine.

Good fish, carefully prepared, packed with olive oil or a simple sauce. Even inside the tin, the sardine remains recognisable and remains the protagonist.

Portugal became exceptionally good at preserving not only the fish, but its identity.

Japan: How Many Things Can a Sardine Become?

Japan starts with an equally deep relationship with small oily fish.

Archaeological evidence of iwashi consumption stretches back to the prehistoric Jōmon period. For centuries, these inexpensive fish were food for ordinary people, valued for their abundance, nutrition and accessibility.

But Japanese culinary culture developed a particularly broad vocabulary around them.

There isn't even one single culinary idea of iwashi.

Different species, different seasons and different characteristics lead to different uses.

Ma-iwashi, the Japanese pilchard, becomes particularly prized when it develops its characteristic richness during peak season.

Urume-iwashi, or round herring, is commonly dried rather than simply sold fresh.

And katakuchi-iwashi, the Japanese anchovy, can undergo perhaps the most interesting transformation of all.

It can become niboshi.

The small fish are simmered in salted water and dried. What emerges is no longer primarily something to place at the centre of the plate.

It has become an ingredient.

When the Fish Disappears

This may be the most fascinating point of contrast.

Niboshi is one of the ingredients used to make dashi, contributing the deep savoury character that forms the background of countless Japanese dishes.

The fish has effectively changed roles.

It is no longer necessarily the dish.

It becomes part of the invisible architecture of flavour behind another dish.

That represents a slightly different way of thinking about a humble ingredient.

Portugal asks us to appreciate the sardine itself.

Japan demonstrates how the broader family of humble oily fish can also be transformed into entirely new culinary tools.

Neither philosophy is superior.

But putting them next to each other raises an interesting question.

What Else Could the Portuguese Sardine Become?

Portugal does not need Japanese sardine cuisine.

Its relationship with Sardina pilchardus is far too authentic and culturally important to require reinvention.

But perhaps there is something worth borrowing from the Japanese curiosity about transformation.

Between the charcoal grill and the tin, could there be more possibilities?

Could different sizes, seasons, origins and fat contents of Portuguese sardines be treated differently?

Could curing, drying, ageing or fermentation create new expressions?

Could Portuguese Sardina pilchardus inspire a niboshi-like ingredient—not as an imitation of Japan, but as something distinctly Portuguese?

Imagine a dried Portuguese sardine designed not primarily to be eaten whole, but to build depth in an açorda, a fish broth, an arroz de tomate, a caldeirada or a contemporary sauce.

The fish would remain Portuguese.

The culinary philosophy would simply have expanded.

From Garum to Niboshi

There is an interesting historical echo here.

The Mediterranean already understood thousands of years ago that the value of small fish did not end with eating them whole.

Garum extracted extraordinary savoury intensity through fermentation.

Niboshi arrives at a related destination through an entirely different technique: cooking and dehydration.

One ferments.

The other concentrates.

Both reveal something important about culinary value: sometimes the greatest contribution of an ingredient occurs when it stops being the centre of the plate.

Two Cultures, One Lesson

Portugal and Japan ultimately have more in common than their love of sardines.

Both understand seasonality.

Both understand that inexpensive does not mean inferior.

Both developed preservation techniques around highly perishable seafood.

And both demonstrate that culinary prestige does not have to begin with luxury.

But their different approaches offer an intriguing lesson.

Portugal became extraordinarily accomplished at celebrating and preserving the identity of the sardine.

Japan developed an extraordinary vocabulary for exploring what small oily fish can become.

Perhaps the opportunity is not for either culture to imitate the other.

It is simply to keep asking questions of an ingredient that has been sitting in front of us for centuries.

Because the greatest food cultures rarely ask only:

How good is this ingredient?

They keep asking:

What else can it become?

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