Everybody hates anchovies. They're the running gag of American dining. The ever-popular caesar salad would be universally reviled if the anchovies that traditionally lent body to its dressing were ever actually included. An anchovy pizza is not so much a meal as it is a practical joke. Even cartoons get in on the fun - remember Scooby, Shaggy, and their pizza with anchovies and chocolate syrup? Yeah, those crazy stoners will eat anything. Even anchovies.

Those in the know seem to think that we Americans hate anchovies mainly because the anchovies we eat are really crappy ones. The scrawny, mealy fillets we find in tins of sunflower oil on some back shelf in our grocery stores and supermarkets are supposedly a poor facsimile of the true anchovy, which is relished by the sophisticated Mediterranean palate.

Fairway claims to be the exclusive American retailer of anchovies from the house of Roque. It also claims that these are the best anchovies in the world. Fairway likes to toot its own horn.

According to my research, Roque is one of the three surviving traditional producers of anchovies in the French town of Collioure, a Mediterranean port city at the foot of the Pyrenees, just miles from the Spanish border. Once the seat of the king of Mallorca, the town was more recently the inspiration for Henri Matisse and the Fauvists in their first steps toward modernism. Collioure is heavily influenced by Catalan culture, and its gastronomy thus relies heavily on the mountains and the sea. And yes, the town is apparently world-famous for its anchovies, and has been for centuries. It produces 500 tons of them each year.

If my French is any good (and that's a big if), Roque's anchovies are taken directly from the port and, before any processing, covered in salt for several days. They are then removed, beheaded and eviscerated by hand (by hand, mind you, thousands of these five-inch fish), and placed back into salt for three months. The blood and juices of the fish ferment, while the salt prevents spoilage, allowing the fish to develop deep and complex flavors. Some of the fish are sold still whole and packed in salt, others are filleted and packed in oil.

Salt-packed anchovies are the most prized by foodies, so I opted for a jar of whole salt-packed Roque anchovies ($5.99 at Fairway on 74th and Broadway). The jar says to soak them in tap water for half an hour, but I've seen experts soak their anchovies in milk, and my experience has been that this draws out some of the offensive fishy smells and flavors from other sea creatures. So I took four whole anchovies (leaving at least a dozen still in the jar), brushed off their salt, placed them in a bowl, and poured about a cup and a half of milk over them. Half an hour or so later, I took one out and filetted it (removing the backbone; the pin bones are thinner than a human hair and impossible to get rid of). The fish still smelled extremely, well, fishy, but I grabbed one of the fillets, popped it in my mouth whole, and started to chew.

This is probably the wrong way to eat anchovies. The salt, oil, and fermented fishiness of the whole fillet was overpowering. I could hardly keep the thing in my mouth long enough to swallow it. It wasn't an unpleasant taste, exactly, but it was simply too intense. I tried the other filet from my first anchovy chopped up on a generous slice of toast. This was a bit more palatable, but I still think anchovies are not really that great on their own. Like the fermented fish sauces of modern Thailand or ancient Rome, they are probably best used as a seasoning, adding depth, richness, and not least of all salt, to otherwise flat, one-dimensional dishes. In this capacity, I am looking forward to using them. These salt-packed Roque anchovies are really in a totally different league from your gritty pizza-parlor fillets. They are soft, oily, and smooth in texture; they practically melt on the tongue. Unfortunately, they also practically melt in your hands. I washed my hands three times last night, and I could still smell fish on my fingers this morning.