Garum Is Having a Moment. Ancient Rome Knew What It Was Doing.

The stench hits you first.

If you're standing downwind of a proper garum production facility—and by "facility" I mean a clay vessel buried in the Mediterranean sun for three months—you'll smell it before you see it. The aroma is aggressive, marine, slightly rotting, and undeniably alive. It's the smell of transformation. Of patience. Of a chemical process that Roman senators and common soldiers alike couldn't get enough of.

Travelers, we're witnessing something rare: a 2,000-year-old condiment is clawing its way back into relevance. And unlike the truffle oil craze or the gold-leaf nonsense, this one actually deserves the hype.

What Garum Actually Is (And Why Your Nose Shouldn't Scare You Off)

Garum was the defining condiment of the Roman Empire. Made from fish—typically mackerel, anchovies, or whatever the local catch provided—layered with salt and left to ferment in the hot sun, it was essentially the ancient world's answer to umami. The process breaks down proteins into amino acids, creating that deeply savory, almost meaty depth that makes your palate sit up and pay attention.

Pliny the Elder wrote about it. Pompeii was a major production center for it (archaeologists actually used garum residue to confirm the August date of Vesuvius's eruption—turns out the Romans made it with bogues, a summer fish). Roman cookbooks from the 4th century reference it in nearly every recipe. It was the salt, the seasoning, and the secret weapon all in one.

The real hero here isn't the fish—it's the time.

Three months minimum. Sometimes longer. The salt draws out moisture, creating a brine that ferments the fish from the inside out. What you're left with is a clear, amber liquid that bears almost no resemblance to its pungent origins. The solids get strained out (and were often sold to the poor as a paste called allec). The liquid gold went to the banquet tables of the elite.

The Modern Revival: From Archaeology to Fine Dining

Here's where it gets interesting for us, Cooks.

Chefs like Josh Niland at Saint Peter in Sydney are making garum in-house from mackerel trimmings, using it anywhere they'd normally reach for soy sauce, fish sauce, or salt. Noma—because of course Noma—has been experimenting with garum variations for years. Restaurants in Lisbon, Barcelona, and even here in Chicago are quietly adding "ancient Roman fish sauce" to their pantry lists.

The technique never actually died, by the way. The same process lives on in:

• Colatura di alici from Italy's Amalfi Coast
• Pissalat from Nice
• Nuoc mam from Vietnam
• Patis from the Philippines

When Rome fell, the knowledge didn't disappear—it just migrated. (History teachers love a good migration story, don't we?)

The "Why Now" Question

So why is garum trending in 2026? I have a theory, Travelers.

We're exhausted by synthetic shortcuts. Truffle oil taught us that perfume without substance is a scam. Gold leaf taught us that price doesn't equal depth. The modern diner—at least the ones sitting on the plastic stools I care about—is hungry for sincerity. For things that take time. For flavors that can't be faked.

Garum is the ultimate anti-instant. You can't rush fermentation. You can't hack three months of enzymatic breakdown. The mold, the salt, the sun—they don't care about your quarterly earnings report or your Instagram timeline. They work on their own schedule.

There's something almost rebellious about that in our current moment.

Making It Work in Your Kitchen (The Suitcase to Stovetop Reality Check)

Am I suggesting you bury a clay pot of rotting fish in your backyard? No. (Your neighbors will call the health department. Trust me on this one.)

But here's what you can do:

The Shortcut: Quality Vietnamese or Thai fish sauce (Red Boat 40°N or Megachef are my go-tos) delivers about 80% of what garum offered the Romans. Use it where you'd use salt but want depth—finished soups, dressings, anywhere tomatoes show up.

The Weekend Project: If you're fermentation-curious, small-batch garum is doable. You need:

• A sterilized glass jar (not clay—let's be practical)
• Fresh, oily fish (mackerel works beautifully)
• Sea salt (about 20-30% by weight)
• A warm spot (80-90°F is ideal)
• Patience (the non-negotiable ingredient)

Layer fish and salt. Wait. Strain. The resulting liquid keeps indefinitely and delivers a umami punch that will ruin you for regular salt.

The Mindset Shift: Start thinking of fermentation as a time-based ingredient, not a preservation method. The Romans didn't eat garum because they had to—they ate it because it made everything else taste more like itself.

The Lesson from the Table

I spent years in classrooms teaching students about the Roman Empire's roads, aqueducts, and military tactics. But here's what I wish I'd emphasized more: the empire ran on fermented fish sauce.

The trade routes that moved garum from Spain to Rome connected economies. The production facilities in Pompeii employed hundreds. The recipe variations across North Africa, Gaul, and the Eastern Mediterranean tell us more about cultural exchange than any textbook map.

Food is never just fuel. It's history made edible.

When you taste garum—or its modern descendants—you're not just experiencing umami. You're tasting the patience of someone who understood that good things require time, salt, and the courage to let nature do its work.

The Romans called it liquamen or garum. We call it fermentation. The process hasn't changed. Only our willingness to wait has.

Travelers, your mission: Find a bottle of real colatura di alici or high-quality fish sauce this week. Add a few drops to something simple—a fried egg, a bowl of rice, a tomato salad. Taste what three months of patience delivers.

Then ask yourself: What else in your life could benefit from the same approach?

— Leo

P.S. If anyone in the Chicago area is actually attempting backyard garum production, I want to hear about it. For research purposes. (And maybe to stand upwind.)

P.P.S. To the person about to comment "but fish sauce smells gross"—yes. And blue cheese smells like feet. And kimchi smells like... well, kimchi. Your nose is lying to you. Trust your tongue.