Monkfish is the ugliest creature pulled from the sea. Its massive head, all gaping mouth and teeth, was traditionally thrown back or sold for pennies. But the tail contains flesh so firm, so meaty, so unlike other fish that Italian cooks call it coda di rospo, the toad's tail, and treat it with the respect it deserves.

This is not delicate cooking. The fish can take heat. It wants heat. Where a sea bass would disintegrate, monkfish holds its shape, absorbing the tomato, the brininess of capers and olives, becoming more itself through the braising. You could almost treat it like veal, and many cooks do.

The sauce here is simple because it must be. Tomatoes, good olives, capers rinsed of their salt, a whisper of garlic removed before it can announce itself. The fish provides the substance. What you keep out is as significant as what you put in. A sauce crowded with herbs and spices would fight the delicate sweetness of the flesh. We are not making a stew. We are coaxing the best from an ingredient that rewards patience.