A Summer Ritual at Lake Balaton

Every summer in Hungary, Budapest seems to empty out. People head down to Lake Balaton, one of the largest lakes in Europe. I used to join the migration each year, looking forward to it long before summer arrives. Certain foods belong to that place and season, welcoming our arrival and the start of summer.

Along the shore, small stands sell hekk, fried fish served alongside lángos. As soon as we arrive, we go straight to those stands, leaving the unpacking for later. The first order of business is always the same: lángos, beer, and hekk. The fish is about twenty to thirty centimeters long, battered and fried whole. The head is removed, but otherwise the fish remains intact, bones and all, arriving on the plate as a complete fried fish, crisp on the outside.

While lángos appears everywhere in Hungary, even in the cities, hekk is rarely seen anywhere else. Somehow it belongs only to Balaton during the summer holiday season, a food that seems inseparable from the lake and the rhythm of summer. What makes it even funnier is that the fish itself is not from Hungary at all.

Hekk arrives frozen in boxes, often from the South Atlantic near Argentina. The name usually refers to Argentine hake or other hake species from distant oceans. Since Hungary is landlocked, the fish reaches Lake Balaton through international trade, shipped frozen across thousands of kilometers. Regardless of its origin, hekk became closely associated with Hungary. Over time it came to belong to the beach food of Lake Balaton, inseparable from the rhythm of summer. A fish that traveled such a long distance somehow settled into the landscape.

A Fish That Traveled Across Oceans

I once saw a similar example of this kind of food migration in a documentary about West Africa. The dried cod known as stockfish, traditionally produced in Norway, is deeply embedded in Nigerian cooking. The fish travels thousands of kilometers from the cold northern seas, yet today it appears in everyday dishes as well as festive meals.

What struck me was how far the fish had come. Nigeria lies nowhere near the waters where cod live, and yet stockfish became so familiar that it is now treated as part of the cuisine itself. During holidays and celebrations its demand rises sharply, sometimes driving up prices, but the fish remains indispensable.

In that sense it reminds me of Hungary’s hekk at Lake Balaton. A fish from distant oceans slowly becomes local, until people stop thinking about where it originally came from.

What began as preserved cod from the cold waters of Norway now appears in many cuisines. The same dried fish travels far beyond the seas where it was first prepared, known as tørrfisk in Norway, stoccafisso in Italy, and okporoko in parts of West Africa, each name reflecting a place where the fish eventually became local.

The Many Lives of Myeongtae

Thinking about how stockfish are made and how far they travel brings me back to a childhood memory of traveling to Sokcho. On the way there we would cross Hangyeryeong (한계령), one of the highest mountain passes before reaching the coast. The pass is cold and often covered in snow, and along the road I remember seeing long rows of fish hanging in the winter air. These were drying racks, known as hwangtae-deokjang (황태덕장),  where pollock are left outside through cycles of freezing nights and thawing days, a process that gives hwangtae (황태) a distinct texture from the regular dried version known as bugeo (북어).

Praised for its versatility, Alaska pollock, known in Korea as myeongtae (명태), was once treated as the “national fish,” gukmin-saengseon (국민생선). Pollock appears in many forms, each with its own name. Fresh fish is called saengtae (생태), frozen fish dongtae (동태). Semi-dried fish becomes kodari (코다리), while young pollock served as a bar snack is nogari (노가리).

Almost nothing of the fish is wasted.

The roe becomes preserved as myeongnan-jeot (명란젓). The intestines become changnan-jeot (창란젓), the gills agami-jeot (아가미젓), and even the milt, called iri (이리), appears in soups or steamed dishes. Growing up, I remember eating many dishes made from these variations. Myeongtae was simply everywhere, woven quietly into everyday food.

Sadly, I later realized that most of these fish are no longer caught in Korean waters. Pollock populations around Korea collapsed decades ago after years of overfishing, and today much of the fish is imported from Russia or the United States. This reality sits somewhat uneasily beside Korea’s cultural sensitivity toward suipsan (수입산), the labeling of imported products. Yet many familiar foods depend on global supply chains. Pollock roe used for myeongnan-jeot, for example, often comes from abroad before being processed in Korea, and even commonly eaten fish like mackerel, often grilled as gui (구이), frequently arrive through international trade. The Korean bapsang (밥상) increasingly draws from distant waters, even as it tries to preserve its own identity.

Oceans, Trade, and the Fish on Our Plate

The modern seafood system is deeply interconnected. Fish may be caught in one ocean, processed in another country, and eaten somewhere far away. Climate change adds another layer to this movement. As ocean temperatures rise, many fish species migrate northward, shifting the geography of fishing itself.

Even in the Netherlands, where I live now, the cod, called kabeljauw, is no longer commonly caught nearby. Much of it comes instead from the colder waters of Norway.

When I visit the fish shop, I notice a small hierarchy on display. Kabeljauw, especially seasonal varieties like Skrei, sits proudly at the center. Valued for its firm, white flesh, cod has long been considered a premium fish. In the past, scraps trimmed during preparation were battered and fried rather than wasted. These pieces became known as kibbeling, a beloved Dutch street snack.

Pollock, by contrast, known in Dutch as koolvis, literally “coal fish,” takes its name from its darker color. The name itself suggests a humbler reputation. Unlike in Korea, where the same fish appears under many names and preparations, in the Netherlands it rarely receives that kind of attention. More often it is used quietly for cheaper fillets, fish sticks, or battered snacks rather than celebrated as a fish with many identities.

In Korea, however, pollock would likely be treated very differently, appearing in everyday cooking alongside fish such as daegu (대구), the Korean name for cod. Daegu often carries a more premium reputation, but that does not make myeongtae any less beloved. To me, the taste of the two fish is not so different. Both are mild and versatile, though I may even prefer myeongtae. Perhaps because I grew up in Korea, where pollock signals comfort and affordability, appearing on the everyday bapsang in soups, stews, and preserved forms, I tend to value it differently.

Looking back, it is striking how many foods that feel local are shaped by distant waters. Hungary’s hekk fish, Nigeria’s stockfish, Korea’s pollock, and the Netherlands’ cod all tell versions of the same story. Traditions travel, oceans change, and supply chains quietly connect places that seem unrelated. What ends up on a plate often carries a much longer journey than we realize.