My brother Johnny was responsible, if inadvertently, for my love affair with salmon. As children, we didn't eat much fish at home, until my health-conscious mother realized it was good for you. From then on, she served something she insisted was flounder—previously frozen, overcooked and drowning in tomato sauce—at least once a week. Initially I cried, but soon became expert at pushing the mystery glop around with my fork, grateful that ours was not a clean-your-plate sort of household.

A number of years later, however, when...