When I cook, I often get hungry. I like to nibble on something, so I’ll open the fridge and grab the unsalted butter and the small jar of salt-packed anchovies that is always sitting in a corner. A slice of bread will do. I’ll slather it with butter, then tackle the anchovy. I rinse a fillet under cold running water, remove the bones, and then place it on my buttered bread. If I’m feeling sophisticated, I’ll add a tiny wedge of lemon; otherwise, I’ll greedily bite into my pane e acciuga with utter satisfaction. In its stark simplicity, this is food fit for a king. I’m an anchovy advocate, born into a family of anchovy lovers. Trust me: Don’t let your past bad experiences with overcooked, shriveled anchovies on pizza prevent you from discovering the extraordinary qualities of good anchovies, ones that have been treated or cooked with care. These …