Bermuda fish chowder is the island’s national dish and one of its purest expressions of home. It’s tomato-based, built on fresh-caught fish and vegetables, and always finished at the table with Gosling’s Black Seal Rum and Outerbridge’s Sherry Pepper Sauce. Bermudians will argue about the finer points, but the baseline is settled. As chef Lou Harvey of Once Upon a Table once put it, fish chowder “isn’t really fish chowder” without both rum and pepper sauce.
The dish reaches back to the seventeenth century, when English colonists arrived with their own ideas about soup. They boiled fish with bread or root vegetables and called it chowder, but locals soon adapted the formula. With fresh tomatoes, local herbs, and preserved peppers from ships’ stores, Bermuda’s version became redder, sharper and distinctly its own. During the Age of Sail, Bermudian mariners fortified sherry wine with bird’s eye peppers to preserve it on long voyages. That habit turned into a condiment known as “peppers wine,” and Yeaton Outerbridge (founder of Outerbridge’s Sherry Pepper Sauce) remembered growing up in the Outerbridge family home with “an omnipresent decanter of the magic [pepper] liquid” at every meal. That “magic liquid” became today’s bottled sherry pepper sauce, still made by steeping hot peppers in Spanish sherry with spices and letting it mature until its bite softens into warmth. “Rum and sherry peppers aren’t garnish,” says chef Vernon Pemberton, who spent decades behind the stoves at Tom Moore’s Tavern and the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club. “They’re part of the dish’s DNA. You taste first, then you finish the bowl yourself. That’s the Bermudian way.”
“You don’t start with water and a cube,” Vernon told me. “You start with rockfish, snapper or grouper heads and racks, and you take your time. You boil, reduce, and strain it right. That’s where the flavour lives.”
“People forget it’s a fisherman’s soup. The old guys would cook the carcasses right there by the docks. They’d throw in onions, tomatoes, a few carrots and whatever herbs they had. Always a bit of rum. Always a bit of sea water.” The modern version is more refined, but the principles haven’t changed. “You never thicken with flour,” he insisted. “It should get its body from the fish and the time it spends on the stove. A real chowder doesn’t need tricks. You go through the steps—clarify your butter, cook your vegetables properly, reduce your stock. If you skip those, it shows in the bowl.”
Vernon talks about fish chowder the way you’d hope someone like him, a chef, would talk about our island’s signature dish. Definitively, and with no shortage of strong opinions. “It’s a matter of pride,” he said. “You’re carrying on something that’s older than you. Every chef in Bermuda should know how to make it, and every family has their own recipe. But the foundation is the same.”
With that foundation in mind, I spent several weeks tasting chowders across the island—at Harry’s, Tom Moore’s, Little Venice, Lobster Pot, Wahoo’s, and Solaris at The Reefs—measuring each against the standards Vernon described: clarity, balance and honesty of flavour.
He warned me before I began. “You’ll find people putting cinnamon in it, or flour, or cream. That’s not chowder,” he said. “And some people make it too smooth, like a purée. You need texture—little pieces of fish, bits of vegetables, that feeling of the sea still in it. Chowder shouldn’t be fancy. It should be real.”
Harry’s: The Modern Classic
At Harry’s, the bowl arrives dark and glossy, the colour of old cedar. It’s reduced rather than thickened, clean on the surface, with fine solids suspended throughout. The flavour is even—strong but balanced, clearly the product of a careful stock. It’s the kind of chowder that doesn’t need fixing, but the ritual is still observed: a measured pour of rum and a few drops of sherry pepper sauce bring the flavours forward. It’s a bowl that feels deliberate, confident and professional—more “boardroom lunch” than dockside supper, but undeniably Bermudian.As Vernon told me, “You can tell when a kitchen respects the process. You can see it in the colour. You can taste the time it took to make the stock. That’s what separates a real chowder from a quick one.”
Little Venice: Refined and Restrained
At Little Venice, the chowder arrives lighter in tone and texture. It’s bright, smooth, and clearly built for a first course rather than a main meal. The tomato sings a little higher, and the finish is tidy. When seasoned at the table, it opens up, revealing quiet depth without losing its balance. It’s not showy—just careful and consistent. This is the sort of bowl that respects the rules without leaning too hard on them. You taste the heritage in its restraint. It’s the counterpart to French onion soup in France: simple, historic, and hard to modernise without losing its soul.
Lobster Pot: The Standard Bearer
“The Lobster Pot is probably the closest to what we made at the Yacht Club,” Vernon said when I mentioned it. “They do it the right way—no gimmicks, no shortcuts.” He’s right. The Lobster Pot’s chowder is rich, dark and naturally viscous, the product of slow reduction rather than additives. The stock has depth but not heaviness, and the fish is generous without dominating. It’s the kind of chowder that seems to hum quietly with age-old confidence. The traditional finish of rum and sherry peppers doesn’t fix anything—it simply completes what’s already right. If Bermuda ever needed to put one bowl forward as the official example, this would be it. “Chowder is about patience,” Vernon reminded me. “You can’t rush it. When you taste one like that, you know somebody cared.”
Wahoo’s: Easygoing and Seaside
Down in St. George’s, Wahoo’s serves a chowder that reflects its setting—lighter, clearer and more direct. The broth leans toward the marine, with a slightly rustic cut on the vegetables and fish. It’s not heavy, not overworked, and made for the open air. A little rum and a few drops of sherry pepper sauce bring the warmth up just enough. It’s the sort of chowder you can eat under sunlight, not candlelight—casual, refreshing and unmistakably coastal. As Vernon said, “Some chowders are for the club; some are for the dock. Both can be right, as long as they’re honest.”
Solaris at The Reefs: Elegance with Roots
High above the water, Solaris serves a polished version that keeps faith with tradition. The broth is chestnut to mahogany, concentrated but never greasy, with clean texture and careful preparation. The servers bring the condiments automatically as though it’s second nature, and the effect of adding them is immediate: the broth opens, deepens and lingers. This is the dinner-table evolution of the fisherman’s pot—refined, not reinvented. It shows how the dish can exist comfortably in a fine-dining setting without losing its identity. Vernon approved of that idea. “You can make it elegant,” he said, “but don’t make it clever. It’s not a soup to be reinvented. It’s a soup to be respected.”
The Winner
Tom Moore’s Tavern
Tom Moore’s Tavern has a long memory, and you can taste it in the chowder. The recipe hasn’t changed much in twenty years. It doesn’t need to. The kitchen still follows the same process: fresh local fish, clean bones, slow simmered stock—and time.
The first thing that stands out is how clean it tastes. The broth has weight but never feels greasy. You can tell it’s been reduced slowly; the flavour sits somewhere between delicate and full. Nothing shouts for attention. It’s steady, balanced, and exactly what you expect when someone takes the trouble to make fish stock properly. The texture is thicker than most. That thickness doesn’t come from flour or cream but from the gelatin that cooks out of the bones. It gives the chowder a smooth, natural body that doesn’t coat your tongue. The vegetables are cooked right through—soft but not falling apart—and everything blends into one even bite.
This chowder doesn’t chase creativity. It doesn’t need to. The seasoning stays within the Bermudian frame: traditional spices, tomato base, and the familiar balance of heat and sweetness that comes from the rum and sherry pepper sauce served on the side. A few drops of each are enough.
The overall impression is one of control. Nothing is accidental, but nothing feels forced either. It’s a local dish handled with respect, not decoration. Tom Moore’s version might not surprise anyone, but that’s the point. It’s the standard by which others are measured: clean stock, steady heat and no unnecessary ideas. The restaurant’s choice to leave the recipe alone feels right. After all, you don’t change something that already works.
Editor’s Note: Conclusion
Every Bermudian cook has opinions on what belongs in a chowder, and Vernon was no different. “Never flour. Never cream. Never curry powder,” he said. “You’d be surprised what people try. If you want to make a new soup, fine, but don’t call it fish chowder.” He laughed remembering the years he judged the island’s fish chowder competitions. “You’d see everything. People would put nutmeg, or ginger, or even shellfish. One had potatoes like stew. But chowder is about balance—fish, tomato, vegetables, spice, rum, peppers. Nothing else.” He also spoke about the sense of duty behind it. “When you make fish chowder, you’re not just cooking. You’re preserving something. It’s part of who we are. Every chef should know the tradition, not just the recipe. It’s cultural pride.”
The best fish chowders on the island—whether served in white-tablecloth restaurants or seaside bars—share the same character: clear, balanced and patient. The craft shows in restraint, not embellishment. As Vernon put it, “It’s simple—but simple doesn’t mean easy. It’s all the little steps that make it right. That’s why when you taste a proper chowder, you know it immediately.”
