June 9, 2012

Meet Giovanni. A fisherman with a stall two steps from the deep blue sea.

I approach him timidly, we salute, and and I point to some fish.

“I’m American. I know nothing. What can you recommend?

“Which way do you want to cook them?”

“In a pan, I guess.”

Giovanni indicates some small rosy fishies with those rubbery gloves of his.

“OK,” I say in Italian. “Give me three of those. But will you please clean them and cut off their heads?”  I love to cook fish, but only if they’re beheaded.

Giovanni nods. Sure. Sure. And turns around to the sink.

I pay him a total of €3, €1 per fish, which seems a bargain. But lo and behold, when I unwrap the package at home, six bright eyes are staring me down.

“Giovanni!” I curse.  (Can my Italian really be that bad?)

Their scared coral-pink eyes make me think dark thoughts:  You were alive a few hours ago…. Can I? Should I? 

Then I dust them with flour the way Giovanni said. The eyes vanish.

I plop them into the frying pan in a bit of hot oil.

“Cook until they smell good,” Giovanni had said. “A few minutes per side.”

I sprinkle some Sicilian sea salt on the three little fishes, spritz them with lemon.

Slowly I fork the flesh apart.

I’m sad but glad.

It’s one of the best meals I’ve ever had.

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