Bluefish is the cheapest fish available at my New Jersey market. Five dollars a pound, compared to sometimes 21 for wild-caught salmon. The fishmonger says that bluefish is both more prevalent and too fishy for most people, so therefore cheap.
I’ve heard this before, that bluefish doesn’t taste good, is too fishy, smells too funny. People consistently turn up their noses when I talk about bluefish.
So why does mine taste so good, while the rest of the world scrapes their fish in the trash? I’ve come to the conclusion that my boyfriend must be some kind of fish-cook-superman.
Really. He’s good.
I enjoy my boyfriend’s plain, olive oil pan-fried fish more than any comparably prepared fish in any restaurant. Swanky New York joints included. And he does it so effortlessly and without all of the complaining and nervousness exhibited by moi when I’m cooking.
How does he do this? Good question.
“Because I know how to crisp a skin,” He tells me. I nod lovingly. Go on…
“By rubbing the blade of a knife along the skin, applying enough pressure to squeegee off any excess water,” He’s so eloquent, this is verbatim.
“Then I sear the top of the fish and then flip onto the skin, cooking mostly on the skin side,” He goes on. I nod and smile once more, signally I no longer need him and that I want to write my blog. I look up and he is still there.
“And liberal olive oil! None of that skimpy shit!” Okay. Things have gotten a bit heated now.
I tell him we are done here.
Before leaving the room to go work on his beautifully begun novel, he yells, “And you know what could make it better–pour chocolate all over it! Chocolate!” I think he is either trying to be funny, or seeing if I am any longer paying attention to him.
I keep my eyes on my computer desk. He retreats.
So now everyone, we know the secret of the bluefish. It seems appropriate to laugh maniacally, but I don’t want Jim to think I’m crazy.