Gutter Fish: The Fish I Dared to Eat, the Story I Survived to Tell (#tbt)
June 2012 found me backpacking though central China, climbing karst formations by day, gorging on local delicacies and swilling local hooch by night. In the transport town of Jishou, Hunan Province, we dined under the stars at a road-side restaurant.
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The fact of the matter is that one cannot truly experience the full girth and potential of Chinese cuisine if one is not willing to precipitously lower expectations of hygiene. Sure, it’s risky but absolutely worthwhile and necessary as far as this little piggy is concerned.
But let’s not sugarcoat things: 95% of the eating establishments in China would bomb health code inspection, and of the remaining 5%, probably 4.5% would barely eke by with a passing D grade. If you don’t want to be stuck eating at the most expensive hotel restaurants that are most likely catering to Western tourists and business deals, you have to adjust.
Generally, my standards for kitchen cleanliness are pretty damn high. I wash produce thoroughly; I segregate meat cutting boards; I wash dishes as I’m cooking; I always have a counter rag ready at hand; and quite frankly, sitting down to eat before the entire kitchen is clean often gives me anxiety. But in China, I can turn a blind eye to dingy little hole-in-the-walls with filthy floors and strewn with garbage; to eat off dishes and utensils barely rinsed with water potentially teeming with parasites; to accept food from hands (especially fingernails) jet black with dirt. I tell myself, I’m only seeing a portion of the picture, and while it’s likely that my food is being prepared under stomach-curdling circumstances, then again, it is possible that it’s not. It’s mind over matter, and my powers of delusion are capable of incredible heights of oblivion and amnesia.
But what can I do when the fish I have just hand-picked for dinner is then swiftly scooped out of the tank and smashed to its death in the. street. gutter in one seamless motion. Do I allow myself to register the accumulated filth—the garbage, the dirt, the various bodily secretions—that are surely washing over the now listless flesh that was so fresh just seconds before, that I am expected to now consume? How can I possibly forget them? Do I object when the cook’s version of “thoroughly washing my fish” (which he promises upon seeing my irrepressible exclamation of horror) is to fetch it from the. street. gutter and swish it around in a big tub of what looks to be dish-washing water?! My eyes burned with the sequence of images that could not be forgotten, and my stomach trembled in fear.
My head hadn’t even completed its first reel before the fish was “cleaned” and gutted and chopped. It was too late now; this gutter fish was ours for the keeping. There was one last hope: Could I convince myself that the pilgrimage of a flash-fry in a screaming hot wok of bubbling oil could cleanse the flesh?
It emerged from the wok—steaming, fragrant, swimming with bright chilies. My eyes drowned in the vibrant colors and glistening sauce that winked at me flirtatiously; my nose inhaled deeply the ticking aromas of sweet, sour, spicy, and salty heavy with promise; my mouth instinctively began to salivate, and I mechanically put my chopsticks in motion.
The first bite was truly incredible, and while the life, death, and rebirth of this gutter fish could not be successfully stricken from memory, it was transformed from one of trepidation and horror to one of comedy.
Thus emboldened, I plunge fearlessly forward with chopsticks aloft and mouth agape.