Dawn at the Fish Market

I rise at 4 a.m. to visit the Harbour Fish Market, a cavern of silver, salt and shouting. A man named Morty, who has sold me mackerel since 1996, nods once as I enter. This is our entire friendship. It is perfect.

I touch every fish. I press, I sniff, I look into its eye. The eye should be clear, like a good conscience. I reject 60 percent of what I see. By 6 a.m. I have chosen four crates of sea bass, two of sardines and one very large turbot, who looked at me with such dignity that I paid his price without argument. He will be the star of tonight’s menu.