Gut instinct

Gutting fish is not most people’s idea of a fun day out, and frankly, not something you will ever be obliged to do, unless you’re on Masterchef . But as someone who’s always been a little uncertain about how to buy and cook fish, I couldn’t resist the lure of an A-Z course which promised to turn you into a fish master, able to pick out fish, strip it down, and cook it. What I was most interested in, though, was seeing if I could hack it as a hands-on fishmonger, among the blood and guts.

The ‘A-Z of A Whole Sea Bass’ took place at the Atélier des Chefs studio, a bright, glass-roofed atelier near the Gare Saint-Lazare. We were five amateur cooks, each with a sea bass to tackle.

European sea bass, or branzino, is an ocean-dwelling predator with shiny silver-blue scales. “See how fresh it is — no smell!” Christophe, our chef-instructor said. “And look, look into its eyes!”

Everyone stared into their fish’s eyes. “We want them glistening, not glassy. The gills should be very red, and its body not floppy. What we are looking for is rigor mortis, which shows it has just been fished.” We all bent to look earnestly for rigor mortis.

Then we were let loose on the bass. First, we descaled them, running our knives at an angle across their slippery backs. Little grey scales popped off and flew everywhere — the table, our clothes, our hair. My neighbour’s fish shot out of his hand onto the table, like an escaping silver bullet. We snipped off the papery side fins, the unfurled spiky barbs of the beautiful dorsal fin, and the tail.

“Now, knives steady,” Christophe sang, using a thin, bendy filleting knife to take his bass apart as if it were Lego. “Be strong, don’t hesitate. Here, here, here, and here. Your turn!”

I made a decisive cut along what looked like the fish’s cheek, then plunged my knife along the bass’s backbone, head to tail, and along the belly, where the blade slipped, making a much larger incision than I’d intended.

Both instructor and bass looked at me mournfully. “Ah, someone has really wielded the knife with enthusiasm,” Christophe said, pronouncing ‘enthousiasme’ like it meant ‘murderous tendencies’. “Never mind, you can use that bit for the tartare.”

Gutting the fish wasn’t any easier. “I can’t get the gills out,” I said, having hooked my finger into the fish’s belly, and tickled it persuasively for a while.

The woman opposite me, having already finished, looked superior. “Shall I help you?”

“No, no, I will de-gill my own bass!” I said, clutching it. The bass had now acquired, in my mind, the Leviathan dimensions of Moby Dick; I was convinced it was mocking me.

I tried again, tugging at the hard, curved gill plate. The sharp, jagged red gills came away in my hand. I used my knife to snap the ribs, and cut two very messy fillets. I looked around: everyone’s fillets were of varying beauty and size, but mine were the smallest.

I redeemed myself by turning out to be surprisingly good at skinning the fish (not very useful, since you only remove the skin for stew and tartare), and pin-boning, for which we imitated Christophe (“feel along the flesh”), stroking our fish in a creepy manner, feeling for the hair-sized secondary bones, which we eased out with tweezers.

Then it was time to cook. We all diced our “less beautiful” fillet into one-cm bits for the tartare (I added the bits I’d massacred), seasoned them with lemon zest and juice, shallots and olive oil, and put them in the fridge.

Christophe rinsed the bones, heads and scraps for our fish stock, and soaked them in cold water to let the impurities leach out. After that, two of us cooked the scraps with shallots in butter, deglazing them with white wine, bay leaves, parsley, and thyme. We added water and left the stock to reduce, skimming away the scum at intervals.

Next up were artichokes; with their succulent, unearthly petals, these were just as beautiful as the fish, and just as intractable. Christophe held his knife still and rotated the artichoke against his knife, paring off the petals as it turned, cutting in towards the heart. We tried to follow, nonchalantly twirling our artichokes like tops, but only ended up slashing at the hapless veggies. Gouging out the furry inedible ‘choke’, we were left with only a tenth of the bud. “This is a very uneconomical vegetable,” said one woman accusingly.

The uneconomical artichokes were stir-fried with fennel and hazelnut oil. Three people were assigned to sauté the skin-on sea bass fillets, while the others deglazed the pans with white wine, then made an infused garlic-cream sauce. Christophe whisked together a vinaigrette and salad for the tartare, then showed us how to plate our dishes at home in small, cheffy towers (“My mother will be so impressed,” someone said). Assistants wrapped up portions of stock, tartare, fillets and sauce for everyone.

Back home, I froze the stock, but the tartare and the fillet made a pleasant, if small dinner. The citric acid had turned the raw bass opaque, and with the tart honey-lemon vinaigrette and spinach salad, it made a pretty, refreshing starter. The fillet was crisp and flavourful in its gentle garlic sauce, though the accompanying ‘fricassée’ was bland at best.

It had been a well-spent, if visceral day. I’d got my hands dirty and learnt all about the innards of a fish; I’d also learnt that cooking fish was far less complicated than I’d thought. I probably won’t be sending my CV to the fishmonger anytime soon, though.

(Naintara Maya Oberoi is a food writer based in Paris)

@naintaramaya

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