I rather wish I hadn’t insisted on buying the white fish called Bacava, Baclava, Bacalva, well, it was something like balaclava but more Spanish; anyway, it was quite an attractive fillet of white fish, as far as fillets of fish go. Our friend and neighbour Alan, who is on holiday with us, likes to have fish twice a week so we made a special visit to the Super Sol Supermercado, which has a fresh fish counter (we had dissuaded him from buying frozen fish at Lidl’s). Alan preferred the appearance of the pink fish next to the white ones but I was put off by the red bits, which looked like blood (I’m a tad squeamish) and he conceded because he knew we weren’t crazy about getting fish in the first place (not plaice).
I don’t think Chris and Alan enjoyed their dinner very much tonight; I know I certainly didn’t! I don’t care if I never eat fish again! (In fact I hope not if it’s anything like tonight’s fish.) What was wrong with it? Well, it was a large piece of fish and I took great care in cutting out the bones, then cutting the fillet down into smaller, more appetising pieces – about seven in all (I thought I might get away with having only one myself without anyone noticing). Now had I been at home, with my own larder, I most probably would have made a nice batter and deep-fried the fillets; or I could have made breadcrumbs – even a spoon of flour and shallow-fried might have been okay… Sadly, when in Spain on holiday you have nothing but a bit of butter and a bottle of olive oil at your disposal – oh, and a lemon from the tree by the front door.
Seasoned with a squeeze of lemon and a little salt, the Baccalavia went into the frying pan with a knob of butter and a squirt of olive oil. I began to worry somewhat when the liquid in the pan increased tenfold in volume and the fish was being poached instead of frying (as intended). I poured away a breakfast bowlful of the yellow fluid and returned the pan to the hob.
“I was hoping it would go crisp and brown on the outside,” I apologised, putting the plates on the table.
“This would do nicely as the invalid’s dinner at the nursing home,” Chris said as he observed his large serving of fish.
“It certainly wouldn’t break any teeth,” agreed Alan and I thought I could detect a look of disappointment in his face as he eyed his huge portion of poached Balaclava (well he was the one who wanted fish).
“Anyone want some ice-cream?” I asked. “I’m still hungry.”
“You hardly had any fish,” Alan jibed (he had just forced down his last mouthful of watery white Balcallivia).
“And hardly any boiled potato either,” Chris added with a sneer.
“I’m dieting,” I said and the men exchanged dubious glances.
As a sort of recompense I did the washing up (and drying up and putting away), which I don’t do normally when I’ve also done the cooking. And while I was at the task the men were still sat at the table, discussing our unusual fish dinner.
“I wonder what kind of fish that was?” Alan asked.
“I thought it looked like cod,” I interrupted, “maybe Baclavia means cod in Spanish?”
“It most definitely wasn’t cod,” Alan asserted, “it had a strange texture, like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.”
“No, it wasn’t cod,” Chris agreed, “but I’ll tell you something, it should win an award… for being the blandest fish ever!”
“Next time Alan wants fish I’m going to eat steak,” I laughed.
“And I shall join you,” said Chris.
“I should have stuck with the frozen salmon from Lidl’s,” Alan said ruefully.
Chris and I nodded and we all burst out laughing.