I stop beside a crate of sea bass.
“That’s a poor greeting.”
“It is the greeting you deserve,” Baptiste says in French.
“You rejected the turbot last week.”
“The turbot deserved rejection.”
“The turbot was beautiful.”
“The turbot was tired.”
“You’re tired,” Baptiste says. “No one rejects you.”
“Several people have tried.”
“Not enough,” he says.
Baptiste is small, wiry, and perpetually furious in the way fishmongers become when they have spent thirty years handling delicate things for men who think money improves taste. His hair is white at the temples, his hands are fast, and his insults are usually fresher than half the market. He has supplied me on and off for twelve years, which means he considers me family in the least affectionate way possible.
He lifts a flat crate onto the counter.
“Look,” Baptiste says.
I look. The turbot is better than last week’s. Much better. The skin has sheen without slickness. The eyes are clear, the gills clean, the body firm. I press near the spine and watch the flesh answer properly.
Baptiste watches my face. I say nothing. He swears under his breath.
“It is perfect.”
“No fish is perfect.”
“This is why you are alone.”
I look at him. Baptiste points at the turbot.
“The fish has more warmth than you.”
“The fish is dead.”
“Exactly.”
A laugh comes from the next stall, where one of Baptiste’s nephews is hosing down a table. Baptiste turns and barks at him. The nephew goes back to work, still smiling. I lift the gill cover again.
“Four,” I say.
“Six.”
“Four.”
“For Maison Holt opening week, you take six.”
“For Maison Holt opening week, I take what I can use.”
“You can use six.”
“I can use four well.”
