Blue fish are quite oily, but if you cook them right they can be fairly tasty. We’d never cooked one this big before and figured that slow roasting it on the barbecue would likely be the best means for cooking out some of its oil. That gave us plenty of time to enjoy cocktails and the last of our cheese and crackers while we tried to one-up each other with fish tales and other tall stories.
I can’t say that the smell of that roasting fish and burning fish oil was making us especially hungry, but it didn’t smell bad, and we were all happy to be waiting for it to cook through rather than just warming up hot dogs and beans.
Finally, it seemed to be done, so we put it on a platter and sat down at the dinning room table. I carved into it with a knife and was surprised to find its flesh so mushy. Oh well, didn’t smell bad so I served it up.
As we all took our first bites, everyone seemed to eye each other. And then, almost en mass, we all spit out that first bite.
It was horrible. Not as in rotten, per se, but just tasted really bad and completely inedible.
Hot dogs and beans it was going to be.
That fish was so bad that even the raccoons who rifled through the compost heap every night ignored its carcass. Even the morning’s seagulls, who generally fought over our leavings with ravenous appetites, pecked gingerly at the carcass and left most of it there.
I haven’t been able to eat bluefish since, nonetheless, always happy to go fishing again at the drop of a hat. Still keeping my fingers crossed for a mackerel.