A lot of fish

I have learned that, when eating with Algerians, it’s generally a good idea to count the before you start. I learned that lesson on a hazy-hot day on the cutlery ambassador’s lunch patio. Within a few days I was to accompany a trade mission to Algeria. The prospect was thrilling. I love visiting places that aren’t on the usual tourist radar. I was keen to impress the ambassador. Already he was happy that I knew something about Algerian wines.

“Do you like couscous?”

“Mais oui!”

“I produce a very good one.” He beamed. After a hot and spicy soup course on that sweltering day, the promised dish was delivered to the patio.

Rotund but spry, the ambassador sprang to his feet and began, enthusiastically explaining the symbolism as he worked, to disseminate the golden grains, the meats (both red and white) generously heaped over them, the vegetables (both red and white), strewn gorgeously amongst them, the sauces (both red and white). I was daunted. But, not only did I know Algerian wines, the ambassador seemed to approve too of my managing to consume more than a spoonful of harissa without crying out or passing out.

From then, all I felt I needed accomplish to retain his respect was consume my mountainous portion of the speciality of his kitchen. I may even have prayed a little for waistband forgiveness. Certainly, afterwards I know I sipped the ruby Mascara wine both thankfully and victoriously. As I put down the glass I saw, with a hot rush of panic, the further array of silver cutlery laid out next to my plate. I had merely consumed the entrée.

By the time I was in Algiers, I knew to count the cutlery.

A few provinces away along the coast is a place called Jijel, the location for a proposed Free Zone and considered a tourism possibility. There the mosquitoes are the size of helicopters. After visiting the sites, we were driven out along the corniche, many beautiful kilometers of gasp-inspiring cliffside with significantly sheer drops to the sea below. Our little bus then returned us to the provincial governor’s guesthouse where we’d been staying. We were to fly back from Jijel to Algiers that afternoon.

Someone said, “Ha – smells nice – fish for lunch,” as we straggled in. In the long dining room, in front of every place setting were two pieces of pissaladiere, embedded with anchovy and studs of chilli.

The rounded, fresh-faced Scotsman sitting next to me nudged, “Here – if you don’t want your other piece, I’ll eat it.” He did. At least here, in an outlying seaside province, we weren’t going to have to wade through seven courses, I understood, studying the cutlery.

Whoever it was had been right. It was fish. There appeared an exquisitely prepared sole and a red mullet in front of each of us with an inviting salad alongside. Not the sort of dish one would describe as a light lunch, what with two sizeable fish in one go. Then came the next course. It was also fish.

Two giant rock cods with white frills on their tails were borne in by strong men. The men ripped off the skins with something of a flourish and plated the fish. It was good, lightly curried inside, presumably marinated to achieve that interesting result and served with vegetables. It was particularly filling. I smirked at Tom who’d eaten my piece of pissaladiere and must have been feeling better fed than I. He looked slightly flushed.

“It’s a lot of fish,” he said simply.

Now for the dessert. Bowls were brought in, steaming, and set before us. In each bowl was a rosily pink stew of shrimps and prawns, presumably to be eaten with the spoons and forks that were all that remained of our settings.

“First time I’ve eaten fish for pudding, “ mumbled the Belgian on my other side. His voice sounded strained. I said something idiotic about liking oysters for pudding. It probably wouldn’t have sounded quite so silly if we hadn’t seen the waiters resetting our places with three more sets of cutlery each. By then everything seemed idiotic, especially fish.

Thankfully, the real dessert, when its turn came after the two intervening courses, was fruit. Afterwards each of us was presented with a rather large and perfectly detailed galleon made of cork. I think it was intended to serve as a reminder of the coastal delights that Jijel had to offer. To me it felt ridiculously light.

It was also a ridiculously ungainly item to carry onto a plane along with an overnight bag and a handbag. However, on board, the seats tipped back in a kindly fashion to accommodate all those fish-filled bellies travelling through the air. A stewardess appeared.

I sat up and glared at her after she reached me. Were these people round here completely iodine stuffed and crazy? I’d distinctly heard her ask me if I’d like to have a fish.

Stewardessily unfazed, she repeated: “Voulez-vous avoir le boisson”? I slumped back. I nearly groaned: “Oh, thank the god in this heaven! – she wants me to have a drink, not a ‘poisson’.”