How to cook a whole fish in Albania

I’m about over Airbnbs, which are becoming generic and overpriced, but one reason I’ll still book them is the desire to shop for food and cook.

From age 38 to 45, I moved 9 times (6 different states). In that time, I learned that I haven’t fully arrived until I make groceries*, find a pan, fire up the stove, and cook a meal.

I might have picked up this idea from the Little House books. Even if your covered wagon is bumping across the open prairie, once Ma gets out “the iron spider” and cooks up some salt pork and beans or a prairie hen, you feel okay.

The kitchen at my Tirana apartment was built for a short Albanian, reminding me of the kitchen a certain Almanzo Wilder custom-built for his short wife. I’m a tall, unmarried woman, but I make do with a little hunching.

Step One: Find a Fish

A culture that remains alive in Albania is the small shop. Sure, there are grocery stores, but for produce, meat, cheese, dried beans, nuts … you want to visit your local monger. Better prices and better quality.

In Southeast Ohio, I avoid fish, given the poisoned fracking water and distance from the ocean. But Tirana is near the Adriatic Sea, so when I saw a fishmonger, I decided that cooking fish would be my dinner adventure of the evening.

The fish at this stand looks about 1000% brighter than an Ohio Kroger fish. Not even Instagram filters can help Ohio fish.

Step Two: Interrogate the Fish

Old fish is gross. Best to ask the fish first: Hey fish, am I going to regret you?

We’ve all watched the movie scene where the chef wanders the market lovingly fondling the squash. My feeling is that vendors don’t like it so much when you grope their produce. When it comes to fish, at least you don’t touch it.

The rule of fish is that it shouldn’t smell of fish. But no way am I going to hold this fish up to my nose in front of this person, only to hand it back. I’m too wimpy. I would simply buy the fish and leave it for one of the many stray cats.

While a mother and daughter occupy the vendor, I use the distraction to step in and give a distanced whiff test. All clear.

Step Three: Decide what fish to buy

Shrimp? Not today.

Octopus? Not after reading Remarkably Bright Creatures. Plus, I don’t like it.

I decided to go with the fish you see upper left in the picture, silvery and one-person sized.

Step Four: Ask the fishmonger (who is young and therefore speaks English) a dumb question

At least I didn’t ask, “Is it fresh?” I hated that question when I waited tables. I once worked at a restaurant where the shrimp quesadillas left an odor trail, but even when I gave tactful answers like, “Well, people seem to really enjoy the chicken,” people ordered it anyway, then blamed me.

Later, when I worked at upscale restaurants, I wasn’t allowed to give answers like, “No, because old, rotten fish is how we got our James Beard Awards.”

Anyhoo. Last minute, I asked what kind of fish I’m buying and was told, “sea bass,” a blanket term thrown around because it sounds relatively appetizing. As a server of the 90s, I survived the “Chilean Sea Bass” craze, which nearly drove the species to extinction. People really loved saying “Chilean” like they were Zsa Zsa Gabor.

Step Five: Work up your nerve to buy the fish

We’re supposed to love this quaint interaction, but the intimacy of vendors in small shops always makes me nervous, and I’m not even a millennial whose idea of a home-cooked meal is DoorDash.

The longer I’m in Albania, the better I’m getting at this.

Step Six: Buy the fish

By now, you’re thinking, are you ever going to cook this stupid fish? And you thought those blabby recipe blogs were annoying! But cooking is the easy part. The buying of the fish is the hard part. Good ingredients are easy to cook. Ask Italy.

“Do I want it cleaned?” The vendor asks.

I do. Although I have watched many episodes of “Alone,” I don’t see myself cleaning this fish.

The fish costs 270 Lek, about $3.10.

Step Seven: Sides

I find some white rice in the cupboard and buy some white long beans from a stand.

I slice the beans sideways, add sliced fennel, and sautée them with garlic.

Step Eight: Doesn’t the eye freak you out?

I don’t see myself butchering an entire pig for fun, but if the end times came, I could do it.

Although today, the eye bothered me a little. I’ve been a little lonely. I created a makeshift fig leaf for the eye with a parsley leaf.

I put slices of lemon and fennel tops in the fish. I’m not convinced that the aromatics infused the fish all that much, but it looked good.

By the way, those strawberries were AMAZING. All the sides from the fruit/vegetable stand, including lemon, parsley, garlic, plus strawberries, cost maybe $4.00.

Step Six: Cook the fish

I’ve never cooked a whole fish before. But I know the principles of cooking meat:

1. Pat dry (in this case, inside and out).

2. Salt & pepper, lots. (Again, inside and out).

3. Heat pan high-medium, then turn down to medium-high.

4. Forget 80s diet culture and put some oil in the pan. Your final meal will still have 50% fewer calories and sodium than anything from DoorDash.

5. Heat the oil until it smooths and coats the pan edge to edge.

6. Meat should sizzle but not explode when it touches the heated oil. Test if you’re not sure. I used a fennel frond.

7. Gently add fish to the pan. Ssssssssszzzzzz! That’s a good sound. The internet says five minutes each side.

8. Don’t scoot the fish! Leave it alone! Let it sear! Heat + oil + letting the fish sear means your fish will flip instead of scramble.

9. Turn the fish over. I didn’t have a fancy fish thingie, so I used a plastic spatula. Five more minutes.

Is it done? I don’t know. Cut it open! This isn’t Le Bernardin, and I’m not celebrity chef Eric Ripert.

It was dark by the time I finished, so I don’t know if this picture looks appetizing.

Did it taste good?

Pretty good!

Technically, I know how to eat a whole fish, but I spent more time picking around the bones than chewing. I kept thinking of that 30 Rock episode where Liz Lemon wonders if she’ll choke to death alone.

What would I do differently?

Buy a bigger fish with more meat and less bone. Add even more aromatics.

*I picked up “make groceries” from the year I lived in New Orleans, which just means “shop for groceries.”