Free Lunch in Paris by Elizabeth Bard

thick as foam-rubber insulation. Nothing was square or breaded or in a cardboard
     box. I bet these shoppers had never seen a fish stick.
    Clearly, I was too close to the table to be a mere spectator. The man with the big hands was getting impatient. A woman with
     a shopping trolley rolled over my toe. I pointed to the mackerel, said, “
Deux, s’il vous plaît,
” and handed him a twenty-euro bill. He gave me a look that said: “If you were older and uglier, I’d be grumpy right now,”
     and he deposited seventeen euros insmall coins into the palm of my hand. I took my blue plastic bag. “
Merci.
”
    So there I was: an immigrant with an American Express card, seventeen euros in small change, a bouquet of radishes, Frankenstein’s
     brain, and two mackerel.

    W HEN I GOT home, I took the first mackerel out of the bag. His skin was slick and iridescent, with black spots that fanned out in a
     pattern on either side.
This would make a nice handbag,
I thought, as I lost my grip and he fell into the sink.
Slippery little bugger.
    I got hold of him again and put him on a plate. I knew there were things I had to do to him. Dirty, violent things. I’d seen
     Gwendal gut a fish; I’d seen people skydive too, that didn’t mean I was ready to do it myself. I thought about all the things
     I knew something about—eighteenth-century bookbinding, Victorian photography, Renaissance painting. Somehow I had missed this
     particular skill on my carefully groomed résumé.
    The little guy was still looking at me. It was a superior stare. I’m on to you, he said. You’re nothing but a New York princess.
     You have no idea how to turn me into dinner. He was speaking French, so it was hard to tell, but I think his last words were
     something like,
Pixie dust, my ass.
    I took the knife and pressed its pointed tip into the belly of the fish. I hesitated, searching for something civilized to
     think about during my upcoming act of brutality. Had Jane Austen ever gutted a fish?
    The knife made a ripping sound, like an uncooperative zipper.
    It is a truth universally acknowledged,…
    I had hold of something now, soft and dense, like a clot of blood.
    …
that a single man in possession of a good fortune,…
    I pulled out the tiny heart and liver.
    …
must be in want of a wife.
    I yanked out the final membrane, guts dripping from my hands.
    Tell Tinker Bell to put that in a pipe and smoke it.
    After the initial carnage, the rest was easy: white wine, onions, and a sizzling hot frying pan. I felt like a lean and dangerous
     individual, a creature of the wild. The fish tasted terrific, though I’ve no idea if it was the wine or the adrenaline.
    “
Ça va?
” asked Gwendal, wrapping his arms around my waist while I rinsed the pot in the sink. He loves to catch me in the kitchen
     when my hands are busy. “
Ça va,
” I said emphatically. A-okay. I squealed as he sank his teeth into my neck. “Good dinner.”

    O VER THE NEXT few weeks I became a regular customer at the market, walking with my head held high and throwing my melon rind on the ground.
    The fish man was expecting me. I picked out my own mackerel, two the same size, slick but not slimy, wiping my hand on the
     apron wrapped around the pole. There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes as I handed over my three or four coins.
    “
Vous avez un copain?
” You have a boyfriend? he said, holding on to one end of my blue plastic bag.
    “
Oui,
” I answered with a half smile.
    “Does your boyfriend work on Mondays? Because me,
non
.”
    I looked my mackerel straight in the eye.
    One slippery little bugger at a time.

    A Market Day Dinner
    MACKEREL WITH ONIONS AND WHITE WINE
Maquereaux au Vin Blanc
    Mackerel is perfect for a weekday, because it doesn’t really improve with fancy treatment.
    1 medium onion, thinly sliced
    5 black peppercorns (or a good grinding of mixed peppercorns)
    A few sprigs of parsley
    2 whole mackerel, 6 ounces each, gutted and rinsed
    Dry white