Monkfish is certainly the most underrated fish. That’s my view in any case. It is certainly nothing to look at. I guess you could say it looks like a monk, but that’s a stretch.
Actually, it seems like some giant black worm, without even the elegant oddities of your typical crustacean such as lobster. But once cooked, say with butter and garlic, it is an absolute joy, the texture and taste of the lobster tail but without all the fuss of tearing apart the overgrown red bug of the sea.
So I’ve never understood why monkfish is so hard to find fresh.
My favorite fish market seems to have everything else. For two years, I’ve asked for it. But each time the conversation goes the same way.
“Do you have any monkfish?”
“No monkfish. No one buys monkfish.”
To be sure, there is a language barrier in operation here. Actually, this is pretty much the only conversation I’ve ever had with the guy behind the counter who cuts up fresh fish for everyone. He is a real pro but not much of a talker, at least not in English.
After a while, this ridiculous conversation became something of a ritual that I enjoyed. I like to think he did too. Each time:
“Do you have any monkfish?”
“No monkfish. No one buys monkfish.”
Month after month after month. It was a staple of my life. The whole bit absolutely delighted me.
But one day, showing off the absurd conversation to a friend, I added a flourish.
“If you had monkfish, I would buy 10 pounds of it.”
It was pure hyperbole, which I thought would be obvious. That must have been where the trouble began.
Two weeks ago, the man said to me: “We have monkfish next week.”
“Next week, really?”
“Yes, next week I have monkfish.”
I was a bit excited but oddly forgot about the whole conversation. My bad. In any case, I happened in there on the day before Christmas, and the staff practically tackled me, signaling to each other and saying over and over: “Monkfish, monkfish, monkfish.”
Then I remembered, so I walked over to the fish counter and the guy pointed to the prize. I said as plainly as I could: “I would like two pounds,” which I thought was a rather generous purchase.
He said back to me: “No, you buy more. You buy 10 pounds.”
Ten pounds! What could he be thinking? So I insisted that I would buy two pounds. He proceeded to throw all 10 pounds on the scale and point to the readout on the scale. I said, “OK, I will take three.”
He lowered the price. I said, “OK, I will buy five pounds.”
He lowered the price again, and practically shouted at me: “You buy 10 pounds!”
It was only at this point—I don’t always read the room well—that I realized that I was in big trouble. I had ordered 10 pounds, and now I’m over here trying to talk them down and down again. I gathered that I had really stepped in it. Sensing that I was outnumbered, and not wanting to injure my relationship with this wonderful store, I said, fine, I will take all 10 pounds.
And out I walked with an astonishing amount of monkfish, about which I had forgotten completely.
But you know what? This stuff is truly amazing. I froze nearly all of it, but I’m actually thrilled to have it, ready to thaw anytime. Essentially, it’s the best fish in the world and now I have a freezer full. Even though I was in big trouble, and was seriously nudged along to embrace my fate, I’m better off as a result!
Why tell such a preposterous story? Because it gets to the heart of a social force that is truly underappreciated. Adam Smith writes about this in his book “The Theory of Moral Sentiments.” Many other great philosophers have identified it too. It is about the way in which emulation and social pressure govern much more of our lives than we know. We are daily surrounded by little tribunals that are entirely voluntary, adjudicated according to informal rules, pressures, expectations, and agreements.
How important is this small court of taste, manners, decency, and reciprocal obligation? They are vastly more important than laws and coercion. They are the very essence of how we learn to behave and get along with others. We are involved in such transactions of decency and mutual respect day in and day out. We comply not because we are forced to do so but because doing otherwise would send a signal about ourselves that we want to avoid in our own interest.
Lately, the word “anarcho-capitalism” has gained currency, thanks to Javier Milei’s victory in Argentina. Everyone keeps asking what it is. It is not a system or an imposition. Essentially, it is how we live now in most of our lives. Most of our decision-making takes place outside the state. The state is not what gets you out of bed in the morning. It is not what makes you pay your bills. It is not what makes us keep most of our agreements in life. What actually governs our lives is ourselves in association with others. This is how it should be. The ideal of “anarchism” is nothing more or less than the hope that this kind of relationship—which is purely voluntary—is how the whole of our lives should be administered, not with force or coercion but with emulation and voluntary compliance with social mores and informal codes of behavior.
My favorite interwar essayist, Albert Jay Nock, spoke about the “court of taste and manners” as being far more meaningful than the state. He is right. The state brings suffering, violence, oppression, pillaging, exploitation, and war. Society in its implicit norms of being is rooted in conscience, emulation, and moral urgings. That is the true source of order. This order emerges from liberty not imposition.
Now when I go back to the store, I don’t have to be embarrassed. They will take me seriously, I hope, and that’s a good thing. That’s reason enough for having bought way too much fish. What I really purchased was a continued relationship with this wonderful marketplace. To be sure, if I had not purchased the whole bundle, I could have gone back anytime, but each time I would have risked getting a fish-eye stare from the staff, which is a terrible fate.
As a final note, how does one cook this stuff? Simple. A baking pan, butter, fresh garlic, and an hour in the oven. It’s glorious. I could eat a steady diet of this stuff, and clearly I will have to now. Also, I’ve learned something else: Be careful about deploying hyperbole in a traditional marketplace where English is not the first language.
