But this time I did try to take them off the beaten track, literally. Tucked away in the not-so-hip part of town is an enclave called the Fisherman’s Market. For die-hard Bengali fish eaters, such as my parents, this was next to heaven. Or maybe Chittaranjan Park. The moment we stepped out of the car the pungent smell of fish hit our noses. Underneath colorful hoardings proclaiming "Seafood City" or "Cooked Crabs" were lines of a variety of fish. The stalls themselves seemed to be floating on boats anchored close to the dock, but on closer inspection they were just tied to the back of a truck.  

The market has been around for about 100 years, and the seafood used to be brought by boat from the Chesapeake Bay off the Maryland shore. Now they come from all over the world – Mississippi and North Carolina to the Bahamas and even Brazil.  

The vendors jostled for attention and they all claimed to have the freshest variety.

There was a sea of crab, scallops, clams, and other specimens lining the stalls. Just a lot of trawl with funny tails and scaly skins you don’t normally get to see – or dare to try – at a restaurant.  

"How much for those shrimp?" asked one lady, obviously a veteran at the market. 

"A pound for 10 bucks," said the vendor. 

"Hmm," she inspected the wares carefully. 

"I’m making gumbo [a Southern specialty] tonight," she said. "Give it to me for 7." 

"Let’s make it 8," said the vendor. 

"Oh, hurry up and give it then," she said in resignation. 

Bargaining is definitely part of the culture here and everyone seemed to be enjoying it. There were Asians, Hispanics, Blacks, families, couples, teenagers all out to "catch some fish and shoot the breeze" as Leon, 26, described it. He comes every Saturday with his wife and 2-year-old from Virginia and can’t get enough of the catfish. “We drive down, hang out for a while, eat some fish, buy some fish and then go home to cook some fish,” he said. 

While my father was busy hankering over what kind of fish to buy, my mother and I ordered up some cooked crabs with its own brand of masala. After choosing 4 crabs (females are more tender apparently), the vendor’s assistant put them into a steaming pot for 15 minutes. Then they were nicely spiced up and ready to go. Much better than McDonald’s.  

Then we sauntered over to where my dad was – he had decided on the American version of catla or rohu fish – and since the vendors only sell the fish itself, we had to make our way to a nearby slaughter house. It was not as crowded or gross as I thought it would be. Three men were taking orders to get fish chopped up by customers and we got ours done to near perfection. Ron, our resident chopper, took our fish and carefully ripped the scales off before watering it off with a highly efficient spray.  

"Don’t take out the eyes," said my mother, who was thinking of a particular recipe involving fish heads. 

"No eyes?" he asked, but didn’t blink twice and did his work. 

An irate customer with a heavy Jamaican accent came in and demanded to see "someone." Her fish had not been chopped according to her wishes the previous day. "I been comin’ here for 20 years man and this has never happened to me," she fumed. Soon, it was tailor made to her standards. 

When it was time to go, there was a sense of satisfaction and achievement. We had found a treasure in DC and were about to cook some fish! In fact, fish markets have this unique ability to impart its own cultural affinity and belonging to the place (especially if you are a fish fanatic) – whether it’s in Goa, Cochin, Kolkata or San Francisco – all of these places with fish markets have a special place of pride in my heart.  

(Shilpa Banerji is a journalist at "Diverse," a higher education magazine based near Washington, D.C. Her fish curry is not so great, but she’s working on it)

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