Tales of a salmon-lugging immigrant!
What A76, a fishmonger, and a neglected head taught me about living my best expat life.
Like many European countries, Portugal has many small ma and pa grocery stores and open markets (mercados). These neighborhood shops cram everything from frozen octopus and beer to fresh produce, laundry soap, batteries, and dusty bottles of hand lotion older than your dog into narrow aisles. Here, you may have to step over boxes and wait patiently for assistance, since they’re usually a one-person show. It’s your “go-to” for eggs, toilet paper, and navigating through groups of giggling teens on the hunt for after-school munchies.
Then there are the big national chain grocers. Crisp, well-lit. These behemoths have maps masquerading as aisle descriptions so you don’t get lost between “organic foods you can’t pronounce” and “seasonal pajamas.” Here you can shop, grab a latte, get your prescription filled, and practice your immigrant shop-by-Google-Translate skills.
And let’s not forget the carrinho de feira (shopping trolley). According to AI Overview, these are “more commonly used by older people.” Excuse me?! Fernanda (my trusty green trolley) and I can assure you that we take on cobbled streets and navigate steps with ease and strength. Older people… sheesh!
But the real action — the sacred ground of any market — is always at the back: the butcher, the charcuterie, and the fishmonger.
So when fresh Atlantic salmon popped up on sale for €7.99 a kilo (about $3.50 a pound — lottery winnings in fish form), Fernanda and I jumped on the #66 bus and went shopping.
Numbers, Sardines, and Mr. Biceps
Saturday morning. The fish counter was packed. I took a paper tab number (A76) and watched the overhead display board, as if I were at the New York Stock Exchange. “A62… A63”… burly fathers step forward, waving tickets like they were buying shrimp futures. Bags of sardines, fish, and crustations oozing from their shells were changing hands faster than bitcoin. It´s common for customers to tap on the display case glass, letting the fishmonger know they want that octopus, eel, or sparkling fish staring back at them!
And there’s a rule here: older adults (ahem), pregnant mothers, people with disabilities, or parents with small children get priority. It’s civilized and a policy I wish the states would embrace. “A71… A71!” (Yelled out in Portuguese, of course.)
By the time my number was called, I’d waited through enough seafood orders to feed the five thousand, plus leftovers. Shouting “A76!” I swear angels sang.
Enter Mr. Biceps. Uniform sleeves rolled up over bulging arms, bloody apron, young with a flirtatious grin. And he spoke a little English. Thank you, Jesus! The guy could fillet fish and break hearts in one motion. Together, we selected my prize salmon and decided on the best fillets, steaks, and roasts. I felt a tinge of anxiety, wondering how I was going to fit this marine beast in my petite freezer. He honed his knife blade, flexed his shoulder muscles, and assessed his plan of action before going to work on my salmon like it was foreplay. People gathered. Women whispered. I realized I was now the weird solo female buying an entire salmon in front of a live studio audience.
The Great Fish Head Scandal
Then came the moment: the knife-to-throat motion. The question of the day from Mr. Biceps. “Quer a cabeça?” — “Do you want the head?”
Normally, yes. Head = stock = liquid gold. But with limited apartment freezer space, I caved: “No, thank you. Maybe someone else can use it.”
“You sure?” he asked as if I was giving up my firstborn. “No freezer space.” I shrugged.
Mr. Biceps lobbed the salmon head over to his coworkers — two women I immediately christened Big Hips One and Two, who looked like they just stepped out of a Dr. Seuss book: frazzled, bulging everywhere, overworked, attitude. They froze and looked at me like I’d just confessed to microwaving soup in a wine glass. They started murmuring amongst themselves while scaling and gutting fish for a petite nanna. I have no idea what they were saying, but imagine it was something along the lines of:
“She no want da head?”
“No head? Who buys a whole fish and no head?”
They both turn and cast a raised-brow look of suspicion my way. “A79… A79” rings out, and ten shoppers, crumpling their scrap of paper, glance nervously at their numbers. Big Hips One and Two continued their mysterious conversation:
“Must be foreign. I tink she´s American. She has that American look. She´s not Portuguese.”
“But she looks like she can cook. Still, what do Americans know about fish? They don’t even eat Bacalhau.”
They pause to call out “A81… A81” or “oitenta e um… oitenta e um!”
I offer them a humble smile and straighten my posture. Meanwhile, Mr. Biceps has moved on to slicing the salmon steaks and neatly packaging my bags of fleshy pink meat.
By and large, I find the Portuguese take pride in cutting the perfect steak, slicing the finest cheeses and sausages, and being particular about their seafood. And rightfully so. I swear Portuguese babies are born with a prawn in their little pudgy hands.
The conversation I can´t understand continues between the two women:
“Do you want da´ head?”
“Ya, I´ll take it home to make sopa de peixe (fish soup). Me uhzband and grandchildren like it.”
“How many grandchildren do you have? Six?”
“No, seven. Let´s stop working for a moment, and I´ll show you photos.”
“A82… A82!” Experienced customers know this is not the time to wander off, lest your number be called and another person claims your prized flounder and scallops.
12 Pounds of Salmon and an Uber Home
By now, the crowd had doubled. Needless to say, my order was the one holding up the line. “A83… A83!” Mr. Biceps displayed each salmon steak as if it were jewelry at Tiffany’s. “Only the best! Caught this morning!” he beamed, sliding my fillets into tidy bags. When he finished and placed three large bags of salmon on the counter, I half-expected applause. Instead, I got pitying looks: Oh, the single foreign woman lugging 12 pounds of salmon with no uhzband to carry it. I loaded Fernanda to bursting and, in 90-degree heat, called an Uber. Some situations demand dignity; others demand quick refrigeration. Back at home, I crammed every inch of freezer space with salmon. This was no time for freezing wimpy items such as ice cubes or bread.
Since that day, I’ve purchased two more salmon. Yes, two! Heads included. I feel rather old-school now and wield my instructions to the fishmonger with authority (and grace). Hey, at $3.50 a pound, I’m feasting on salmon with scrambled eggs, salmon pasta, Moroccan salmon spicy enough to break a sweat, and salmon baked in puff pastry like I’m lunching with King Charles himself. My omega-3 levels are now higher than those of most Norwegians. And may I add that my skin looks radiant!
What Salmon Taught Me About Immigration
Sometimes in life, you just have to buy the antique, the art, or the salmon and figure out the details later. Freezer space? Logistics? Social approval from Big Hips One and Two?
As an immigrant, logistics can be a daily grind: take a number, wait, pray the internet works, hope the immigration officer isn’t PMS(íng), hand over documents that might not be valid tomorrow, and push through anyway. Flexibility is survival.
Buying a whole fish seems simple. But standing in that line, taking the stares, refusing the head, earning (eventually) a nod of respect — it’s the same muscle. It’s learning to live out of your comfort zone day-after-day-after-day, to be willing to laugh at yourself, and to accept that sometimes your ass is out in the wind.
So when life hands you the whole salmon — head, fillets, spine and all — you take it. You figure it out. And you eat well while doing it.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have dinner to make. Tonight’s menu? Salmon, of course. With Old Bay seasoning — hand-carried from the U.S., like the contraband culinary gem it is.
Tonight I will sleep well with a happy tummy, peaceful heart, and flexible nature, with “A84… A84” ringing through my head. Or was it “A85?”
So true, and a vivid tale of the tail. I laughed all the way through your story!