Perch

Come closer, let me tell you about perch. Pick up the fillet and it tells you everything: cool, firm, springy under your finger, bouncing back the moment you let go. Cook it carelessly and that same firmness turns against you — the flesh goes dry, fibrous, sad. Cook it right and it stays snow-white, falling into clean sheets, sweet on the tongue.

How do you choose a good one? Look at the eyes — clear, not clouded. Smell it: it should smell of river water, nothing sour, nothing sharp. Press the flesh — it should spring back at once, not leave a dent behind.

Some people say freshwater fish always tastes muddy, so you must drown it in lemon and spices to hide that. No! Plenty of good perch smells clean and almost sweet, with nothing muddy about it at all. If what you're holding does smell muddy, put it back and pick another one — let your nose decide, not the spice rack. That misconception leads cooks to over-season out of habit, to bury a delicate fish under acid and herbs until they cannot taste the fish at all — which defeats the whole point of buying it fresh in the first place.