For a number of years I watched visitors arrive at our local market in the Loire, dazzled by the array of fish and seafood on display. Whole gleaming bass. Silver-skinned mackerel. Pike, sandre, perch. Oysters shifting gently in their shells. It is a beautiful sight.
And yet, more often than not, they left with two tidy fillets wrapped neatly in paper.
Skin removed. Headless. Boneless. Tasteless? Safe.
Curiosity eventually got the better of me, so I began asking people about their choices. The answers were remarkably consistent. The fish looked wonderful – but intimidating. They weren’t sure what to ask for. They didn’t always have the language. And there is something about a whole fish staring back at you that demands a certain confidence.
It is far easier to retreat to the familiar.
Learning to Look (and Smell)
The first lesson I give when we stand in front of a fish stall is disarmingly simple.
Look at the eyes.
They should be clear, bright, almost glassy. Not cloudy. Not sunken. A fish should still look alive in its expression.
Then we lean in – discreetly – and smell.
Fresh fish does not smell “fishy.” It smells faintly of the sea or clean water. It smells alive, not tired.
Once guests realise it is simply a matter of using their senses, the intimidation softens. We are not decoding a secret language. We are paying attention.
Seasonality applies to fish just as much as it does to white asparagus. Certain species are abundant and thriving at particular times of year. Others are better left alone. Learning this rhythm changes the market experience entirely. It becomes less about choice paralysis and more about conversation – with the fishmonger, with the season, with the river itself.
Confidence grows quickly from there.
What You’re Likely to See at a Loire Market
Markets are generous places, but they reward a little knowledge. Part of the intimidation comes simply from unfamiliar names. A stall in Western France might display:
- Bar – Sea bass
- Dorade royale – Gilt-head sea bream
- Maquereau – Mackerel
- Sole – Sole
- Cabillaud – Cod
- Sandre – Pikeperch (Zander)
- Brochet – Pike
- Perche – Perch
- Raie – Skate
Names vary by region and season. When in doubt, ask – they will help.
You may also see:
- Colin (north of the Loire) or Merlu (south of the Loire) – Hake – one of the finest fish available when truly fresh.
- Lieu jaune – Yellow pollock – a very respectable and versatile fish.
- Maigre – Corvina or Croaker – similar flavour to European Sea Bass
Some fish are perfectly serviceable, but in my experience are less inspiring at market.
- Lieu noir – Black pollock
- Dorade grise – Grey sea brea
They are not “bad” fish. But when standing in front of abundance, it is helpful to know where quality and character truly lie.
Recognising even a handful of these names changes everything. The stall no longer feels foreign. It becomes navigable.
River fish like sandre, brochet and perche were once commonplace in these markets. Today they’re less reliably available – not because they’ve vanished, but because healthy stocks are rarer and harvests more seasonal. This is why my practical default for this dish is often dos de cabillaud – cod loin – not from nostalgia, but because it is consistently good and versatile.
Talking to the Fishmonger
The final barrier for many people is not the fish itself – it is the conversation.
In truth, fishmongers are among the most helpful people in any market. They work with freshness every day. They want the fish to be enjoyed properly.
You don’t need fluent French. You need a few calm sentences.
“C’est frais aujourd’hui ?”
(Is it fresh today?)
“Qu’est-ce que vous me conseillez ?”
(What would you recommend?)
“Pour deux (trois, quatre) personnes.”
(For two (three, four) people.)
If you would like it cleaned but left whole:
“Écaillé et vidé, s’il vous plaît.”
(Scaled and gutted, please.)
If you prefer fillets but want the bones for stock:
“Les arêtes aussi, pour un fumet.”
(The bones as well, for stock.)
The moment you ask a question, the dynamic shifts. You are no longer intimidated. You are engaged.
And engagement is where confidence begins.
Skin On, When Possible
When we cook fish at Loire Kitchen, I prefer the skin on. The skin protects the flesh, crisps beautifully and adds flavour.
But in France, dos de cabillaud (cod loin) is almost always sold already skinned. So we adapt.
Rather than lament what we don’t have, we think about how to protect what we do.
I teach students to make a lightly seasoned flour – not simply salt and pepper, but perhaps a hint of ground coriander and the faintest whisper of toasted fennel seed. The flour forms a delicate barrier, encouraging colour and protecting the flesh. It is not about masking flavour. It is about respecting it.
Cooking fish well is less about bravado and more about attention.
Foundations Before Flourish
At the heart of much Western Loire cooking sits beurre blanc – the region’s white butter sauce. It is a warm emulsion of wine, vinegar, shallot and butter, built patiently over gentle heat.
It refuses to be rushed.
Served properly, it carries richness without heaviness and structure without excess. It is deceptively simple and entirely unforgiving of haste.
For a full step-by-step recipe for pan-roasted cod with beurre blanc – including notes on seasoning flour, emulsifying the sauce, and adapting for home kitchens – you’ll find it here:
Pan-Roasted Cod in Beurre Blanc →
An earlier version of this article appeared in Living Poitou-Charentes magazine. It has since evolved alongside our kitchen.
