When is a Trout not a Trout?

 

When it’s a salmon, of course!!

I am staying at a conference venue in the middle of England for three very intensive days of work. We start early, finish late and are mentally exhausted. You will not be surprised to hear, therefore, that when we are finally released (for most people at about 7.30 in the evening) we head to the bar and restaurant for some well-deserved rest and relaxation.

The venue is superb. The rooms, though basic, are spotless and roomy. The bed is large and very comfortable, the pillows deep. The staff is friendly and helpful. Last night, four large tables had been arranged in the restaurant for our party. We congregated between 7 and 9, lingering over dinner.

Unfortunately, I was in a tearing hurry because I had a telephone conference to attend. I eschewed the starter, ordered the trout, and prepared to bolt it down in ten minutes. We were a table of ten. When the waitress announced ‘trout’, I put my hand up. A plate was deposited in front of me. I looked at it a little doubtfully. To me, this looked like a salmon fillet. I hesitated, wondering whether to make a fuss. I waited until others were served, wondering whether my trout would arrive under the name of ‘salmon’ and the other recipient and I could smile and swap plates. However, soon we were all served and there was no trout. As I’ve said, I was in a hurry. I ate the salmon, went to my telephone conference, then returned.

A little while later, another colleague joined the table. By now it was late, about half past nine, and the table was only half full. The colleague, I shall call him Robert, sat next to me and prepared to order. He ordered the trout. He is a Scot. I wondered whether to say anything. Eventually I ventured that the fish was delicious, but that I was unconvinced it was a trout. He decided to risk it.

When the fish came, it was unmistakeably salmon. A pink fillet of salmon adorned his plate. No longer bolting food, it was absolutely clear to me, and to everybody else at the table, that this was salmon. Robert said nothing to the waitress and consumed the fish, but our table became increasingly raucous about the trout that wasn’t a trout.

Eventually, the waitress realised what was happening. She came across to enquire. Robert explained, quietly, that we were convinced that the fish that had been served was not trout but salmon. She disappeared back into the kitchen. When she returned, it was with the assurance of the chef that it was most certainly trout.

She must have seen from our faces that we were unconvinced. Our howls of laughter after she left us could also, possibly, have given her a clue. Five minutes later, she approached our table with a fish platter upon which lay a side of ……… fish. Triumphantly, she announced that, as we could see, it was certainly trout.

The fish was two feet long; it had salmon skin, it had fat; it was pale pink. It was a side of salmon. The table had fallen silent. Nobody wanted to upset her. We were incredibly British – we nodded and apologised. We pretended. Then we repaired to the bar and laughed until our sides ached.

It was only this morning that I found myself wondering about the culinary skills of a chef who could not tell a trout from a salmon.

Beef, anyone? Or did I mean pork?