I know, I know. I’m not a vegetarian so I have no right to be squeamish about food. And I had meant to write a whimsical piece about how unromantic Chinese supermarkets are about live produce. Fish counters in French supermarkets have the same attitude, by the way, and one could say it’s a healthy thing that consumers have an appreciation of where their food comes from.

So, Jenevieve sent me the WhatsApp earlier and I braced myself for the live fish counter, where I took this photo.

He’s got a nice friendly face that one in the middle, hasn’t he? Little did I know that this is the pompano of tonight’s supper. Within a few seconds, the fish counter assistant had whisked him up and into the scales. He put up such a struggle for life, flapping and jumping around in the scales so much that the assistant had to hold him down and wait for him to fall into a drowned stupor in the air as I watched, appalled. It was done with dignity, I’ll give her that.

She then put poor Mike onto her chopping block and quickly gutted him with her cleaver. He even battled as she wielded her knife, his spirit refusing to yield to his fate. I watched all of this horror-struck and grim-faced, close to tears. I can’t tell you how upsetting this was to my Western sensibilities and I’m sure the counter assistant was watching my sunken expression out of the corner of her eye. I am aware how pathetic I am, watching this poor mute soul in his last fight.

I don’t care how fresh they are, I don’t ever want to witness this spectacle again just for the sake of my supper.