This morning, we heard a guy yelling in Sinhalese from his motorcycle as he drove down our street. I asked Fahim what he was saying, and Fahim says he’s selling fish, and do we want some? Why not? So we go outside and negotiate prices with the guy.
Fahim asks what kind of fish, but he doesn’t remember any more, and he does know it’s not something that’s found in North America. After agreeing on a price, the fish guy weighs the fish, determines exact price to be paid, then pulls out his chopping block and knife and cuts it up for us right there, on the ground, behind his motorcycle. He tosses scraps to the neighborhood dog.
When he’s done, he puts all the pieces into a plastic bag, wipes his hands on a cloth he has tied to his motorcycle (and has doubtless been used dozens of times, if not more, after the last time it’s been washed, and this guy doesn’t use soap and water.) and Fahim pays. We toss it into the freezer to be eaten another day.