At ten past four the port is awake, though nothing about it looks awake. The lamps along the quay throw long yellow cones over wet concrete. A gull stands on a bollard with the patience of someone who has seen this all before. Behind the sheds, a winch complains and then stops. The fish market doesn't open with a bell or a speech. It opens the way a tide comes in: first a few vans, then a few more, then a car park full of them and the smell of salt, diesel and crushed ice arriving all at once. By five, the whole building is running.

The first hour: ice, crates and a very old argument

The night shift has done the heavy work already. Boats that landed between one and three in the morning have been unloaded, weighed and logged, and the catch is now lying in rows on the sloped concrete floor, sorted by species and size, each crate packed with enough ice to keep the fish cold until the last buyer has gone home. The floor tilts slightly towards the drains. Water moves across it in thin sheets. Nobody slips, because nobody is in a hurry in the wrong way.

Two men are arguing about a broken crate. This is not a real argument. It is the kind of argument that has been running for years, resumed each morning where it left off, and neither of them would know what to do if it ended. The iceman — the one who actually runs the flake ice machine and decides how deep each crate gets filled — settles it by dropping a fresh scoop on the disputed box and walking away. The ice is the closest thing the market has to a referee.

Everything is organised before the doors open to buyers. Crates are lined up in rows with the labels facing the aisle. The scales are checked. A whiteboard goes up with the lot numbers, the boat names and the order of sale. Empty crates are stacked flat against the wall. Hoses are coiled. If you walk in at 4.45 and think it looks chaotic, look again: every crate in that room is where someone decided it should be.

On the floor: how the selling actually works

The selling itself takes less time than the preparing, which surprises most visitors. Buyers arrive with a torch, a notebook and a fixed budget. They walk the rows, lift a fish, look at the eye, turn it over, smell it, put it back exactly as they found it. Some carry a small knife and a cloth. A few know the boats so well they barely look at the fish at all — they are checking the label first.

Depending on the port, the sale is either called aloud by an auctioneer working down the row, or run on a clock system where the price drops until someone presses a button to stop it. Both methods move fast, and both reward preparation over luck. A buyer who has already decided what a crate is worth rarely loses money. A buyer who starts calculating when the bidding begins usually does.

Between lots there is a steady traffic of runners: people carrying crates on trolleys, sliding them into refrigerated vans, coming back for more. The aisles stay clear because they have to. Anyone standing still in the wrong place will be politely moved, and then moved less politely if they do it twice.

The crew

Every fish market has the same six or seven roles, filled by people who have done them for so long that the work looks like a personality trait.

The auctioneer holds the room without raising their voice much. They know which buyer is close to their limit and which crate is going to be difficult. They also know the difference between a slow morning and a bad one, and they don't confuse the two.

The iceman works quietly and is the most important person on the floor. Too little ice and the last lots lose value. Too much and the crate gets heavy and the fish bruises. He judges it by the weather, the species and how long the sale is likely to run.

The grader sorts by size and quality before dawn, which is why the rows look so even. This is the job that decides what the market is worth that day, and it happens before anyone else arrives.

The porters and runners move the crates and set the pace. When their rhythm breaks, the whole sale slows down.

The filletter, if there is one on site, sets up at the end of the building with a board, a sharpening steel and a bin. Watching a good one work through a box of mackerel is better than most things on television, and takes about a fifth of the time you expect.

The cleaner, who appears around seven with a hose and a squeegee, is the reason the building smells of almost nothing by nine.

What the crew looks for in a fish

Ask anyone on the floor and you get the same short list, in roughly the same order. It works just as well at a counter as it does at a crate.

  • Eyes: clear, full and slightly domed. Cloudy or sunken is a fish that has been out of the water too long.
  • Smell: of the sea, cold and clean. Ammonia or a sour edge means walk away.
  • Flesh: firm to a light press, springs back, doesn't leave a dent.
  • Skin and scales: intact, bright, with the natural sheen still on it. Scraped or dull patches suggest rough handling.
  • Gills: deep red or pink rather than brown or grey.
  • The label: if you can find out which boat landed it and when, that tells you more than any of the above.

The crew will also tell you something less obvious: buy the fish that has been handled least. A crate that has been lifted four times is a crate that has been bruised four times, and no amount of ice fixes that.

The rhythm: the wave and the quiet after

The market has two tides. The first comes with the trade buyers, who arrive before five and are gone by six, taking the best lots in the flattest, most efficient twenty minutes of the day. The second comes with the smaller buyers — restaurants, shops, a few people who simply know the door is open — and it is noisier and slower. By half past seven the room is thinning out. Crates are emptied into vans. The whiteboard is wiped.

Then it turns. The hose comes out, the floor gets swept towards the drains, and the building that was the loudest place in the port at five is the quietest at half past eight. Some of the crew go home. Others go for coffee and stay for an hour, because the shift is over but the day hasn't started yet.

If you want to watch a working market

These are workplaces first and attractions a distant second, so the rules are simple and worth following.

  1. Ask before you go in. Most ports will allow visitors who ask in advance, and turn away anyone who wanders in with a camera.
  2. Wear closed boots with grip. The floor is wet, sloped and covered in ice. Sandals are a bad idea and trainers are a gamble.
  3. Stay out of the aisles during selling. Stand against the wall, keep your hands to yourself, and don't lift fish you aren't buying.
  4. Keep your voice low during the auction. It's a negotiation, not a performance.
  5. Bring a cool bag and buy something. It's the easiest way to say thank you, and it's the best fish you'll get all week.
  6. Ask when the boat landed. Anyone on the floor will know, and it's the single most useful question a buyer can ask.

Leave by nine. By then the market has finished its work, the ice is melting into the drains, and the rest of the harbor is only just beginning.

Photo: Hữu Quyền Nguyễn / Pexels