Right down the street from our apartment- so close I can almost see it from our 9th floor window- lies the “Convergency Scandinavian Seafood” store. B and I call this “the salmon place”- a much more understandable name than its real one. I didn’t even know what Convergence meant, until I looked it up:

Convergency: independent development of similar characters (as of body structure in whales and fishes) by animals or plants of different groups that is often associated with similarity of habits or environment

er, I actually still don’t really know what it means, or at least, why a store would name itself such.

Let’s rewind a bit, to talk about how seafood here isn’t (generally) safe. Friends here often joke that the fish served in restaurants is caught in the nearby Pearl River- the same river that hundreds of cargo ships pass through each week, the same river whose water  is also often jokingly said to be bottled into the cheap “Pearl River Beer” that is sold at every restaurant, in every store. A friend asked me once, when I first got here, where I thought the fish that was sold in the markets came from- I was at a loss for words, partially for the lack of knowledge about the bodies of water in the region, and partially because I couldn’t fathom fish living in the water that I did know in the region.

Trying to read up about any positive thoughts of China’s status of seafood safety didn’t shed any greater light, and I encountered more negative articles than positive, scaring me away with all things aquatic. China does not have proper certifications, China’s waters are poisoned, and as the exporter of tons and tons of seafood, it does to its fish farms as you would imagine a large cattle operation does to its poor cows. Ever-conscious of where my meat comes from, both at home and here in China, I never thought the fear of where my seafood came from would actually be a legitimate concern (even after Dan Barber said so!).

So you can imagine the shock, followed by immediate trepidation, when I heard there was a little store in Guangzhou that sold fresh, sashimi-quality salmon. Within a stone’s throw of our apartment, at that. But our fellow Americans vowed it was true, and after taking their tips for where to buy cheese, bread, and beer, I took this salmon tip pretty confidently. But of course as I do with any other food operation, I walked by the store countless times to stake it out. I peered at their quality of fish, sanitation levels, signage, and decided that it looked legit. Plus it was expensive, so that was a good sign.

A few weeks ago I made the bold decision to buy a small filet of salmon belly for B and I for a sashimi dinner. it was fatty, marbled, clean, and delicious. After not getting sick and not growing extra fingers on our body, we deemed it safe enough for occassional consumption. And when an invitation for Passover rolled around at our good friend’s house, and a decree for dishes to be brought was made, I knew exactly what I was going to do. Because what’s more Jewish than lox?

I headed over to the salmon place last Thursday morning, giving myself two-and-a-half days of solid cure time for the salmon. The salmon guy was very helpful and I am sure slightly amused at me, trying to decipher my choppy Chinese description of home-cured salmon. We got stuck a lot on the part where I wasn’t going to cook it. I remember stating, in my best Chinese, that I was going to marinate the salmon in a lot of salt and sugar, and let it sit for a few days, and the salt would cook the salmon but it would still be raw, like sashimi, and sliced thin to put on bread or crackers, which is how the Jewish people eat it….”

The salmon guy looked at me quizzically (I don’t think he knew the slightest bit what Jewish people ate) but then a look of acknowledgement came across his face: “ahhh, you want what they have at Ikea!” And he happily cut me off close to 2 pounds of salmon.

Note to self: make reference to Ikea when wanting smoked salmon in Guangzhou.