Gone Fishing - Brighton

Brighton

It was a hot day. The bright sun danced in white streaks across the still water of the harbour. Not a cloud touched the sky, only the occasional swift shadow of a seagull. The moored boats sat frozen, while blooms of tiny jellyfish tickled their sides.

Cutting through this tranquil pool of Mediterranean blue - some three miles along the coast from Brighton - a small day boat. The captain, out since 2.00 am, stood at the rudder. That same bright sun illuminated all three corners of his yellow hat. A waterproofed Napoleon.

It was ten o'clock. A day's work finished an hour after the office door opens. His catch, thrown to the quay in three swift jerks, worth £100. Black, ink-drenched cuttlefish - tricked into a trap by a caged date - plaice, bream, and a lone gurnard; all lay almost still, occasionally twitching.

The gulls formed an audience in the water, screaming for scraps from the boat.

The fisherman smiled. He was happy. The catch wasn't bad; the catch wasn't good. The price wasn't bad; the price wasn't good. Everything was okay. Out on the water, no stress, no colleagues, no 'nagging women', and no protection from the elements either.

Once inside, the fish turned cold. The warehouse, chilled. Box after box of stiff fish with their insides-out, slowly turning flaccid. The workers, crabs, and lobsters the only things to breath in this room - one in white coats, patterned with a speckle of red from their work; the other two, taking a long final bath, their claws bound or broken.

The word 'change' rang in the air, was whispered, and sighed. Fish seem to come and fish seem to go with alarming regularity as the sea temperature rises. Men experienced in catching one sort of quarry find that knowledge is useless one year, only to be needed again the next.

Yet the gleaming steel line continues to sort the fish, regardless of type (although not of quantity). The plaice, bream, and gurnard stay local or perhaps ride a bus to London. The cuttlefish, mostly frozen for export; appearing on Iberian menus as fresh Spanish squid - an abundance from the English Channel, polished in both name and price to become an exotic fish from the Med.

And that distant great body of water is beginning to spring its own leaks. Last year, the sorting line saw Bonito tuna - not a fish often caught off this coast.

For this harbour though, change isn't that unusual. Far from it. Forced by both climate and regulation, the large trawlers of a decade ago have been removed, replaced by the day boats from a hundred years before - albeit now with Japanese engines.

The worry of change comes from the constant uncertainty. Today small boats, tomorrow big. Today one fish, tomorrow another. While no-one seems to wager which way it will go, the general feeling seems to point downwards.

As stocks of popular fish decline, restaurants and wholesales look elsewhere to fill public demand. Those less fashionable fish - the turbot, that gurnard, those cuttlefish - are abundant, but have no place on the plates of Englishmen; served instead to the foreign customers who value taste over arbitrary traditions and fashion.

Down on the beach, the sea scattered pebbles and threw spray against the buffers, but lay calm in the distance beyond the white horses. We sampled plaice, of course. The choice of the chef, who threw four filets in a hot pan, accompanied only with lemon juice and butter.

As we ate, not a soul rode that flat water, not a breath of wind blew - even the incessant noise of Brighton seemed to be silenced.  Sitting on the shingle with a plastic trident in-hand, we were the kings of the sea for those brief minutes - the fisherman having gone home to bed.

Then, with the last of the buttery juice being slurped and the gas stove being rolled away, another day boat came into view. It carried clams, cockles, sea greens, proteins from the sea. All there, fresh as harvest day. Cigarettes discarded, the workers were ready, the fish were ready. The gulls began swooping once again.

It's their job, all of them. And one they'll carry on doing until the sea is dry, no doubt - for as long as the chance remains.

Bonnie Gull Seafood Shack - Fitzrovia

21A Foley Street, London, W1W 6DS

The ideal of winter is a misnomer. Those crisp cold bright days relished by everyone are a rarity. Instead, the season is dominated by a damp, drab, joy sucking greyness. The sun doesn't set as it never rose. Curtains stay closed as days merge into days merge into days merge into days.

Spring is the saviour. Just one mild day of shimmering sunshine casts out the misery from people's minds. Everyone is happier, cheerier, more positive, with at least one idiot wearing shorts.

Nowhere is better than London in the spring sunshine. The tube isn't yet too hot, the streets aren't yet too dusty, the buildings seem to glow, and even the taxi drivers have a smile.

Whether it was the blue sky and the sun or the lengthy amount of sleep that night before, there was a bound in my step as I made my way along Market Place, north from Oxford Street towards Bonnie Gull.

If there's a better place to be on a sunny day than London, it's the seaside (sorry London, relegated within two short paragraphs). Bonnie Gull - described in a style only Kevin McCloud does best - brings the seaside, inside, to London.

Sign me up Channel 4!

A small, neat restaurant of driftwood benches and various fishing accessories wound across the walls, Bonnie Gull is like a beachside shack - but better. There's no sand in the bread, no salt on your fingers, and no procession of children screaming like the possessed as they're lead to the toilet. Although there is still that idiot in shorts.

Let me correct that. Bonnie Gull is like a imagined beachside shack. One from the 1920s, where service is polite and competent, and the food of the highest quality and immaculately presented. There's no micro-chips here and a styrofoam cup of cockles, all served with a good dosing of sand blown in by the wind, and those damn children screaming as they're led to the toilet. It's only March! Why is that guy wearing shorts?!

Our starters at Bonnie Gull were to share. A scotch egg, a plate of squid, and a mackerel pate. It all sounds so simple written down, but it's not. Look at the pictures for the Lord's sake and tell me you don't want to eat the screen. That's good food. Really good food. Tasty food that you'll eat a plate of and wish you had more. Why bother describing it? Delicious. That's the only word you need.

My main continued in the same vein. Flaky white cod with mash, broccoli, and a langoustine reduction. That perfect balance of flavours: the plain fish, veg, and carbs, brought to life by the intense sweet reduction of seafoodie goodness.

I'm always slightly worried about the lack of carbs in such a finessed main course. Chefs of a high standard just don't consider the needs of the carb dependent man. But a sharing starter, a fair piece of fish, and a pudding mentally selected prior to starting is always likely to be more than enough, so I wasn't overly concerned - and banoffee pie is never going to fail to fill a hole, is it?

A thin wedge of a deeply rich dessert crumbled under the fork and clogged the arteries in the way a good pudding should. It makes me feel full and nauseous at the very memort. Yet, I'm still clammering for that next hit of sugar and dairy, like all addicts do.

Salvia inducingly good. Just like the rest of the food and what more to put a spring in my step than perfect food on a spring day, bouncing my way along the Oxford Road to witness the inevitable defeat of my football team - the Lord's good work (and the chefs), all undone in an afternoon.

Still, if your Saturday contains guaranteed misery, a visit to Bonnie Gull is far from a bad way to dull the pain.