In the swim

Brainfood: The fact that a fish looks ugly (the monkfish, for example) or is sometimes squinny (like the Mediterranean John Dory) should not deter you

I am currently surrounded by fish. My neighbour turns up with buckets of palourdes, or giant clams. Meaty, they are. We ate a dozen each and gave up. The flesh, steamed, squirts sea-water into one's mouth. Delicious.

There are a great many people who like fish when they eat it, but still have reservations about it. Some of this may be due to the unpalatable habits of some fishmongers. Even here in the South of France, I'm sure they've been known to spray dyes to make a day-old fish look fresh. Some of it may be due to the fact that supermarkets tend to denature fish by offering it up sliced in polystyrene containers so that you get no idea of any connection with the sea at all. Then there are a whole group of people who simply can't face cooking it, who only eat it in restaurants. Those who don't know how to gut it. Who dither over the head. Who think skate's too slippery, slimy and cartilaginous.

It is my view that fish is one of the simplest things in the world to cook and that anyone who expends too much time and energy in doing so is making a major mistake. In that group I include a number of restaurants of great repute, including the only three-star restaurant near me, an overpriced and over-engineered joint where you're put down for so much as suggesting that what you'd like, please, is just a good, fresh fish.

Fish starts, of course, with the sea, and there are seas and seas. The North Sea and the Atlantic are splendid fisheries. The Mediterranean is a bit more dodgy. Not only is it very much over-fished, but a lot of it is quite polluted. That is probably why most Mediterranean fish recipes call for a good deal of concealment. But the point about fish remains that the only essential for good fish-eating is a very fresh fish. I really don't care greatly what kind of fish. True, some of them have flavours infinitely more subtle than others. The sole, the turbot, the halibut, the cod are all very delicate fishes. The tuna, swordfish, mackerel are often coarse fish and strong-flavoured; they can be beaten to death, cooked to death (almost), submerged in aromatic herbs and potent sauces and still taste delicious. Little fish have to be handled differently from big fish: a reflection of life, where the same rules prevail.

There are certain elementary rules about cooking fish. For instance, the more delicate the flavour of the fish, the more depends on its absolute freshness and the firmness of its flesh, and the less you should do to it. That way you will allow its full flavour to emerge. It is true that of all fish, the sole has more different sauces associated with it than any other; but that is because cooks and gourmets are finicky, volatile, easily bored people. In fact, nothing beats a good meuniere, or even less than that. A sole simply cooked in butter is fit for a king. But, and this is big but, the butter must be as good as the fish; for butter's flavour, pace New Zealand, Denmark and such, has a delicate flavour all its own. It, too, is best fresh.

If you've got a fish on which you're going to lavish a certain amount of attention - for instance, a sea bass cooked with fennel or baked in sorrel - then you are no longer in the poaching or frying business, but the baking. Most strong-flavoured fish are especially good in the oven, and require almost no preparation beyond choosing the flavour you want to accompany them.

On the other hand, small fish, and I mean literally dozens of small fish, each insubstantial, but collectively a delight, can be deep-fried in batter, or sauteed in olive oil or, best of all in my view, simply thrown on the old barbecue and grilled. I've seen sole grilled, I've seen all sorts of fish grilled, but I don't recommend it for delicate white-fleshed fish: charcoal, too, has a flavour, and that flavour, if you use commercial, quick-start, impregnated briquettes, is like throwing the sea's gift into a garage forecourt. To grill fish, buy genuine, untreated charcoal, get your fire and your grill so hot that no flames are left, only pure white heat, lightly oil your grill with a paper towel, put your fish on, turn it over, and serve. Most fish the size of a Dover sole or smaller take roughly a minute under such conditions, and all fish should be slightly undercooked. The moment their flesh begins to dry - a process which if you put someone in the electric chair is called desquamation, and means that all the moisture is driven out of the body - then you've lost the essence of the fish.

Down here, one of the most common ways to cook certain not intrinsically valuable fish (most commonly the angelfish) is to cut the tail (the best part) up into three-centimetre chunks and pack onion, peppers or tomatoes in between, thus creating the fish-kebab, and a very fine dish it is too.

Another form of fish-cooking, all too rarely essayed in England, is the fish stew, or fish soup. This is a generous and forgiving dish, for it will accommodate almost anything that lives in the sea, thrives on strong flavours, especially garlic, handles cheese with gusto and is best when highly spiced.

As in every form of cooking, common sense, not prejudice, prevails with fish. The fact that a fish looks ugly (the monkfish, for example) or is sometimes squinny (like the Mediterranean John Dory) should not deter you. Good things often come small; handsome men and women are not always tasty. Freshness is paramount for flavour. The day after is late. And frozen is out, except for long, slow cooking.

If you don't know a blessed thing about fish, may I suggest a perusal of Alan Davidson's superb books: one on Mediterranean and a second on Atlantic fish, both in paperback. You'll learn a great deal, and the recipes, too few, are superb