Escabeche

Once a year, in the village in which I lived and worked in France, a horse-racing festival was held. In the blazing heat of July the entire village would turn out to picnic and gamble in the verdant, tree-sheltered oasis of the racetrack. My mate, known as ‘Marseilles Pete’, used to bring along some cold fish in a piquant tomato sauce, which was called escabeche. We ate it, after the cold truffle omelette that I had brought, with fresh bread and countless litres of d