Mahimahi

A young man, slender and naked. He’s walking. His skin is the shade of burnt earth. Dangling from each hand, a string of fishes. So goes the Fisherman, painted on a wall on the Greek island of Santorini. The fresco was recovered from the West House, a large private residence in the city of Akrotiri, buried under a volcanic eruption some 37 centuries ago – one of the episodes that may have spurred the legend of Atlantis. The young man is now displayed in the Museum of Prehistoric Thera, Santorini’s ancient name.

Was the Fisherman really one? Perhaps. But his head is shaved. And on it sit two marine creatures, a sea snail and a squid – all of which points to a symbolic level of representation. It could be that a religious ritual is being depicted; that the young man is solemnly offering the fish to the gods, rather than routinely taking it from the sea.

The fish themselves are mahimahis. We know it from the blue and yellow colouring. We see it in the skin’s dotted pattern. We spot it in the blunt head and rictus-shaped mouth. We recognize the long dorsal fin, springing crest-wise at the front, running the length of the body like an extended Mohawk hairstyle.

Mahimahi’s modern name might suggest an endemic link to Hawaii (mahi is Hawaiian for “strong”; duplicating the word intensifies the meaning). The fish is in fact present in many tropical, subtropical and temperate zones. It’s been found as far north as the Sea of Okhotsk. Somewhat confusingly, mahimahi is also known as dolphinfish: there’s a resemblance about the forehead, though any biological commonality with that mammal is, of course, nil.

A mahimahi’s life is spent in fast-forward mode. It grows extremely fast, maturing sexually within four months or so. It also dies young, at two or three years of age. In between, it can reach 2 metres in length – a powerful, nervy wallop of a fish, capable of acrobatic resistance when caught. Mahimahi is also photo-mutant. Thanks to cells known as chromatophores, its skin changes colour in response to external stimuli. When out of water, the fish glows a psychedelic mix of yellows, blues and greens, specked with ultramarine. As it skims the waves, you might mistake it for a surfboard. Postcapture, when the nervous system shuts down, the colours fade.

Worldwide presence aside, mahimahi is mostly consumed in the United States of America and the Caribbean, though it’s not uncommon in Japan. This is a prized fish, its texture flaky but firm, its flavour characterful yet light – reminiscent of swordfish, but free from its oily pungency. True, tasty though it is, mahimahi is not ravishingly unique on the palate, nor is it essential to global food security: a case might be made that such a robust charismatic creature is better admired – or, indeed, painted on villa walls – than eaten. Then again, even if left alone in the wild, mahimahi scores poorly for longevity. And fishing it does provide essential income for some Caribbean beachside communities – for example, in parts of the Dominican Republic, where our recipe comes from.