by Laurie Gwen Shapiro

small article in the new issue of National Geographic sounds my internal alarm: I’d forgotten the Fulton Fish Market was moving to the Bronx! Despite years of downtown living, I’d never gone to see the place in action.

The documentarian in me really wants to shoot the breeze with the workers, but my husband is sure my “hyper-bubbly manner” won’t jive with famously gruff men.

As a safeguard, I telephone the photographer of the magazine story to see if he’ll serve as guide. Bob Sacha’s bio mentions a New York base and his forthcoming documentary about the end of this 175-year-old institution.

Sacha agrees to meet me at 3:30 a.m. in the Paris Café on South Street.

My café seat offers a perfect glassedin view of the market. Dozens of burly men in beeping mini-carts transport boxes of fish to and from larger vans and trucks; the scene remind me of the Richard Scarry illustrations swarming with hardworking pigs and rabbits in my daughter’s copy of Cars and Trucks and Things that Go.

Every few minutes, a chilled worker in boots comes in for a drink or to use the facilities. Then Sacha arrives in the attire he’d advised for me: a wool hat, warm jacket, old jeans and worn shoes. After niceties, the tour begins. “In 1982 I was a student in the UK when the Billingsgate fish market moved - from a 900-year-old site between Tower Bridge and London Bridge to a modernized facility by the West India Docks,” says my guide. “When the closing of the Fulton Fish market was announced, that memory inspired me to document New York’s own historic loss.”

As we step outside, I’m amazed how much color there is under a canopy of nighttime sky. Sacha - now Bob to me - mentions Naima Rauam, a watercolorist who’s also documenting the end of the market. My own eye is caught by the nearby Brooklyn Bridge’s glow over the truly-yellow yellowtail, the bright green sea urchins, the almost-translucent gray squid, the long brown razor clams, and the pinkest wildcaught shrimp imaginable.

Bob catches my wistful glance at an enormous slab of toro-grade tuna. “You see the good stuff they’re selling here,” he says, “and wonder what the hell have I been buying from the supermarket?”

“Could I buy that toro?”

“Probably not. The very best fish is set aside for the upscale establishments like Citarella and Le Bernardin. The buyers for Chinatown come at closing time around six a.m. and can drive a hard bargain because in this business old product is useless product.”

A Korean worker drops an open box of costly scallops onto the dirty wet pavement. He curses and discards the fallen merchandise into the trash. I briefly consider rescuing them in a spare plastic bag I keep handy in my purse for soiled Cinderella Pull-ups, but quickly knock back that idea as classless.

We enter the section still dubbed the “Old Market” even after it was reconstructed when a suspicious fire burned it to the ground in 1995. Bob looks both ways before touching on conspiracy theories. “The one I hear most is that the Old Market shed was landmarked, so it probably got torchedminus landmark status, developers can build whatever they want on the site.” He admits, however, that the sanitary conditions of an outdoor market certainly contributed to the move. “In August,” Bob assures, “you can gag on the smell.”

As we move on to the independent stalls along South Street, fishmonger Herbie Slavin recognizes my escort and calls him over to chat. A man slicing open a box looks impressed that we’re gabbing with his legendary old-timer boss. We walk a few feet and Bob whispers: “He owns three buildings here that after the move will net him bigger bucks than any fish.”

A worker over in the multi-seller shed called “New Market” is particularly friendly - and when he reveals that the Hunt’s Point market is being built over a former Bronx hazardous waste dump site, I gasp.

“Yup, buy your fish now.”

“So, are you sentimental about the upcoming move?”

“I’ve worked here for thirty-two years. Whaddya think?”

“Will you call it quits when the market moves?”

“You going to pay my bills? Eight more years. Thank God for TiVo.”

After a three-way shared laugh Bob asks, “Hey, you know the actual day of closing?”

“The flooring is the delay. Probably mid-February.”

We rap with various sellers and buyers over the next hour who have heard differently: “April.” “June for sure.” “March.” (The clock is ticking, but I’m betting GSN readers can visit for at least the next six weeks.)

At 5:30 in the morning we head for the empty cabs zipping down Pearl Street. Back to our loved ones. There’s one last sight for Bob to point out: the many condo projects already under construction a stone’s throw away on Front Street and Peck Slip.

For a sneak look at Bob Sacha’s Fulton Fish Market documentary-in-progress, visit bobsacha.com/swimming-upstream