I live in a place where, for reasons I cannot fathom, the very idea of whitefish is utterly unknown. I mean smoked whitefish, sold whole, pretty much anywhere food is to be found, on the East Coast. Shrivelled, with a shellac hue of skin, fragrantly fishy and oily. In it's perfect form, with just a touch of mayo on a bagel. I know you will cringe here - a cinnamon raisin bagel.
That, this is not. But rather a species I think called Yellow Eye, a slab given to be by Wild Bill, my history department compatriot, who caught him in Alaska. I smoked it yesterday with some wild salmon, and what you see before you is, I must admit, much better than whitefish. The capers aren't bad either. Now if I could only get a real bagel in this wasteland.