Rhonda, Ketut and the perfect catch

A COUPLE OF WEEKS AGO IN Bali, we'd been dropped off at the charter boat by the lovely Ketut, a calm and smiling Balinese who doesn't know the meaning of road rage. The lovely Rhonda owned our charter. This is the complete truth. I swear. So off to a flying start in the wacky stakes, we set forth across blue waves that seemed somehow foreign. We were out for a spot of snorkelling on a magnificent reef, bright fish darting when we heaved to. Schools of plastic bags passed by majestically as jellyfish but unfortunately it wasn't long before one of our party inhaled water and was subdued for the duration.

Snorkelling makes you feel fond of the fish so it was surprising when, directly after admiring the reef fish, the crew handed out rods for a bit of reeling and writhing. It didn't faze everyone, even though going from admiring spectator to cold-blooded killer within minutes is not for everyone. Some people just found it lacklustre. After two minutes, the most successful member announced this was ''a tedious business'' and gave up.

On the way to the airport, Ketut took us to a fish restaurant. Wisely, Ketut stayed in the car to protect the luggage. It had been raining all day. Trapped in the bright-blue restaurant, we ate appalling fish like deep-fried ears and, embarrassingly, vast amounts of chips as we looked out on to our muted last day. Done, we waddled to the car and headed to the airport, which was less than five kilometres away but we hadn't accounted for the traffic jam that took two hours. We almost missed the plane. Fish and chips nearly ruined us.

Back in Victoria for a week, we decide once again on fish and chips. Some people never learn. Every minute or so at the Surf Coast fish shop, with the accuracy of a drill, a big woman shrieks ''49!'' and ''50!''. People flinch. But at ''51'', we are the forgotten number: five of us straight from the beach - hungry, sandy, damp and slightly sunburnt folk just emerging from Bali belly.

In the shop, the soundtrack pulses from Bon Jovi to the Rolling Stones and then to Journey and we are urged not to stop believing, which I would never do. Songs to make you feel like eating oily things. We've already ordered.

The people in the queue shuffle forward clutching money with the slight anxiety of forgetting to order something. Maybe there's no anxiety, maybe I'm just projecting, but then I have plenty of anxiety to spare - and I really wish I'd ordered a pickled onion. The sun beats on the smeary window. Everything is sticky, and hot air from the cooker is surely being pumped back in. Finally, after nine choruses of ''49'' and ''50'', we collect and step out into the washed canvas sky. The two hot boxes boil our thighs.

Now, since this is Epicure and we have no secrets, here are all the gory details of the post mortem, and, as Jack Nicholson said (roughly) in A Few Good Men, I just hope you can handle the truth. The chips were just OK, the fish was oddly crunchy, the calamari resembled rubber bands (thick ones), the potato cakes were frisbee-esque, and the souvlakis were hard and not in the least bit Greek. This was an oregano-free zone. And it all cost $64 for five. The Bali fish and chips cost about $20 for seven and were on a par in terms of quality.

My brother and son are fishermen and they would later be out until two in the morning surf fishing. They couldn't recognise the species of fish we bought for tea. ''Maybe it's been shaved,'' one said. I never expect that much from fish and chips, though a certain puffiness in the batter would be nice. Why did it always taste better when you were a kid? And does it still if you are a kid?

My husband thinks there's room on the coast for ''gourmet'' - another word for expensive? - fish and chip shops selling crunchy salads, but locals say this would never fly. In winter, the owners would just go broke.

The fishermen brought home two lovely snapper and, at the sink in the middle of the night, they were happy and sandy and reverent of their catch. Rain was popping on the roof and outside, blue lightning blinked now and then, and I thought that if I were a fish, this would be the chosen way.

Next day, we grilled them after tending them with olive oil, salt and pepper. We ate the fish with a green salad and crusty bread and they tasted like fish, sweet and soft. Pulling the occasional scale out of our teeth only served to remind us of the fish they were.

Deborah Forster's latest novel is The Meaning of Grace.