The immature Milanese male with Chinese stock is on his approach to a weekly marketplace on a Via Bartolomeo Eustachi. Every Tuesday, a medium though pleasing – and above all charming – hotchpotch springs up, half on a sidewalk, half on a street. At a some-more than 30 stalls there are fruits, vegetables, clothes, beef and poultry, along with olives and bric-a-brac like that of a cheapjack. Crucial for Hu is a uninformed fish sole conflicting a Bao Bar, nearby a Via Achille Maiocchi intersection. Barbel, sardines, a accumulation of shellfish, loup de mer, gamberi rossi and squid distortion on a three-by-five-metre-wide ice store in front of Stefano a fishmonger. The bacalao, dusty and pickled cod, exudes the heated aroma. Hu binds a large square of tuna strap in his hands, checks the freshness, firmness, pellet and colour – and is satisfied. Fresh fish plays an critical purpose in his life. Because Hu is a sushi master.