The Fish Shop Sign

The smell of fresh fish drifted out of the shop and all the way to the mouth of the alley. Wet stones lay on either side of the door. Aluminum basins stood in neat rows, and the fish were sorted by kind. The shop had only just opened, and it looked spotless.

On the wall by the entrance, the owner had just hung a brand-new sign. The wood was sweet-smelling, the paint was red, and the black letters were big and clear: FRESH FISH SOLD HERE.

The owner looked up at it and nodded, pleased. A new shop, a fine sign. Surely everyone who passed would know to step inside.

This is a joke the old people have told for generations, about a fishmonger and his sign. It is about advice that made perfect sense and still led somewhere nobody expected.

Before long, the first passerby came along. He stopped, looked up at the sign for a while, and said, "Sir, why does the sign say HERE? Everyone knows the shop is on this spot. People are standing right at the door. Take off HERE and make it shorter."

The owner listened and nodded. True enough, if people were standing at his door, saying HERE was too much. So he climbed his ladder and scraped off the word. What was left read: FRESH FISH SOLD.

He looked at the sign again and it still seemed fine. He went back to selling.

A little later, a second man walked by. He did not stand and stare. He glanced at the sign and shook his head at once. "Sir, why write SOLD? Of course the fish are for sale, since the shop is open. Who puts fish on show and does not sell it? Take off SOLD, so people will not laugh."

The owner listened and nodded. A shop was open to sell, so SOLD said nothing new. Up the ladder he went again and scraped it off. What was left read: FRESH FISH.

The sign was shorter now. The owner looked at it and thought it would do.

Soon after, a third man stepped up. He stopped to study the sign and said, "Sir, that word FRESH is useless. Everyone who sells fish says it is fresh. Nobody hangs a sign that says STALE FISH. Take off FRESH, and be sensible about it."

The owner listened, and nodded once more. Anyone who sold fish called it fresh, and saying so added nothing. So up the ladder he went, scraped the word off, and left a single word: FISH.

The sign now had one lonely word on it. The owner looked at it and blinked. Then he shrugged and let it pass.

But then a fourth man appeared.

He came from the mouth of the alley, sniffing as he walked. "Sir, the word FISH is not needed either. The smell of the shop drifts all the way out to the mouth of the alley. Anyone who steps into this alley knows it is a fish shop. Why hang up FISH just to confuse people?"

The owner stood and listened. He looked into the shop, and the smell of fish was real enough. He looked toward the alley, where passersby sniffed the air before they ever looked up at a sign. The man had a point.

So for the last time he climbed his ladder, took the whole sign down, and put it away.

Then he stood at his door and looked up at the wall. Where the sign had hung, there was only a pale streak of paint, the one patch the board had long sheltered from fading. Four rounds of lettering. Four people with advice. Four nods.

And now there was no sign at all.

The joke tale known in Vietnamese as Treo biển was collected by the scholar Nguyễn Đổng Chi in his anthology of Vietnamese humorous tales. It has also long been part of the Tiếng Việt textbook for primary school.

The tale is short. It has no villain and no bad person. There are only passersby who speak honestly, and an owner who finds every one of them right.

The bare wall. The pale streak still there. And somewhere in the alley, the smell of fresh fish drifting by.