Originally published by the Counterpoint Press in 2005, this book came out at a time when the international caviar industry was being turned upside down. The industry’s center of gravity, which for centuries had rested in the Caspian Sea, has moved since then to a surprising new location. Where once caviar from farmed sturgeon might be sold fraudulently as caviar from wild species, now the opposite is true. Where once the flow of poached and smuggled caviar moved mostly from east to west, now the opposite is true. The caviar industry as it exists today is a sort of Bizarro-World version of what it once was.

And regarding the numbers of sturgeon still to be found in the wild? That and other questions are answered in the epilogue contained in this new edition of “The Philosopher Fish” published by Brandeis University Press. This addendum brings the status of wild stocks up to date, describes the cataclysmic changes of the last twenty years, and provides current glimpses of some of this story’s most important players.

Counterpoint (2005)

“So one part of my job is very glamorous, travelling all over the world and teaching people about fine caviar,” she said, “and there’s another part, dealing with all these government agencies, which is just intense, and wears me out sometimes. But I personally think this is one of the most exciting industries there is. I love it—love it dearly.”

She smiled again, her face bracing into a gypsy’s promise of delight. “The best part, of course, is that caviar is literally the food of the gods. I think of it that way, and it really is. It’s low in calories, it contains—like olive oil—only good cholesterol . . .”

“It’s expensive,” the British woman interjected approvingly.

“—it’s high in protein . . .”

“We’re in a health food store,” offered the man in the bow tie.

“—and it quadruples as an aphrodisiac. Need I say more? That aphrodisiac role may be subject to question, really, but then again, you don’t eat caviar sitting in front of the TV.”

We polished off the salmon, scooped up the last remaining eggs in the presentoirs, left tips for the staff, and moved on as a group past other gleaming tables and then out the front entrance. This was a shock. The scaffolding shaded us in part from the late afternoon sun, but not from the exhaust of the taxis racing past, or the heat radiating up from the pavement. No matter: Our destination, a short walk down Seventh Avenue, was the Petrossian Café and Boutique, where we had been promised a 20 percent consideration on any purchase of honorific goods.

We strolled beneath the scaffolding like a company of gods, fresh-minted Fitzgeralds and Hemingways and Bakers, newly versed in good and evil, revenants from the divine horizon. . . .