Lore Letter 012

They say a fish rots from the head down.

Author’s note:

We’re getting weird with it this week, folks! This piece of Lore is dually inspired by my trip to the New World Mall in Flushing Chinatown this weekend and a tweet that has been seared into my memory ever since it crossed my timeline. I hope you enjoy (just like the fish head soup).

The suction of my big fishy mouth leaves a ring of grease on the glass of the tank. It's those fish oils they're always talking about. The restaurant put the claim in neon-ringed word art on the front of the thick menu: FISHY NUTRITION 4 U. That makes it sound like the nutrition is suspicious, like the omega-3s and B12 tucked inside my scales are plotting how to get down your gullet and wreak havoc on your stomach lining. A lot of people are worried about this, it seems. They stand in front of the tank in their terrycloth shorts and hold their hand fans and pepper Chef with questions.

Is this safe? What about the mercury levels? We've never eaten in a place like this before. What about the MSG? Will I get food poisoning?

Yes, it's very safe. You're fine as long as you don't eat five servings. Welcome, we're happy to have you. The MSG is mentioned on the menu. No, our customers leave happy — just look at our five-star reviews.

I've only been here two days, at the tail end (pun unintended) of my service, but I've already heard the spiel enough times to know what Chef really wants to say.

Question: Is this safe?

Answer: Of course it is, you dipshits. The health department doesn't just hand out those A ratings.

Question: What about the mercury levels?

Answer: I know the last fish you consumed was a can of StarKist tuna that you complained was too spicy, but I promise you'll be okay.

Question: We've never eaten in a place like this before.

Answer: I know. The Disney World sweatshirts and request for ketchup gave you away.

Question: What about the MSG?

Answer: Trust me, you want the MSG. Look at the goddamn menu.

Question: Will I get food poisoning?

Answer: That depends. If you're pure of heart, you'll leave here with a full belly and a newfound appreciation for Cantonese cuisine. If you decide to reject it before you even try it, then you'll spend the next four hours in the fetal position on the floor of your Best Western bathroom.

I see and hear this all from the murky water of the tank, behind the clouded glass that my brothers and I kiss with fat lips. We watch people pass by through a kaleidoscope-filtered funhouse mirror, making bets on who will stop and trigger the sacrifice of one of our own. The Tuesday grandmas. The tourists from places like Idaho and Kentucky that make you think it's a wonder they even made it to Chinatown at all. The packs of teenagers on free lunch that dare each other to eat our eyeballs, never mind that they're the best part of the whole thing. Ripe and salted.

My favorite, the ones that I hope to give my life to, are the mothers who run the dress shops down the street. I love the tape measures they wear around their necks like scarves and the way their glasses sit on the ends of their noses, which are perpetually scrunched. They eat their soup with reverence, staring into the bowl for a few moments like their 15-minute break doesn't start until they cut through the surface with their spoon. Maybe it doesn't. I don't know how things work out there.

The tourists don't respect the dish, stirring it like there's a gotcha in the broth that they're trying to uncover. Their kids squeal with disgust when they see the fish head and ask their parents why they couldn't have gone to Applebee's instead. The adults shush them, embarrassed, but I know they're asking themselves the same thing.

But today is a Tuesday, the quietest day of the week on our end of Essex Street, and it looks like it's my time to shine. The woman is slight but seems tough, her glasses fogging up from the steam of the pot. She chats with Chef like an old friend, and I'm ready. Chef teases her, asking if she'd like to pick which severed head will sit atop the soup like a crown.

She barely has to crouch to look at me. I wiggle my tail. She smiles, and points. I know I'm about to die, but that's what happens here. I just don't want it to be in vain. I know she'll drink every last drop, tilting her bowl to her lips. She won't be afraid to eat the eyes.

"That one there," she says. "He looks lucky."

That I am. I move my tail one last time, feel Chef's gloved grip on my body, and go up for air.