I devoured seafood as a kid growing up in San Diego.
Even when my friends labeled fish as “yucky” and “gross” I happily indulged. Sadly, I developed a severe shellfish allergy around 10 years old that has limited my seafood consumption to only fish ever since. But before that I loved shrimp and clams.
I remember going downtown to the Fish Market Restaurant with my dad for big steaming bowls of clam chowder. We would sit out on the wooden deck overlooking the sun-kissed harbor, gazing at the USS Midway and the infamous statue of the sailor passionately kissing his woman. We slurped chowder, alternating spoonfuls with the oyster crackers that came in those little plastic baggies. I loved those crackers almost as much as the chowder. Dad would always shove a few bags in his pocket when no one was looking and surprise me with them later when we got home.
My mom and brother reflect on a time when we would eat fish almost every day of the week for dinner. Dad was a blues musician who sang and played piano at local bars in the evenings. But, by day he worked in a fish market scaling and gutting fish.
He had a deep respect for seafood (and also lived on a tight budget), so he would save fish collars from going into the trash at work. He’d bring them home and steam them up with rice or make them into a soup. Sometimes we were lucky, and he’d bring home fillet. I don’t remember the particulars. I was too young. I just know that I was never turned off by the sight of fish like my friends were. I was as comfortable eating fish as I was eating chicken.
Dad was enamored with food and cooking. He had a way of making every meal feel special. He’d be in the kitchen wearing pajama pants and a silly apron. Over the hum of the nightly news I’d hear him call me into the kitchen with his Long Island accent. “Sa! Come in here. I wanna show you something. Look at this snapper, will ya please? Look at how fresh it is! That’s what I’m tawkin’ about.” This would happen multiple times before dinner was served. He could hardly contain himself, which made me laugh and also intrigued.
At the dinner table Mom, like clock-work, would tell us that even though the fish was filleted we should all look out for pin bones. There were always pin bones. And by the end of the meal they’d all be lined up on the edges of our plates like we just conducted an archeological dig and were displaying our findings.
I’m almost certain that we were the only ones on our block eating shrimp cocktail at home, served restaurant style with poached and chilled shrimp hanging over the edges of an oversized margarita glass with a shot glass of homemade cocktail sauce in the middle. You’d think we were celebrating Mardi Gras the way dad presented it. The energy in the kitchen was everything short of flying beads and inebriated college kids.
I almost loved watching him eat this dish more than I enjoyed eating the dish myself. He ate it with such gratitude, such appreciation. “Mmmmm. Mmm! See this Sa? This is the good stuff!”
And it was.
With him it always was.