Tonight we ate at one of our favorite restaurants. It is called Blossom, and they can serve up some pretty tasty vittles I’ll tell you. They bake their own breads, and make their own dressings, desserts, even the ice-cream. Two wood-fired stoves spit out some pretty good pizzas as well. But the FISH, oh the fish!
The “Special” this evening was Monk Fish. I picked the Salmon instead. Embarrassingly enough….I made big yummy noises throughout the meal, as I slogged back the grits and fish. I rubbed my belly in little circles. People stared.
Anyway….I just couldn’t bring myself around to the Monk Fish. Nope. You see, I had to pass. It was the whole visual of the thing. I could envision some sweet little fish it its cute little brown burlap hoodie-robe, sinched at the waist with a bell-tower-rope tied in a big bulky knot. Yep. I could see the little fish now, looking all Mr. Limpet-like, sitting in its little fish chapel, holding a strand of beads in its little fin, saying its little fish prayers….. No way could I order the Monk Fish. NO WAY.
They call Charleston The Holy City. So I figured the Monk Fish was just another part of the gig. As it turns out, that’s not really so.
When I got home, I looked up that there Monk Fish on the internet. Nothing quaint or monk-like about it at all. Quite the opposite. It is ugly as sin. They live about 9 years, get to be about 3 feet long, look like some prehistoric-scary-horrible-creature, and feed on pretty much everything including soda cans, plastic, and other trash. New visual in my head. I’m still not ordering the Monk Fish.