Pike Place
In Seattle, I saw a fish fly over my head. The fish was as surprised to see me as I was it. Its beautiful clear eyes stared down at me, casting shadow momentarily as it blocked the rare April sun. “You will seek me out in time,” the fish said. I had forgotten about it until it looked at me again in Hell’s Kitchen, two years shy of a decade later.
Oahu 2011
I spent my first year of self-exile in Oahu circling the same ninety-mile loop in a white Tacoma, a pair of Tommy Bahama folding chairs from Costco in the truck bed. I thought the Pacific Ocean would shield me from the insanity and anxiety (most of my 30’s) I left behind in Seoul. Yet the first thing I did was make myself a business card that read “Otium Cum Dignitate (leisure with dignity)”, of which I handed out exactly zero.
I was working on a midlife crisis book. It felt like a fitting activity at the time. I tried to convince my publisher that I could write yet another book, this time about two friends traveling across America. I got the idea reading Jack Kerouac. I knew it was cliche, but it was all I could muster up while circling around the tiny island. The publisher rejected, but my friend N1 agreed to go on the condition we start from Seattle and drive U.S. route 101 to the Mexican border. I imagined cruising south in a silver Mercedes convertible with white leather seats while wearing dark Ray-Bans, cool ocean wind in my hair. It seemed like a reasonable compromise.
I remember leaning to kiss my wife goodbye inside the front door as I had done every day for seventeen years. She pushed me away and didn’t let me touch her. I thought she was mad at me for going on a trip without her. I was wrong.
SEA 2012
I bought cold medicine as I got off the plane at SEA.
N1 lived in a tiny, dim lit studio, just a few blocks from the Seattle Public Library. On the well-cleaned but cheap vinyl tiled floor was a small single mattress, too short for anyone over 5’10”. One secondhand wood chair and a small IKEA table with a lamp and a Bible. I wondered where I could possibly sleep for the night. I might be able to sleep on some sheets on the floor if I put my feet under the table. But then again, where would the chair go? On the table!
N1 told me he prayed every night at this table for his marriage to work. It turns out his wife took their young kids away to live in D.C.. They were living apart. N1 couldn’t find a job that would pay enough to support the family in D.C.. So he took a job in Seattle. He would see his kids once a month, but he could feed his family all year round. He showed me the Bible and the writings in his black leather covered notebook. He used a carefully hand-sharpened pencil. He insisted that the monk-like setup would help him better communicate with God. I thought he was just praying due East towards D.C. to his crazy wife.
N1 told me all this while sharing austerity-themed ramen noodles on the floor of his studio the evening before our road trip, right after we got back from seeing the fish flying in the air at Pike Place Market.
Mt. Olympus
Day 1 we headed for Mt. Olympus. It was out of the way, but a good way to start the trip. I think N1 was hoping to see a glimpse of God on the summit. I was just happy there was no hiking involved.
On the steep drive up I resented N1 for renting the cheap compact Nissan. It had no power and was claustrophobic. The only memorable feature of the car was the two No Smoking stickers on the dashboard, one for each of us I guess. The car looked even smaller parked next to a 20-foot wall of snow on the summit.
We walked on the snowcapped summit awed by the unobstructed view of the surrounding mountain range. Looking down at the world feels expansive, powerful, all knowing, and omnipotent. It is not so much that the gods live atop Olympus, but that living at the summit of the world makes you feel like a god.
I sat and touched the frozen snow in the warm sunlight. Am I cold like the snow or hot like the sun? Both or neither? I couldn’t decide or tell how I felt. I just felt confused. Maybe there would be clarity by the end of the trip.
Being above the clouds was a great way to start the trip on a high note. It was all downhill from there.
Portland
After a full day on the road in the cramped Nissan, we arrived for dinner at dusk with Jim and Sarah. Jim designs chips for Intel during the week and plays golf with the same precision on the weekends. Sarah paints giant anime eyes the size of watermelons. Her works gaze at you from all of the walls in their house and some major museums.
Over Oregon Pinot and locally sourced veggies and chicken, Jim talked about golf and Sarah’s art. Occasionally, we shared laughter about silly memories dredged up from college. That time we had too much to drink at Hanshin-pocha, got into trouble at Club Unicorn, skiing at YongPyong. We shared crafted versions of ourselves to reinforce the personas painted in our collective memory. In that sense the dinner was a pleasure filled experience of data collection. A beautiful, comfortable, predictable, and safe choreography. The sophisticated expressions, gestures, stories, and role playing felt familiar but rigid; cold and distant like my wife’s body; in proximity but untouchable like her pushing me away. I felt the solidifying buttresses of a predictable future I was trying to avoid. I hated it.
I was craving a genuine connection beyond the forced laughter and clever smiles. I wanted to know if Jim was satisfied with his life. I wanted to know what was behind Sarah’s obsession with the anime eyes. I knew they had a miscarriage, but they never talked about it. Maybe it’s none of my business. But I wanted to know something about them beyond the model minority roles we’ve been playing collectively for two decades.
Also, I wanted to know if N1 really cared for his kids enough to raise them as a single parent. I wanted to know why both N1 and his wife were using religion as justification, one as a reason for trying to stay together, and the other as a reason to separate.
I didn’t ask. We’re old friends living separate lives in a big country. What good would it do to stir up a pleasant dinner with hard and painful questions? What if they never want to see me again? Nothing gained, and nothing lost. Statusquo.
We left first thing next morning.
Bandon Dunes, OR
At sunset, on the Oregon coast, we stumbled upon a golf course mostly reachable by private jets. From the front gate you drive through two miles of indigenous trees contorted like supersized Bonsai creating an unforgettable experience. It’s an otherworldly beauty like driving through a Martian forest (if one ever existed). The golf course is finally revealed after the last bend in the woods. The rolling grass on the dunes are immaculately manicured in a way that there is no distinction between the fairway and putting greens overlooking the Pacific Ocean and the crisp clear orange sky. A golfers version of heaven on earth. It was the most stunning landscaped coastline I’d ever seen.
We discovered the place after six hours of exhaustive conversation, mostly about N1’s marriage (or what was left of it), while driving down the winding coast. I was playing therapist in my mind. I told myself ‘The marriage is tangled and contorted. He finds solace in feeling guilty, as if it could be redemptive. He sends every dollar to the wife that took his children, and lives like a monk. He believes his penance could redeem if more pain is inflicted. Could there be clarity after all this misery?’
I tried hard to be a good friend and listened and consoled N1 without outward judgment. I refrained from telling him what to do. I tried to let N1 use me as a sounding board to figure our a solution on his own. Even with all the unnatural twisting and bending if reality it seemed the sensible thing to do.
The contorted Bonsai Martian forest was like N1’s petrified marriage. The expansiveness of the sunset on the Pacific Ocean horizon over the rolling green fairways beyond the forest was our only respite.
Redwoods
It was somewhere before Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox when the truth was told.
The road started to bend more as the Nissan struggled uphill. The fog was thickening quickly as I fidgeted in my seat. Cyclists popped up like ghosts only a few yards away to quickly disappear as we passed, their faces obscured by the thick fog. It was around noon but we could only see a few yards ahead of us even with the fog lights on. The obscurity outside the car mingled with the conversation inside started to congeal a clarity in my head.
I didn’t want my friend to suffer any more.
It was clear to me N1’s wife would use his kindness against him. She would keep him on a torturous existence for as long as she could. I knew (and more importantly she knew) he would blame everything on himself and continue to suffer. I knew he wouldn’t seek help or guidance from friends or family because she placed wedges between N1 and his friends and family. In this setup N1’s reaching out would be viewed as a betrayal of the marriage. Also, friends and family reaching out to N1 would be vehemently pushed back by N1 in the false hope of preserving the marriage.
In short, I knew I was risking my friendship with what I was about to say. I hoped the fog would offer some protection against the inevitable pushback.
“Fuck it. Enough beating around the bush,” I gathered myself and steadied my voice. “Get a divorce. Your marriage is done. I can’t believe you don’t see it. She is such a bitch. Can’t you see your kids are suffering under her? She is just using you.” The words came out lucid.
N1 was shocked. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t! I told you. I’m praying on it,” he said, turning angrily.
“Really? You really think praying is gonna help your marriage?” I talked over him. “Can’t you see that she is manipulating you? She knows you will blame yourself. You are just using your religion to make it seem like somehow it’s your fault. You just want to give yourself mileage to stay and work on your broken marriage forever so you don’t have to face the truth. You are doing exactly what she wants you to do.”
“Fuck you! You don’t know what I’m going through!” N1’s pushback.
“Fuck yourself! I’m sick of hearing about it. You’re just afraid of the truth. The truth is your marriage is over. You have to move on. You have to get a lawyer and make some painful decisions. You have to start living.” I shouted all these words at him. I shouted as loud as I could. I was all in.
“You never helped my marriage.” N1 said.
“I never liked her. She always put a wedge between us. She cut off all of your friends. She cut off your mom and dad. That’s seriously fucked up. What did your parents ever do to her?”
“You never gave her a chance!” N1 said.
“Yes I did! And so did all your friends and family. We always supported you. Even when you kept pushing us away. And we always will. I have to be straight with you. You need to get away from her.”
“It’s not that easy.” N1 said.
“I really didn’t want to be this forthcoming. My plan was to just listen to you and be a sounding board for you to make up your own mind.
But I know you too well. I can see how this all plays out in yet more years of misery. And I don’t want to see you suffer anymore. I really don’t.
You can keep blaming yourself. And now you can also blame me. But I’ve left behind fake niceties in Portland and I’m stuck here with you in this shitty car for a week. We got all the time in the world. I need you to see how clearly I see your fucking miserable marriage.”
There was a long silence as we drove south through the remainder of the foggy Redwoods towards the Golden Gate Bridge.
Kamehameha Highway 2016
N1 filed for divorce shortly after our trip. One year later his two kids started school in Seattle. They live in a nice house together, the three of them.
I called N1 daily on my commute on Kamehameha highway. He would always answer my calls. We talked about each of our lives as if we were still driving together down Highway 101. We have a connection like no other. A friendship forged from brutal honesty where we can risk everything to be genuine.
N1 occasionally thanked me for my advice on our trip. He is in a much happier place. He is much more himself. We had other discussions on our trip but in my memory it was the trip when I helped N1 get his divorce. Or so I thought.
Four years later on Kamehameha highway past Hanauma Bay where the road bends North on the Eastern tip of Oahu, where Japanese photographers shuttle newlyweds for the perfect moment of bliss, with my wife angrily sitting next to me, I finally said yes to end my twenty two year marriage.
I moved to NYC and started cooking.
Hell’s Kitchen 2020
A few days ago I went to the fishmonger in Hell’s Kitchen. I’m timorous with fish. Fish guts, heads, and tails are stomach-turning to me. And there are so many different kinds of fish that need different ways of cooking. I get easily overwhelmed. So I always end up getting a piece of salmon (it seems to be always on sale!). It’s delicious, familiar.
But on this day I mustered courage to get a non-salmon, non-gutted, non-beheaded, whole fish. I looked past the factory precut filets to where an array of whole fish lay sideways, eyes wide open on the crushed ice. I pointed to a branzino (Mediterranean sea bass). As fishmonger presented the branzino to me, it flew out of his hands into the air and said, “Remember me?”
As the branzino looked into my eyes mid-flight, I realized I had projected on N1! (“Yes you did,” said the branzino.)
I projected my own marriage problems as if it was his (“uh-huh,” said the branzino). All of what I said to N1 driving though the fog was actually about me (“one hundred percent,” said the branzino). I was talking about my problems, my ex-wife and the wedges she put between me and my family and friends (“you are finally being honest with yourself,” said the branzino). I was shivering, my head muzzy with self disclosure.
We all project ourselves onto others. But it’s excruciatingly painful to admit it.
I thought I was the smart guy with the clever solutions who was brave enough to tell my friend what to do (“to be clear, you were not,” said the branzino). He was the courageous one (“yes he was and is,” said the branzino). Courage to move to a new town where you know nobody. Courage to leave a poisonous relationship. Courage to be a good parent. Courage to follow one’s own heart. Courage to be open to the world.
I guess courage is being open to the world (“yes,” said the branzino).
Our trip started in Seattle towards Mexico eight years ago finally ended East of the Hudson in Hell’s Kitchen.
Flying branzino
In honor of N1, I wanted to make a dish that celebrates courage and the fish that showed me the way.
I think the hardest part of this dish is buying the fish. In other words, you need courage. But if a fish can fly through the air, you can cook a branzino.
The first step is to pick a good looking branzino with clear eyes and tell the fishmonger to do the following.
Rid the scales
Gut the fish
De-bone the fish (ask to be extra thorough for kids)
Remove the head and tail
Make two fillets. (Two per fish.)
The first time I asked the fishmonger to make me fillet from the whole fish, he directed me to the pre filleted sea bass. The fillets were bigger and perfectly shaped. I was tempted. But upon asking when they were filleted the fishmonger told me reluctantly that they were probably filleted the day before in a factory. Most of the pre fillet fish are factory cut. Which means you already lose one full day of freshness with the pre cut fish. Freshness is everything when it comes to fish. So I mustered some courage and told the fishmonger that I wanted the whole fish. He quickly changed his attitude. We were now men who knew fish. He smiled and recommended that I take the fish head, tail and bone to make some soup. I politely thanked him.
A few days later I bought whole fish fillets and pre-fillet to compare. The moister of the whole fish was superior.
Ingredients (for N1 and his two kids)
Branzino ….. 4 fillets (two whole fish)
Macadamia nuts ….. 1/2 cup
Breadcrumbs ….. 1 cup
Cilantro ….. 2 tbs chopped
Rosemary ….. 1 sprig
Thyme ….. 3 sprigs
Chives ….. 2 tbs chopped
Dill ….. 2 tbs chopped
Olive oil ….. 2 tbs
Shallots ….. 3 medium size
Triple Sec ….. 1/2 cup
Lemon ….. 2
Plant butter (or olive oil) … 4 tbs
Capers ….. 2 tbs
Honey ….. 1 tbs
Baby tomatoes ….. 1/2 lbs
Instructions
Buy fresh fish
Buy whole branzino at the market. Look for clear eyes and no fishy smell. Ask the fishmonger to make 2 boneless fillets.
Keep refrigerated in the coldest corner of the fridge no more than 24 hours.
Take out of the fridge and season with salt. Then brush the white flesh side with olive oil.
Make the bread/herb crust
The herb crust will become a crispy outer layer that retains the moistness of the fish. You need to make a “sand of flavor” that will stick to the oiled fish meat and crisp in the oven. Breadcrumbs alone will do. But you can add all sorts of flavor and colors by adding herbs and nuts.
Mix in food processor the following ingredients: Breadcrumbs, rosemary, thyme, cilantro, chopped chives, salt, pepper. Try some macadamia nuts if you have some.
Dip white flesh side (non skin) of oiled fish in herb crust mixture.
Make the triple-sec sauce
Beurre blanc (white butter) sauce is made of cooked shallots, acid (white wine or vinegar) reduction and lots of emulsified butter. It is a buttery neutral sauce that responds well to flavorings like herbs. My version uses no butter because Jenny cannot eat dairy. I use plant based butter (which is basically some sort of plant oil with chemicals) or just olive oil.
Heat olive oil, then sauté shallots until translucent, but not until they’re brown. We want to keep the sauce neutral. Too much browning will break the delicate balance of the sauce.
Deglaze pan with 1/2 cup (use ample amount) triple sec liqueur. Traditionally you would use a white wine. But I like the acidity and sweetness of triple sec, which is an orange fruit based liqueur. The triple sec’s alcohol will evaporate leaving only the essence of the taste.
Emulsify the olive oil or butter with a whisk. You now have a basic Beurre blanc sauce of shallots, acid, and oil.
Add lemons for elevated acidity. Fish goes well with acid. Add lemon wedges for texture into the pan. Then squeeze the remaining lemon to add juice. Keep some of the peel for zesting at the end.
Add flavors. I like adding dill for my fish dishes. The green colors work well in the sauce. Also, add some capers. Make sure to wash the capers on water and chop to size you desire. Remember that capers are salty.
Add some macadamia nuts at the end for texture and shape.
Salt to taste.
Honey to taste.
Finally, add water to thin the sauce as you see fit.
Bake the fish
Preheat the oven to 450F.
Put fish on well oiled parchment and baking pan.
Bake for 8 mins.
Broil for the last minute for crust.
Plate
Put fish skin side down on the plate.
Spoon sauce around the fish. NOT on it so the eater can mix on the table.
Conversations
With the trip ended, and living on opposite sides of the country I now have a weekly Zoom with N1 on Sunday mornings. Over fresh ground coffee we talk. Last week it was about napalm, and Miyazaki Hayao’s 1988 movie “Grave of the Fireflies.” Other weeks it is about the perfect cooking pan (All Clad 12 inch D3), Robert Hooke’s microbial cooking, or a block chain education tech company N1 is starting. Our conversations are all over the place but always engaging because we have a connection like no other. A friendship forged from brutal honesty where we risked everything to be genuine.
I now know the world I see is for the most part a projection of myself. But sometimes I can glimpse beyond my projections. With a little help from my friend.
Always with courage to be open to the world.
The flying branzino recipe may take the remainder of my life time (counting from 80) to master it. Yet a success shall be guaranteed once one follows it thru! :)
May you and N1 keep up the unbreakable rapport. H.S.
I'd hate to be that friend N1 you mention in the story. Glad they both found their way. Sounds like a painful but valuable trip!