I was a spoiled child in many ways, but particularly in the ways of fish. Growing up, I regularly ate fish that was mere hours from swimming around in water, brought home by my parents from Chinatown tanks. But ever since I gave that up for the freedom of living on my own, I've had to develop an instinct for ordering fish in restaurants with some confidence in its freshness. There aren't a lot of very complicated rules to this particular instinct; mainly what you're looking for is a lot of turnover to keep the stock fresh, and a kitchen with the integrity to not be tempted to deal with this turnover just by ordering bigger and bigger boxes from the Gorton's Fisherman. I've done pretty well for myself this way, but sometimes, our instincts fail us. Every once in a while, the magic in our brains freezes and we find ourselves falling down the stairs, crashing the car, or, in my regrettable case, eating a Taco Salad Cancun.
I was in a seaside town in California, so at first blush I could be forgiven for ordering something described on the menu as "fresh crabmeat and fresh shrimp served on a fresh salad with Thousand Island dressing." That's a lot of freshness. Besides, who can deny the power of Thousand Island dressing? Oh, but the menu doth protest too much. The salad greens were fresh, in that they weren't from a can. The shellfish, too, were fresh at some point in time, I'm sure. But out it came, that disheartening pile of crabby filiments and baby shrimp stuffed in a greasy tortilla bowl. Baby shrimp are a crime against crustacean-kind to begin with, but these were especially depressing. I handed one to my friend Raymond, asking him to try it. He looked at me like I was punishing him. "C'mon, man," I prodded. "Tell me what it tastes like." Wincing, he began chewing, but then his face became calm and curious. "Nothing. I don't taste anything at all. Water, maybe." The crab was the same way. Not only were these things not fresh, they'd been kept in some kind of amazing flavor-leaching solution, one so powerful it even took away the satisfaction I got from eating goops of Thousand Island. God forbid it fall into the hands of the terrorists. My instinct should have been going crazy like a firehouse in hell when I took a seat on the inexplicably empty patio of this self-described "seafood restaurant" on a gorgeous, beach-worthy Saturday afternoon. I could have been saved from my miserable fate of food dipped in formaldehyde, but my instincts had totally forsaken me. I can't believe Raymond let me drive after that.
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