A fish tale

I've had a beef with fish for years

I don’t like fish, ever since that day back in second grade when I choked on a tuna bone and made a show of myself in the school cafeteria. My parents hoped it was a passing phase, but they folded like a cheap tent during Lent—on Fridays my brothers and sister had to make do with fish sticks while I dined high on the hog on Ellio’s frozen pizza.

Coming from a long line of grudge holders, I’ve maintained my hatred of fish for the last 50 years or so. (It irritates my friends who claim I’m missing out, but if you try and kill me once, you don’t get a second chance.)

Still, I was dismayed to discover we’d run out of fish food about 15 minutes before opening last week. Personal feelings aside, I’m a professional in the service industry, and one of the opening duties of the day shift bartender is to feed the fish in the aquarium behind the bar. I was running behind schedule, I still had some setting-up work to do, and now I have to deal with this?!

I know what you’re thinking—what a perfect time to settle an old score…!

But I’m not a monster (or Kristi Noem), so I went to consult with the chef, Mariano. I wondered if there was something else—saltines maybe?—that we could throw in the tank so the fish wouldn't die on my watch.

Mariano shook his head: saltines wouldn’t work. The clock was ticking, so I googled pet stores in Chelsea and found Pamper Ur Pets on 16th Street.

I shouted to Mariano and Mario that I’d be back in a few minutes. As I was locking the door behind me, a woman approached and in a thick Russian accent asked if we were open. I said we would be in about five minutes – I just had to run to get fish food. She nodded and said she was waiting for her husband.

I sprinted (OK, walked briskly) three blocks south and found the pet store. The bell on the door rang as I entered the small, cramped store, and I asked the man behind the counter if he sold fish food. He looked confused. I realized I was speaking really quickly since I was in a rush. In a thick Arabic accent, he asked me to repeat the question. I was also a little winded; somehow in the three-minute walk over, the stakes (in my mind) had become exceedingly high. Honestly—the way I was sweating and the adrenalin was coursing, you’d think I was a surgeon trying to get an organ to a dying patient, rather than just trying to open a bar on time. No wonder he looked confused, and perhaps a little concerned.

I took a deep breath and spoke more slowly: “I’m sorry—I’m in a bit of a rush—but do you carry fish food?

He looked at me blankly.

“You know, food—for fish?”

“Ah!” he smiled, gesturing for me to follow him. He led me down an aisle and pointed proudly to a shelf. It didn’t look like the canisters of fish food we had at the bar, and on closer inspection, I realized it was fish bait. Like worms and crickets and weird things for fishing. Revolting. I stepped back abruptly and shook my head.

I sighed as I looked at the crestfallen clerk, and then—what option did I have at this point?— I sucked in my cheeks, puckered up my lips and made a swimming motion with my hands, taking a stab at imitating a fish. A hungry fish at that. (Or a white-haired nutjob doing the breast stroke in a pet store.) Mercifully, we were the only people there, but the cat lounging on a shelf gave me a look of pure disgust.

It made me think of a wacky movie from the 1960s, The Incredible Mr. Limpet, starring comedy legend Don Knotts as a mild-mannered guy who becomes a talking fish and aids the Navy in fighting Nazis in the second world war.

Anyway, it worked! The clerk laughed and led me back to the register, above which, I now saw, was a shelf full of fish food. Relief! The judgemental cat had followed us, leapt on to the counter, and even allowed me to pet him as the clerk rang up my purchase.

The clock on the wall: 12:07. Crap! At my age, I will only run if I’m being mugged or owe somebody money, but I picked up the pace and walked back at a pretty good clip. As I unlocked the front door, I spotted the little Russian lady and her husband coming out of Duane Reade across the street and heading our way. I had time to throw some food in the tank and save the lives of the gd fish as the Russian couple opened the door and entered.

“Hello!” I said, “I’m sorry for the late start—please, have a seat wherever you’re comfortable.” They went to the dining room and I followed with glasses of water and menus. She waved the menus away. “We want fish and chips.” I put their order into the kitchen and Mariano informed me we had run out the day before.

I went back to their table: “I’m so sorry, but we’re out of fish and chips.”

She glared at me: “But not possible! You went to store for getting fish!” I then tried to explain, gesturing to the fish tank, but stopped short of treating them to my Mr. Limpet impression. I suggested the tuna melt (despite the fact that I consider it to be the devil’s handiwork), but no dice. Disappointed, and no doubt wondering why I was lying and denying them fish, they put on their coats and stalked out.

Later that afternoon, I was musing on my 20-minute fish frenzy, and why I’d gotten into such a tizz. It could be because everything feels so terrifying and out of control at the moment; we’re all desperately seeking order in our own little worlds - and at McManus that means opening on time and feeding the fish.

It also might be time for a remake of The Incredible Mr. Limpet. Fascism is back, and this time, it’s here at home.