DEAD FISH: a recipe for a weekend with friends

By Rex Catubig

It was one of those times when the soul grows restless and pines for release. Just like when you had eaten too much and your stomach feels bloated and you go for a walk to ease the queasiness. So one flies to San Francisco, which is a heartbeat away and is always kind to hearts in or out of love. At the same time, one finds it a good time to shoot the breeze with Mert and Melanie, to delight in Veon’s irrepressible kookiness, and indulge in Joey’s ultimate cholesterol temptation.

It is always a wonder how a weekend so casually planned can work itself into a leitmotif–threading together a pattern here and there until a theme emerges out of random moments. And before you can even figure out what’s going on, they have assembled themselves into “five easy pieces”.

The meatless Friday started in a not so venerable branch of Benihana in the bosom of Japan town. We nested in one corner of the bar area and over sushi and sashimi lingered lightly on current affairs of the heart while waiting for Veon’s epiphany. Once all together, we simply laughed the night away–getting a kick out of recalling some past indiscretions and finding knock-out humor in the phrase “work- in- progress” which Veon, with a just a little nudge from his sake , so flagrantly and wickedly coined out of context that it became the tagline for the rest of the raucous conversation, and just maybe, for much of our unfolding lives.

But curiously, as we walked down later to our parked cars, the talk took on a more serious note and drifted to what is politically correct, of what is appropriate in our everyday dealings. Soon, as the talk became more animated, our shared experiences burned a bonfire of rectitude, perhaps symbolically, at the entrance of this oriental haven where we paused and held fort. A catalogue of norms–of what is right and acceptable became the burning log that warmed the chilly night. And Veon was forthright in his observation that culture is the culprit for our sometimes reckless and tactless attitude, for our flirting with chance “baka makalusot”.

Store manager Mert couldn’t agree more having gone though all this himself. Melanie, too, had a treatise on the subject. But as the night was wearing thin, I had to coerce them to call it a night and so, rather reluctantly, we went our separate ways: Veon began his long drive back to El Sobrante, while Mert and Melanie and I made our way to the Hilton San Francisco on Union Square where the comfort of a suite, arranged by good friend Lourdes, awaited us. That left the issue of correctness among those bothersome loose ends that for the time being, we pretty much relegated to the back of our minds as a “work- in- progress”.

Trust Joey to always come up with the unexpected. Next day, having recovered from his initial panic over his planned Lechon Kawali, which did not make it to their state-of-the art cooking range, he welcomed us with a disarming introduction to feng shui. He showed us some simple gestures that can dispel unwanted vibes or expel some evil intent. Even the feng shui-recommended way to flush the toilet so that one does not incur the risk of flushing away all the good graces. Not long after, we were thrust into the ominous realm of universal order, of the delicate balance of yin ang yang, of the inexorable flow of energy in and around us.

It was a fitting antipasto to the meal that followed with Joey’s Nilagang Baka reigning supreme among the dishes he lovingly created. The secret, it turned out, boiled down to the use of an oriental pressure cooker, Thailand-made no less, and the addition of what Melanie poetically referred to as ” slivers” of ginger root. With food galore, the afternoon at the Hercules home of our host, became one Olympic gastronomic marathon that unwittingly put to shame all the anorexics of the world. Who could have thought of pairing giant shrimp cocktail with ice cream and leche plan? And with a dipping sauce sinfully concocted by Veon out of patis and pickled jalapeno? It was truly a decadent culinary sacrilege.

Soon, Joey declared a moratorium and ushered our errant souls to the adjoining recreation room to exorcise us with his state-of-the-art (again) karaoke component. Sing it out and sing out loud was what the fundamentalists have always done. It was a good way to put the vocal orifice to a more saintly use. (Right, Veon?)

Interestingly, as each tried bravely to match melody with lyrics, the earlier notion of order and harmony insinuated itself much like a recurring chord. While singing the songs, it became apparent that you have to follow strictly the beat, rhythm and flow of the song as composed else any slight transgression results in the color change of the words on screen–with each change, be it blue or green or black signifying the singing being off or correct.

It was around five thirty when the lady of the house at Redwood road, the soft-spoken but gracious Elma, came home from work. The sun’s dazzle had begun to mellow and be embraced by twilight. It has been a most exhilarating afternoon thus far but it was time to move on and check out this Carquinez Bridge that Joey had mentioned and thus stirred our curiosity.

After a short drive, but getting lost along the way, (we thought it was a ploy to show off that rugged piece of lot up on a hilly slope Joey might be intending to buy..hehehe..) the bridge in all its panoramic magnificence unfolded into view like a painterly canvas. One had not imagined something like this existed in this neck of the woods: the massive bridge had towering spires from which cascaded an endless strand of lights. To complete the picture, a luminescent orb of a majestic moon seemed to perch so placidly on the awning of a deepening night sky.

Just off the bridge and down below the winding road, lay another surprise: an encampment on the river bank that happened to be a restaurant cum bar obscurely named Dead Fish. Short of pinching one’s nose, one was ready for the stink of rotten seafood but what greeted us instead was a veritable united nations of humanity. The place was packed and it was only by a thin stroke of luck (was it feng shui at work?) that we were able to get seated at a large antique banquet table that was lorded over by the tallest candelabra this side of town.

But more than the ambience which we now realized is ever beloved to Joey (remember that bar at the Oakland diversion?) Veon was quick to eye the choreography of garcons who fleeted in and out of the sanctum sanctorum. Nothing could have been a holier sight and a ravishing delight for the soul. The rest of us mortals, however, just blessedly feasted on artichoke petals, crabcakes and baby calamare. And what was the dead fish all about? The legend goes that there was this nanna who cooked fish like no other. Once when asked what kind of fish was that she so deliciously cooked, she very nonchalantly replied “dead fish”.

Just like that dead fish, our weekend was just another weekend but what turned it into something special was the magic of friendship that cast a spell over its ordinariness. It was just one of those Fridays and Saturdays that abound in the sea of life, but this particular Friday and Saturday were harvested and prepared with an abundance of goodwill and affection, lovingly seasoned with humor and fun, and braised with heartfelt remembrance. It was the recipe that made the dead fish a most delectable fare.

And as our weekend drew to a close, we marvelled at how the days went by so suddenly, almost like the bay wind that was blowing sharply now. I was sure there will be other days and other weekends again, but we knew more than ever, that no matter how we follow protocol and abide by the rules, how we allow the unimpeded flow of life-giving energy, how we try to stick to the song and hit the right notes, at the end of the day, we are still fair game to life’s unending vagaries.

Tentatively, albeit bravely, we move on and cross our bridges, keeping our balance as we head forward pushed by a benevolent tailwind. All the while, it behooves us to look out, keep our eyes wide open, lest we miss the signals and run afoul life’s constant surprises along the way–for as Veon had irrevocably pointed out, much of us, and much of life, remains ” a work- in- progress”.

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