Don’t Trust The Mackerel

After a dozen bad dates and two creepy stalkers, Mei decided to give up on online dating—forever. She leaned back into her Brooklyn couch and shut her eyes against the chaos of the world outside, when her phone buzzed: Jake923, with 23 shared interests, a notification from SoulMate told her. She thought she had just hit bottom, but his profile—fiction nerd, sushi fan, Midwestern transplant—sparked a flicker of hope.

After a week of texting, she decided she would give dating one last shot. Her heart thumped as he agreed to meet her at her favorite restaurant.

That Friday, she perched herself on a stool facing Sushi Sho’s polished wood dining counter. Jake slid in beside her, jacket brushing her. “Hello, I’m Jake. You must be Mei?”

“Hey, Jake, it’s nice to finally meet you.” She smiled broadly, then studied him—sandy hair that flopped slightly to the side when he tilted his head; good, but not too good, looks; a dash of mischief in his brown eyes — overall intriguing.

His gaze searched for a menu, and he appeared slightly nervous.

“This type of restaurant doesn’t have a menu,” she explained, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her voice soft.

“Oh~~,” Jake murmured, his Midwestern drawl stretching the word. “Fascinating concept.”

Being a Midwesterner, he probably didn’t understand how high-end dining worked. For the privilege of being able to book a reservation at an exclusive location, you are given the same fixed course menu as everyone else (also known as ‘omakase’ at some Japanese restaurants).

They sat in an awkward silence, only cut by the rhythmic thwack of Chef Nakazawa’s knife butchering fish. She detected the faint scent of Jake’s cedar cologne mingling with the restaurant’s other fishy aromas.

“It’s my first year at Allan and Brown,” he offered, “I’m still figuring out the city.”

“Welcome to New York,” she raised her sake cup.

They toasted, each taking a sip of the strong rice wine, and then Jake began to explain about his new job, the challenges of finding an apartment on the Lower East Side, how good the bagels there were — the usual stuff. She relaxed in her chair. He had a calming vibe. It was an attractive quality. She let herself label Jake as ‘attractive’. But she needed to keep her wits about her. She didn’t want to make the same mistake that she did with @Greg785.

“Do you know the origin of shima saba?” Jake asked, pulling her attention back to their conversation. He pointed at the chef slicing a shimmering silvery fish.

“No idea,” she bit her lip. Despite being half Japanese and raised in Tokyo, Jake seemed intent on teaching her about sushi.

“Shime saba, pickled mackerel, it was developed when the emperor of Japan lived in Kyoto, when fish needed to be transported overland in the heat of the summer. The vinegar preserved its freshness. Almost as if it were freshly caught.”

“In the summer, why didn’t the emperor just eat chicken, or—?”

“—Ankimo,” Chef Nakazawa interrupted, dropping two tiny ceramic plates on the wood counter. The food on the plates had the appearance of tiny slivers of liverwurst, for $50 a plate.

Jake prodded the soft goo with his chopsticks as if it was an unknown biological sample.

Mei stifled a laugh. She found his previous lecture about mackerel oddly endearing. It reminded her of her own dad. “Ankimo,” she said, “steamed monkfish liver, umi no foagura, the foie gras of the sea." She popped a piece into her mouth, savoring its creamy flavor. “Developed to taste good.”

“I’ll remember that,” he said, smiling at her small attempt at humor.

Mei leaned closer, her voice dropping. “You’ve never stalked anyone, have you?” Her fingernails tapped the counter.

“Me? I’ve only stalked good sushi.”

“Funny. You are funny, Jake.” And good answer. The stalkers had gotten quite defensive when she asked, and they both later demanded on paying the bill. “Don’t worry about the bill, my dad has a tab here.”

“Sweet,” he immediately replied, a spark of admiration glowing in his eyes. Easy going and not controlling. Nice.

“—Awabi,” Chef Nakazawa announced, placing two plates of slimy looking orange abalone in front of them.

“Dig in!” Mei said, chopsticks snatching a piece. The abalone released its briny sweetness, though it definitely looked gross.

Jake hesitated, poking it like it might bite back.

“Come on, eat it!” Mei knew she could be pushy, a trait from her mom.

Mom had left Minnesota at 19 to teach English in rural Japan and marry a Japanese man, perhaps just to spite her family. As soon as Mei graduated from high school, her parents divorced. Mom still lived in Japan and spent her time collecting alimony checks and washi prints. Dad seemed to live all over the place. Lucky for them, he had started Tokyo’s first Internet advertising company before that was a thing. It made her what most would call a ‘Trust Fund Kid’, but she didn’t think of herself that way.

“So your dad picks up the tab to poison his daughter’s dates,” Jake teased, giving the awabi another cautious nibble. “What does he do, anyway?”

“Stuff on the Internet… nothing interesting, really.” Mei pivoted to a safer topic. “So your texts said you loved Green’s books? How about The Fault in Our Stars?”

“Missed that one, but I’ve read his others,” he said, leaning back.

“His style’s intense, so emotional.”

“Totally. A journey of self-discovery, right?” Mei said, “Like in Looking for Alaska, Miles wrestled with life after it all fell apart.”

Jake’s brow creased. “Don’t know that one, but I get that vibe from his others. And I wanna write a novel someday. Got some notes sketched. But I couldn’t write like Green without seeing a war, or maybe Vietnam.”

“I’m a writer too. But, Vietnam?” she asked, her cup halfway to her lips. "What does that have to do with John Green?”

Jake’s cheeks flushed. “Hold up, I’m talking about—”

“—Unagi,” Chef Nakazawa barked and dropped two plates of glossy eel on the counter, its charred edges glistening. Sensing their impasse, he added, “Unagi, freshwater eel. Very different from saltwater anago. Tastes of the river it’s born in.”

Being a prestigious chef, Nakazawa gave the slightest of nods before turning away.

Mei popped a piece of the unagi into her mouth. It had a mouthfeel of a tough sponge soaked in fermented mackerel juice. They shared a glance.

The silence buzzing with possibilities.

“Besides books, what are your other ambitions?” Jake asked.

“Finding the best durian ice cream in New York.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep, that’s the sum total of my ambitions.” Mei grinned. Of course, she had other goals, but people with money don’t talk about their goals. People without money are constantly telling others about them.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t have been able to find durian ice cream back in Minneapolis.”

“Maybe down in Little Mekong?”

“You’ve been to Minneapolis?” he asked, curious.

“To visit once or twice.” New Yorkers never talk about where they’re from if it’s anyplace between New Jersey and California.

“Well, I’ll admit, Jake, you are easy to talk to,” she said, brushing up against his leg a little to catch his interest.

He almost leaped out of his chair. A touch phobia? Men always have something.

He looked at her earnestly. “There is something I wanted to ask you.”

“So soon in our relationship?” she teased.

“What’s your mother’s maiden name?”

She raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the random question.“My mom?”

“Yeah, just curious.” Mei shrugged, mom’s name was no big secret. “Retzlaff.”

His face broke into a wide grin, like when Chris Pratt figured out something in Parks and Rec.

“What’s so funny about my mom’s name?” she asked, concerned, and half-puzzled, her fingers tightening around her cup.

“It’s just…” Jake slid his driver’s license across the counter, his name showing as Jake Retzlaff. “I think you’re my cousin!”

The dining room’s buzz faded to a dull hum as she stared at him, eyes wide. Of course, she thought, her heart sinking. The one decent guy in New York… is my cousin.