Young Men in White Aprons

Fasting, the mind fixates on that first meal you’re going to have, once you break it.  Fish came to mind.  We have a place in New Paltz I’ve never visited which my mom raves about: Gadaleto’s.  They have a restaurant and a fish market and apparently the latter was open.  These are our big excursions these days, heading out to the market, getting off the home campus by more than a mile.  The girls came with me and we made Gadeleto’s our first stop. 

“No shoes, no shirt . . . no mask, no service,” said the sign the door as I fumbled with my gloves, the index finger, having errantly found its way into the middle finger's slot.  I’m reusing these and it occurs to me that as I touch them, I’m touching all the things they have already touched, which I wasn’t supposed to be touching.  Yes.  The restaurant looks closed.  This way, then passed the life-size deep-sea diver and into the market where two young men in white aprons are taking orders.

I want a filet of something.  There’s all sorts of salmon and no, I don’t want that.  I settle on two pieces of black sea bass.  “Are you guys able to shell clams?”  “We don’t have any clams.”  Do you have any whitefish salad?”  “Yeah.  How much you want?”  I can taste that sloppy, salty, smeared taste on toast and gesture for a quarter pound. 

I feel like there is something else I should get.  I am starving.  I spin around the room.  Is there something else I might put in pasta?  I’d tried scallops last week and don’t want shrimp.  They have a wall of pasta products by the window and my eyes gaze across.  I’m pretty set on having orzo.  There’s nothing I’m immediately drawn to.  “Is that squid ink?”  “Yup.”  “How much is it?”  I imagine linguini with the squid ink and like what I’m imagining.  I tell myself that if it’s under twenty dollars, I’m gettin’ it.  “Thirty four.”  “You know, that’ll be alright.  Just the filets and the whitefish salad.  Thanks.”

Saturday, 4/25/20