Every holiday, our family van pulled over next to the worn-down, burnt sepia building with the chartreuse roof at the edge of rural Chicago. When we pushed open the thoroughly cracked glass doors, we were welcomed by the sickening stench of ripening salmon, tuna, and eel. When the waiter placed the dull green plates at our table, my entire family seemed to take turns scrunching their noses and leaning back. Cassie liked to roll her food around her plate, pushing the little oval pieces with her thin wooden chopsticks. None ever ended up in her mouth. Daniel started to whine and cry as soon as Mom put some of the fishy rice balls on his plate, complaining that they never tasted good. He might as well have spat on the chef.
Mom always ate everything on her plate, and even asked for seconds after she was finished. She only got the eel there; it was a caramel-colored and finely sliced fish with sesame seeds thrown on top, a glaze not unlike soy sauce drizzled over. She loved it so much that sometimes she got up on the table and yelled at the few other people next to us to eat the eel. Not me, though. I always excused myself to the restroom and wouldn’t emerge until Cassie came to get me when we were about to leave. Dad used to eat a lot too, probably more than Mom. He loved this place, and always got the eel rolls. Mom yelled at the waiter that it was his fault that Dad died, that the raw fish gave him cancer, but we all know that’s not true. It wasn’t until Mom died too when I started to eat the food. The eel is still revolting.