Number One Fish

Local, fresh. Loyal.

My parents would go to Number One Fish twice a week, Monday, for fillet of sole, and Saturday, for swordfish.

It’s a small, unassuming place in the scrappy industrial part of town near the DMV, and it’s been there for forty years. Bobby MacNeil is the owner, and most days, Bobby is still behind the counter. He talks about fish with reverence. The Chilean sea bass he is wrapping up for a customer is, to use his word, beautiful, and by beautiful, he means beautiful.

Bobby is no salesman, but, as his website states, purveyor of the freshest fish in Connecticut.

It’s Friday afternoon and Number One Fish is busy. We live in a region that’s heavily Catholic and Friday dinners are all about fish. The man buying the beautiful Chilean sea bass asks Bobby the best way to prepare it (425 degrees, 15-20 minutes). A woman leans into the glass of the display case, micromanaging her pound of sea scallops. Me, I’m waiting patiently for salmon.

I am the only one wearing a mask. I feel apologetic. I’m one of you, I want to assure everyone, a lifer, one of the faithful, but warier. I do my best to smile with my eyes over my KN95.

The wall phone rings, and Bobby answers. I am doing what I can, he says. I’ll be down after work. He hangs up, starts talking to no one in particular. You know that best friend? That friend forever, friend for life? Well, my best friend is at Yale now, Smilow, stage 4 cancer. What do I do for him now?  Sea bass guy, scallop lady, me, the two women who came in after us; you can hear a pin drop. I don’t know Bobby like that, like I can pretend to know the answer to his question.

Weirdly, I find myself wanting to tell him I’m John and DeeDee Krick’s daughter. My parents loved this place. I miss them. It’s hard and sad even now but it is okay. Your friend will be okay, and you will be okay. Look around you. Grace is steadfast, and the ocean vast. So many fish, and to you, they will always be beautiful.