Tuna’s End - NYTimes.com
It has been written about how our distance from the source of our food makes us less sympathetic — that seems obvious when filet mignon is consumed with predatory fury but, say, tongue is frowned upon as too morphologically transparent, too close to the actual animal itself. When you bring the conscience of the existence of a prior life in what feeds us to the plate, eating becomes a much more graceful thing, so much more aware of what’s at stake in your steak.
Fish don’t benefit from this conscience. Even if one’s eviscerated in front of your eyes, they don’t elicit mushy feelings; you don’t think of a fish as someone’s mommy, some scaly beauty of the seas. They’re, I feel sometimes, in the same category as insects, empathy-wise — except that they’re seen as edible in most cultures. And that is what I find the hardest in trying to explain my position in this matter to other people: saying “I don’t eat fish” is like saying “I don’t kill roaches”. “Come on, they’re fish”, they say. “Yes, they’re fish. And I’d like my offspring to get to know them, and appreciate them, and yes, some time or other eat them sustainably. Your sushi Tuesday is ruining it for me.”
I’m used to the frowns by now. I have even used the allergy excuse once, out of cowardice, to avoid having people feel like I am berating them by not munching on some delicious cod. But here’s the thing: if you are as well informed as I am, and keep eating farmed salmon, tuna, overfished sea bass without a care, maybe I should be frowning upon you. Maybe it is my moral imperative to remind you of your role in the legacy you’re leaving for generations ahead when you say “Worrying about fish? How silly” and smile at your plate of “fresh” tuna, captured thousands of miles away (let’s not even begin the oil talk).
It takes guts to put a foot on the ground and take a stance on any matter, especially those that concern what people gulp down when their bellies call for fulfillment. Doing so will estrange friends and result in long inquiries in restaurants, in incredulous head-bobbing and openly annoyed hosts. To me, that’s the worst — I have a particularly hard time displeasing others, even those I don’t know.
On the fish matter, however, I’m surprisingly adamant: I simply can’t fathom living in a world full of empty waters, a world that watches schools of colorful animals on the Discovery Channel, marvels, but can’t quite connect that with what goes on the plate. The allergy route has saved me from dissertations about the state of fisheries and the lawlessness of the seas, but you know what? I’m not using it again. I’m sorry if you invite me for a seafood lunch: I’m not attending, and that doesn’t mean I don’t like you. It just means I don’t share your fish politics — and you have one, believe me.
