Love stinks

Once a week we usually get takeout from our favorite Korean restaurant, My Tofu House. Over the months, I really have come to consider it MY tofu house, despite the fact that we've never actually dined in the restaurant. It's always insanely crowded, so the alternative -- takeout and Seinfeld re-runs at home -- seems much more appealing.

Typically I order kimchi soondubu, a fiery red broth filled with mounds of soft, custardy tofu and bits of beef or pork. Randy gets the sweet, mild beef bulgogi, some of which I then steal from the container and add to my giant bowl of soup when his back is turned.

Our order always include four banchan (side dishes). My Tofu House likes to keep it simple with a selection of pickled cucumbers, kimchi, mung bean sprouts, and radishes. They also throw in one stick of melon gum per person; I have no idea why.

A few weeks ago, however, we noticed that the customers dining in the restaurant were being treated to an ENTIRE FISH as part of their tableside banchan selection. The fish had never appeared in our takeout order.

I wanted that fish.

The thing is, My Tofu House is perennially noisy and crowded. Add to this the fact that most of the staff speaks very little English. I'm not a shy person, but I just couldn't bring myself to grab the arm of our check-out girl and demand that she wrap up a fish for us in between carting around approximately 400 banchan dishes, snipping meat, cracking eggs into soups, seating customers, and running credit cards.

But I wanted that fish.

As the weeks passed, the mysterious banchan fish became an almost mystical dish, out of my grasp and thus all the more desirable. In my head, accessing that fish began to symbolize something much greater. It stood for all those delectable foods that forever remain untranslated and enigmatic on the menus of my favorite Asian restaurants, available only to those customers that can read Thai, or Mandarin, or Japanese.*

Last week Randy went to pick up our order. "Get me a fish!" I called out jokingly as he headed into the rainy night.

When he returned, I asked, "Fish?" Really, I was just teasing. The responsibility for fish procurement should have rested on my shoulders. He doesn't even like fish.

"Check the counter."

And there it was! My fish, gleaming in a fresh layer of Saran wrap, speedily filling our kitchen with the aroma of ...well, a big, smelly fish.

In our house, that's what love smells like.

*Listen to a funny NPR piece about this phenomenon.