Story #6 Sashimi
I saw the owner of a Japanese restaurant hammering a fish on the pavement. The hammer was damp and at least three times larger than the ones we use at home.
After two or three blows to the head, the fish stopped flipping its tail. The owner tossed the fish into a burgundy plastic bucket. Standing across the alley, I noticed a line of fresh blood flowing along the fish’s body. When I was about to look away, the owner threw the cigarette from his mouth and carried the fish into the restaurant.
Now I was in the restaurant. The fish was about to be dissected into 52 pieces of thick sashimi. The restaurant was packed, and some of the tables already displayed a battalion of empty soju and makgeolli bottles. Most diners didn’t notice the dormant fish being prepared on a cutting board. They would meet its face when the owner placed boiling maeun-tang on their tables.
The next day, I watched the owner hammering another fish. My feet were possessed by fear and curiosity. I’m just doing my job, he would say. I was afraid the owner would scold me if I came any closer.
The fish with navy stripes was knocked out after taking a blow to its head. Grabbing the fish, the owner stabbed a sharp thread into its brain. When the fish fell into a coma, the owner untangled a hose and sprayed water on the concrete to ensure no blood was visible.
The owner took a cigarette from his front pocket and started smoking. He gazed in my direction, making eye contact with me. He probably thought I was being entertained, like a kid seeing a circus for the first time.
“Oh, that fish was strong,” an old man shouted as he pointed at the bucket. The owner bowed slightly and puffed the smoke into the air. He stubbed out the cigarette and rushed into the restaurant.
Over the glass windows, the owner wiped a sashimi knife with a fresh towel. I moved five steps closer to the fish tanks and prayed. The fish was being cut while the hammer leaned against the wall in front of me.