Fish Tail

A fish tail addresses my favorite Tito, who loves to cook:

“I see you have fine knives here. Quite a kitchen you’ve got, sir, quite a kitchen. And those scissors – so strong! If I were you, I’d use them to cut off that ponytail. Doesn’t it bother you, the way it swings around while you move from pot to pot, seasoning, stirring, and tasting? A ponytail is not like a fish tail, sir. A man or a woman is perfectly fine without one but a fish without a tail is a dead fish and I don’t say that just because I wound up here with a dead fish – my dead fish, that is to say. Sniff.

“Imagine a fish swimming in the sea without its tail. It wouldn’t even be swimming. It would be flapping about gracelessly, towards a slow and painful death. Can’t imagine what that’s like? Well I can tell you sir, it’s a far uglier sight than a splintered sailboat in rough waters. And to fish, a sailboat is an ugly thing to begin with, but not as ugly as boats with engines. Not only are boats with engines monstrous, they are loud and noxious, and they spell death across the reefs.

“As I was saying sir, I am indispensable to a fish, even when the fish is going into a pot and I won’t fit with it. Don’t you have a bigger pot, sir? I mean, this is truly an impressive kitchen. Surely you have a pot into which you could have cooked my fish whole, with me still attached to it? No?

“But I have to give you this, sir: you did not cut off my fish’s head. We have heard this is done in other kitchens, because people cannot look their food in the eye. So I suppose I forgive you for cutting me off and dispensing with me. I forgive you and your ponytail, sir, for the ocean teaches us to be gracious when faced with indignity.”