My best friend turns 45 today. It took me that long to finally work up the courage to eat fish ball. Was it only 30 years ago I gaped in disgusted fascination as he popped one after another down his gullet, wondering: How can I possibly be friends with someone who savors such vile stuff? Well, turned out all my friends love fish ball, so I figured it was time to reframe the question: what had I been missing?
Not much, I can say that now. “See?” said Jenny. “It’s just fish ball — that’s all there is to it.” Damn right. According to the vendor, the stuff is nothing more than flour paste flavored with fish stock (as in the kind that comes in cubes — an unholy amount of it, I imagine). “No actual fish?” I wanted to be sure. Manong gave me a sympathetic smile. “Here,” he offered, “have more sauce.”
I can do better that this, I thought. And to the extent that my version has a full pound of actual fish, I was right. Do they taste “right,” though? I realize I have yet to call Jerome, greet him happy birthday. For a moment it occurs to me he might be upset not to hear from me, today of all days. Then I swat the thought aside. It’s really about the sauce, no? Our bowl runneth over.
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