“Men kill animals and eat their flesh…”
In my head, I heard Keanu Reeves’ not-quite-there Southern accent delivering that line in the mighty ’90s legal/supernatural cheesefest “The Devil’s Advocate” this week as the waitress put a whole flounder before me—head and tail intact—at Reel Seafood Grill out on New Garden Road.
This is one of my go-to orders anytime my wife and I stop by this place. They score the fish, usually ranging from a pound to a pound and a half, and dredge it in seasoned flour. They flash fry it, then glaze it in a sweet Thai chili sauce before finishing it in the oven. It flakes beautifully onto your fork in generous, mouth-watering chunks that melt in your mouth…and slowly expose its full skeleton.
This dish comes to you looking not like a neat, perfectly portioned filet but what it is—a whole animal we’ve killed to eat its flesh. You look directly into its face there on the plate and are confronted with that reality. It’s something I’m willing to do, but it’s never uncomplicated. I spent years as a vegetarian, even a vegan for a while. It was easier than I thought, given the heavily carnivorous culture in which I was raised.
My grandfather, Kenneth Rose, was born in the area that is now the towns of Sea Level and Atlantic in Eastern North Carolina. But when he was a child, the place still went by the English translation of its native Coree name—Hunting Quarters. And hunt his family did—dove, quail, duck, turkey, rabbit, white tailed deer, and black bear. When I was a kid, I was initiated into shooting. First with my father, who grew up in the Bronx and learned his marksmanship in the Marine Corps rather than the forest. Then, with my grandfather and uncle, who had two inviolate rules:
1) Shoot to kill—one shot when possible.
2) Eat any and everything you kill.
Those principles were forged when my family began hunting. It wasn’t about sport or trophies. It was about sustenance. They remained long after there was a local Winn-Dixie and a drive-through McDonald’s. Hunting, skinning, field dressing, eating—they were all interconnected. I was never one of those kids who didn’t understand where the food came from, even when it was a Happy Meal.
The Rose family were commercial fishermen—still are. But our family also fished and dug clams together just for us. Even as kids, we scaled, gutted, and filleted fish. It was all part of getting to that special moment when we all gathered around the kitchen table to eat stacks of fried fish and pans of cornbread.
It didn’t take me nearly as long as the great writer and hunter Charles Gaines to decide I could appreciate nature but give up killing. Probably because I never really loved it. For a long while, I gave up eating animals as well. Did I miss it? Not exactly.
I didn’t miss hot dogs or hamburgers. I didn’t miss steaks, pork chops, or even bacon. But I did miss fish. I’d dream about it. I still do.
Not as easy to get the good stuff these days. Don’t live on the coast anymore. But at least once a month, I’ll turn to my wife and say, “Reel tonight?”
It’s never a no.
And when we go, I’ll order that whole flounder. It will come out looking at me—head, tail, and all. It’s never uncomplicated. But it’s always worth it.