Chef Nakamura

In the quiet hum of his West Village restaurant, Chef Nakamura slides his blade through a pristine slab of bluefin tuna. “One million and one,” he murmurs. He has counted every slice of fish, ever since starting his first restaurant. His father said a real man avoids frivolous controversy, seeks simple work and dedication. Nakamura had taken those words to heart.

Peering over the counter, he sees tables in the dining room occupied by the usual Lower Manhattan crowd of minor celebrities, Wall Street business people, and trust-fund kids.

More than a few tables are empty. Nakamura catches Kate’s attention.

“Fewer customers tonight?” he asks, trying to hide any hint of concern.

Kate's eyes dart to his, then away. “Yes, that’s because…” Her voice trails off and her eyebrows pinch together.

“Because why?” Nakamura presses.

She shakes her head. “Never mind. You wouldn't understand.”

Since returning from a month-long sabbatical in Patagonia, he has felt out of sync with the city. People have been treating him differently. Like a piece of freshly cut squid, there’s something there he can’t quite put a finger on.

“Is it something about me?” he asks. “Do I smell? Body odor?”

Kate’s eyes widen, and she lets out a small, nervous laugh. “No. That’s not it. Forget about it.”

Chef Nakamura returns to meticulously preparing scallops, deveining shrimp, slicing pickled mackerel, and all the other work required of a distinguished sushi chef.

After a while, Kate returns. “A customer wants to know if you have Slovenian sea bass.”

“No. Sorry.” He shrugs, he is used to odd requests but hasn’t heard that one before.

Kate nods and walks away. Nakamura notices her disappointment.

A second later, she returns. “The customer just walked out.”

Nakamura frowns, his knife hovering over the tuna.

“So, I side with Slovenia. How about you?” Kate asks, her voice sharp.

Confused, Nakamura mumbles, “No. I don’t think so.”

“No?!” she gasps, her eyes flashing with something he can’t quite place—anger, frustration, maybe even fear. “I can’t believe this,” she hisses, turning on her heels, and strides away.

Nakamura sighs, running a hand through his hair. What has he done wrong this time? He doesn’t always understand the things Americans talk about. That’s why he sticks to cooking. Simpler that way.

An hour later, a commotion erupts. A group of men in fishing waders and flannel shirts burst into the restaurant, their boots clomping against the polished wooden floor.

“Free the Slovenian Sea Bass!” they chant. One of them points a finger at Nakamura. The man, his face ruddy, barks in an Irish accent, “So, do you side with Slovenia?”

Nakamura blinks, knife still in hand. “What?”

“Do you side with Slovenia? Yes or no?”

Nakamura’s knife hovers over the tuna. Slovenia? What is that? A brand of soy sauce?

“You’re Irish?” he asks, hoping to defuse the tension.

The man’s face turned crimson. “Why does that matter? While Croatia hoards the Adriatic, Slovenia’s fishermen are starving! Do you want to starve a whole country?”

Another man chimes in. “The Bay of Piran has been boxed in from every direction. We’re shutting down every seafood restaurant in New York that doesn’t side with Slovenia!”

Nakamura wipes his hands on his apron. “I’m just a sushi chef. I don’t know about this.”

The man steps closer, his eyes blazing. “Well, let me explain it to you. Croatia has 3,900 miles of Adriatic coastline, and Slovenia has 29. Do you know what it’s like to only have 29 miles of coastline?!”

Nakamura sighs, “What does this have to do with me?”

The angry man’s face contorts into an expression of even greater disgust. He’s looking at something on the wall—a framed photo of Nakamura grinning next to a celebrity.

“Well, would you look at that! You and Gwyneth Paltrow. She goes on holiday in Croatia! A Croatian lover,” the man shouts, slamming his fist on the counter.

Nakamura’s voice is calm but firm. “Gwyneth is a nice actress. I like her very much.”

Suddenly, the men surround him, grab him by the arms and drag him to the balcony. The cold night air hits his face as they push his upper body toward the edge. Below, the streets of Manhattan buzz with cars honking and people talking, oblivious to what’s unfolding above them

“This is for the Sečovlje!” the angry man shouts, hoisting him further over the edge. “Any last words?”

Nakamura’s heart pounds. Should he tell them how much he likes Gwyneth Paltrow again? To be honest, he doesn't really know anything about American celebrities. What does this man want to hear? The man's breath, smelling of whiskey, is heavy on Nakamura’s face when someone taps his shoulder.

“Greg. There’s been a deal. The sea bass war is over.”

Cold sweat pours from Nakamura’s forehead, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The man almost lets go of him, but then, as if remembering something he forgot, he flings Nakamura back onto the roof.

“Damn,” the man mutters to his friend, his face full of disappointment. He turns to Nakamura. “Sorry, chef. All good?”

“Yes. All good.”

The men shuffle out of the restaurant, their voices fading away.

Chef Nakamura straightens his apron, his hands trembling slightly. He walks back into the kitchen. With care, he picks up his knife and slices the next piece of tuna. “One million and two,” he says, his voice resolute.

In the end, fish don't care about borders or disputes.