#branzino

Decided to make some branzino last night, since I haven't done this dish in a while 👩🏻‍🍳

This isn't a recipe post, but preparing this dish got me thinking about the experience of eating whole fish. It’s interesting my lil' family of three can easily finish an entire fish, but we'll crave more food. When we have fish fillets, we’re content once we polish our plates. There’s something about the whole fish that feels more satisfying, although I don’t have any solid data to back that up. I also wonder if it’s tied to the overall at-home dining experience. Maybe eating a whole fish feels more intimate, mindful. You have to navigate the skin and bones, really putting in the work. Because it works so well for our family, I'd like to cook whole fish more often at home.

River stares at the postcard in his hand, flipping it over—once, twice, three times—as if he’s expecting the words to change with each turn.

PRIMAL INVITATION.

He’s heard of these tournaments before. Caught a few clips on someone’s phone once, at an afterparty he barely remembers. Bodies colliding with reckless abandon, the sounds of skin hitting skin, of people cheering with a particularly unhinged brand of enthusiasm.

Fighting, but with rules. Chaos, but with purpose.

He tosses the postcard back onto the pile, only to pick it up again immediately.

“Celebrity Slaughter,” he murmurs to the empty room, running his thumb over the embossed letters. His lip quirks in a half-smile. “Subtle.”

The thing about being River Masten is that no one expects anything from him except disappointment. His father expects him to embarrass the family name—again. Tatiana expects him to create PR nightmares she’ll have to clean up—again. The papers expect him to give them something scandalous to print—again.

Even River expects himself to fuck up—again.

He walks to the bathroom, flicking on the light to examine his reflection. His face is still pretty, despite his best efforts. The scar through his eyebrow from that club fight adds character rather than detracts. The fading bruise along his jawline from his most recent indiscretion is hardly noticeable anymore.

“No one with a pretty face has ever accepted,” he says to his reflection, testing the words.

He’s been in fights before—plenty of them. But those were chaotic, drunken affairs. Messy. Unplanned. This would be... deliberate. And public. Very public.

River returns to his bedroom, picks up his phone, and types a reply to the number on the card:

River Masten accepts your invitation. Let’s see if I can make charity work more exciting than my father does.

He hits send before he can think better of it, then tosses the phone onto his unmade bed.

The Chancellor’s son, stepping into a fighting ring for charity. The headlines write themselves. His father will be furious. Tatiana will probably quit on the spot.

And for the first time in weeks, River feels something like anticipation bubble in his chest. Not quite excitement—he’s too cynical for that—but something close. Maybe it’s the prospect of doing something that isn’t just empty rebellion. Maybe it’s the chance to surprise everyone, including himself.

Or maybe he just wants to feel something besides numbness, even if that something is pain.

He picks up the postcard again, running his finger over the red embossed letters one more time before propping it up against his lamp.

I love your blog, could you possibly spare a fish for me?

You get a European Seabass

Zár a halpult a tegutban. Minden féláron. 5 euró volt a kefalóniai bio farkassügér darabja.

Branzino in ladolemono 🇬🇷 STC basmati rice 🇸🇨 salgam 🇹🇷

© Peter Arkle 2023 BRANZINO ON DRIFTWOOD