Seafood used to be cheaper. You could go to a seaside restaurant, and order a huge platter of the stuff for about twenty quid. Smoked salmon. King prawns. Whelks the size of a fist. They arrived on a genuine silver platter, all with that fresh seaside smell.
These were family places too. Big cosy velvet booths with red tablecloths. Chips from the fryer for the kids. Pictures of sailors and squids on the wall. Wonderful.
Most went downhill at the same time the ocean did. For the first time you saw gaps on the platters. You ended up handing over three top end notes for a small heap of pale molluscs. The families visited burger joints, and ignored the darker stains that marked the fabric.
This was game over. The owners should have closed their establishments. Lived off the money they had made in the old days. Instead they doubled down. Paid the fisherman to trawl further. Deeper.
These trips got results. But this was produce from midnight coloured oceans, where the water is warm, but does not boil.
Now that I have lots of time to kill, I went back to a seafood restaurant. With my family gone, this was a far cheaper experience. It was a strange crowd. Heavy drinkers and loud voices. They still offer the seafood platter, but it arrived on a chipped dinner plate.
All the shells were scarlet. The tentacles still moved. The sad lettuce on the side had a snotty mark from the nearest bivalve. Despite the tangible grit, I scoffed the lot.
The taste was rubber and radiation. But it was still delicious, even when pus dripped out of the side.
You cannot check for parasites that far down in the ocean.
I left my wallet on the restaurant table. I do not want to walk into the sea. But I know I have to. I must swim to the midnight silt, and return to my family.
