Beyond Tuna
Lo que no mata, engorda
The first time I had tinned sardines as a hors d’oeuvre, I was in the Bronx visiting a friend. We sat around her coffee table watching Juan Luis Guerra perform live on TV, like we were front row at Madison Square Garden. Between the music and the sips of wine, she laid out sardine tins, a half-empty jar of capers, toasted baguette slices, and crackers across her coffee table. The spread reminded me of those cafés in Portugal, ones I had only ever seen in photos on Pinterest, where every detail feels staged, right down to the crumb.
The kitchen light reached into la sala, lighting it like a full moon. It made the night feel warm and intimate. Everyone looked so relaxed, como si la noche los estuviera abrazando.
My friend reached for the wine and refilled my glass. I wondered if she could tell that I needed it. I took a long sip, hoping it might settle the knots in my stomach. Everything looked perfectly in place. Except for me.
I scooched myself to the edge of the couch to take a better look at the spread.
Ay Dio’, ¿Y cómo e’ que uno le entra a e’ta vaina?
¿Con cuchara?
¿A lo loco?
I glanced at my friend, hoping she’d take the first bite so I could follow her. She didn’t. She was too busy with her wine, singing “quisiera ser un pez…” to notice I was en plena crisis existencial con un sardina.
I looked back at the table, and the sardines looked back at me.
¿Y si no me gusta? ¿Y si me da una vaina?
Ya me veía con los ojos aguados, sonriendo como si nada pasara, con la sardina atrabanca’ en la garganta por haberla tragado entera, aguantándome las ganas de escupirla pa’ no pasar vergüenza al admitir que no me gustaba. Maybe I fake a call y me de’garito de aquí.
“UuUuun pEz… para boR-daaar de co-rales tu cinnn-tura…”
Ese desafine snapped me right out of my spiral. Con ese galillo, oye, cualquiera se endereza.
Deja el show, mujer. Nadie se ha muerto por una sardina.
I settled into the couch and took a deep breath and pretended like I hadn’t just been on the verge of losing my shit. I reached for a cracker and picked the smallest sardine I could find.
Her husband went into the kitchen and came back with a jar of homemade pickled red onions and chili peppers, and set it down in front of me.
Maybe the onions and chili would do me a favor and set my mouth on fire.
I spooned some over the sardine/cracker situation I had going.
I closed my eyes and went for a bite.
Uff.
That first bite reached my soul.
The acidity of the onions and heat from the red chiles layered over the sardines burned away my doubts. It left me wondering why I had waited so long to try anything beyond tuna.
Tuna was the only tinned fish I ate growing up. If Mami bought any tinned fish, it was tuna. Why? Who knows. Not even Mami could tell me. It was just another can in the pantry, entre el Adobo y el café Bustelo.
My sister Paula, cuando le daba la gana, made the best tuna sandwiches. She didn’t cook often; in fact, she didn’t cook at all, unless she was making those sandwiches. And even that was rare. But I can still picture her by the kitchen counter in that apartment we grew up in, between Morris Ave and Kingsbridge Road. R&B played from her bedroom, which was just across from the kitchen. It was Monica or maybe Brandy singing in the background. I can’t remember. But there was always music.
In a bowl, she’d mix the tuna with mayo, diced red onions, a splash of vinegar, and a pinch of salt. I'm convinced que ella le puso some kind of brujería, tambien, because, Dios mío, when I tell you it was oh so good. Then she’d spread the mixture between two slices of white bread. The kind that sticks to the roof of your mouth, dejándote añuga’o. Muriéndote por un vaso de agua to wash it down. Yeah, that one.
It wasn't until my mid-to-late twenties, after that night at my friend's house, that I began exploring different varieties. Pulpo? Sure. Eel? Why not.
So, when my twin sister Nicole came to visit me in New York that summer from Dominican Republic, I figured, why not impress her? I loved that sardine spread so much, I couldn’t wait to share it with her.
I wanted it to be perfect, so I had to start early. Dejando nada para último minuto. Convincing myself I wouldn’t stress. Not that it mattered. I always stress, no matter how early I start.
The morning before Nicole’s visit, I peeked into the fridge and the pantry, hoping I had everything I needed. All I found in the fridge was some leftover rice from God knows when, and in the pantry, a stale pack of galletas María I must’ve bought months ago. I grabbed my notepad, the same one I use to jot down my dreams and never ending to-do’s, y empecé a notar lo que me faltaba:
The next morning, me fui al supermercado early to avoid the long lines.
I grabbed a cart and made my way through the aisles, crossing things off my list one by one. I kept second guessing if what I had was enough. I couldn’t stop obsessing over how badly I wanted it to be perfect. Would she even care? Was I doing too much?
I stopped to double-check my list. I was convinced I was forgetting something. Eso nunca falla.
El carrito rattled over the tiles as I made my way to the checkout.
I unloaded my cart and watched as the cashier scanned every item.
“Need a bag?” she asked.
¡Coño, si, la funda! Of course that’s what I was forgetting.
I sighed and bought the bag. Another one for the ever-growing collection of bags stuffed under my kitchen sink, living its best forgotten life.
The walk back home felt eternal. My shirt was sticking to my back and my stomach was growling. Pero eso no iba a parar mi fiesta. I dropped the bags on the counter and pressed play on the playlist I’d made for this. I washed my hands y me faje a preparar el spread.
I started with arranging the sardine tins on the table and dabbing off the extra oil que se habia derramado al abrirlas. I laid the crackers onto a plate, and set them down next to the sardines.
Then I grabbed the red onions and sliced them and added them into a mason jar with vinegar and a pinch of salt, hoping, praying, they’d pickle in time and turn into that beautiful magenta color before Nicole arrived. I left the red chili peppers out por si acaso, pa’ que ella no me salte con que está muy picante o con que sé yo qué.
All that was left were the tostones. I peeled the plátanos, sliced them, and dropped them into the hot oil. I watched them dance en el sartén as they turned a deeper yellow. Once ready, I took them out and smashed them flat with a tostonera, and fried them once more until they were golden and crisp.
The table was set and my hopes were high. I imagined her walking in. Her face lighting up. Gasping. Being floored by the spread. I pictured her trying it and loving it. Yo tenía una película hecha en la cabeza. I could even hear her saying something like, “Diablo, que vaina que ‘ta buena.” Maybe even asking for more. Estaba que no me aguantaba.
The doorbell rang.
I rushed to open it.
It was Nicole. Fresh from the airport.
With hoop earrings louder than her, y con el cansancio del vuelo pegao en la cara.
“¡Fo! ¡Qué bajo a pescado!” she yelled.
El olor a sardina había salido a saludarla before I even could.
My dignity dropped straight to my ankles.
La película que me había montado salió volando de mi cabeza, quedando enredada somewhere between the hallway light y su maleta. I was too busy playing chef to notice my apartment reeked of fish.
She walked right past me, parked her suitcase by the closet, and dropped her purse on one of the dining chairs en la sala. Como si nada. Like her reaction didn’t just cause my ego to slide out of my chest and shatter across the floor.
Trague en seco.
The smell followed her in as I followed behind like a guest at my own party.
“Well, duh.” I said. “I made sardines.”
She didn’t say a word.
She grabbed a cracker, maybe a tostón or two, but didn’t bother trying the sardines. We talked and we laughed, but I couldn't ignore the tightness I had in my chest. What the hell was I thinking, making this for her.
By the end of the night, the sardine spread sat untouched. I sighed and started clearing the table. What else could I do? Force her to eat it? I felt like I did this all for nothing. I'd tried to share something I had come to love with the person I love the most, and she didn’t even give it a chance. Maybe I had overdone it. Maybe I should’ve just made tuna. Damnit. Or something else entirely. But now it was too late.
I grabbed the remaining crackers and the jar of pickled onions, and carried them to the kitchen counter to pack them in airtight containers. At least I’d have them for later.
When I returned to grab the rest of the food, there Nicole was. Mid-bite.
“I haven’t eaten anything all day,” she said with her mouth full. “I’m so hungry.”
She reached for another tostón and piled some of the sardine spread.
She took a bite and then another.
“Oye, que vaina que ‘ta buena.” she said, as she continued to stuff her face.
I stood there wondering if I was hallucinating. La misma que casi le da un patatús al entrar was now scooping up every last bit of the spread.
Tinned fish isn’t exactly for everyone. I know that now. Pero como dice el dicho: lo que no mata, engorda, even if you resist it at first.
I still think tinned fish is the perfect hors d’oeuvre to serve at any get-together, especially if your guests show up hangry.
Just ask my sister Nicole.
