Bluefin tuna

Dear X.,

I now get your elaborate tuna joke. When we dined on bluefin tuna the other night, yes, I enjoyed your exquisite meal. Your preparation was excellent, as was eating in your metallic blue-hued dining room, stamped out like a trendy downtown eatery with a one-word name. Truly a five-star dining experience for which you should be commended. As you know, I’m often petitioning for generic environmental causes. Save the whales, recycle your newspapers, drive the speed limit. Door-to-door canvassing, stuffing envelopes, letter-writing campaigns. Bluefin tuna was swimming around the back of my head, but I couldn’t think why. After some home research, I found high mercury levels, overfishing to the point of elimination. You got me there, I’ll say, even as I enjoyed the buttery-soft meat, prepared on a rice bed with jalapenos and avocado, slivers of radish and mango, and sipped well-chilled Napa Valley pinot grigio.

Perhaps the next time I come over, you cans serve me foie gras, sea turtle eggs, or another culinary travesty. Perhaps I’ll bring a bucket of red paint, go Jackson Pollack on your walls to show my distress. Maybe I’ll have you bound and gagged, force you to a river cleanup project. Or take you to crime-ravaged neighborhoods to plant trees.

Best, Y.