Just Because You’re Not a Turkey…

...doesn't mean you're safe on Thanksgiving. Especially at Corrado's in Clifton.

 

"You see any drumsticks here? I ain’t even got legs!

"Giblets? I got two words for you, pal: Swim Bladder!

"You want wings, go shoot a buffalo. See these flappy things? They’re fins. FINS!

"If you want to chew on something flat and tough, get yourself an artichoke–two aisles over–but leave me out of it!"

 

I woke up this morning with this corny routine taking shape in my head. But looking at the picture again, I see the words don’t fit.

I was thinking macabre, grotesque, when I took this picture. The shock of death–no, not of death, exactly, which is peaceful, but of dying, thrashing, struggling.

And something else. We’re land creatures. True, a woolly mammoth would have made short work of our ancestors’ ancestors’ ancestors. But at least we can relate to a furry mammal.

Fish and octopi and eels and things like that taste great and are less filling, but they’re scary. Go read Jules Verne.

A few piles of ice over from these fish at Corrado’s was a giant carp, about three feet long and black as mud. So big and broad and featureless, with its dull eye and closed mouth, that it looked like nothing in the viewfinder. It was up against a partition, and from the customer’s side of the glass there was no way to do justice to it. But I looked at it a long time.

 

[justified_image_grid exclude="featured"]

By submitting comments you grant permission for all or part of those comments to appear in the print edition of New Jersey Monthly.

Required
Required not shown
Required not shown