Walking home from the town library around 4 p.m., I passed the row of generic Asian restaurants, each one boasting Chinese/Japanese/Korean tri-fold menus displayed in weathered windows. The thick pre-storm air clung like a damp wool blanket, carrying with it an unmistakable, intense aroma of grilled fish. The smell was so pervasive it seemed to coat the sidewalk itself, creating an invisible wall of briny, smoky scent that pedestrians couldn’t help but notice.
And then, I heard it. The voice of a teenage girl, turning to her friend with the only summary that seemed to fit the moment:
“Um, it smells like epic fish.”
