The Truth Is in the Muck

An environmentally conscious chef eschews conventional sushi in favour of the undiscovered pleasures of strange, invasive species. A man who lost his eyesight refuses to pity himself and instead becomes, of all things, a travel writer. Together, they dig their hands into the dark ocean mud in search of enlightenment.

- Ryan Knighton

A few kilometres from the mouth of the Branford River, just beyond the Thimble Islands off the coast of Connecticut, rocks jut from the ocean like broken teeth. Some are the size of a kitchen table, others the size of a kitchen, small streams and straits of dark water cutting between them. Perched on one with my friend Bun Lai, a sushi chef, I considered that we could be the only people to have ever surveyed the empty horizon from this spot. My feet were bleeding. I could feel a chunk missing from my right toe and cuts pinstriping my soles. Beside me dripped a bag of rockweed – a dark, tough seaweed we’d harvested by hand as we snorkelled the nooks and shallows. The plan was to add our findings to a foraged feast that Bun would cook for us. That is, if we could get home. We were stranded – our boat high on the rocks after the tide had washed out.

There’s something else you should know: I’ve been blind for more than 20 years. I can’t see a thing. Bun’s restaurant, Miya’s Sushi, first opened its doors in New Haven in 1982, when his mother, Yoshi, freshly separated from her husband, needed to support herself and her children. At the time, Yoshi saw only two possibilities: she could earn money as a clothing designer or she could open a restaurant serving the cuisine she knew best. Sushi wasn’t as popular then as it is now. She feared the business might struggle. If it did? At least she could be certain her children would eat.