From about the time I was 5 years old, until I was about 18 I went fishing with my old man at least every summer.
We never caught anything. Not a single piddling sardine.
I remember the whole family once going out on a professional fishing expedition where we were more or less guaranteed to catch a fish.
As our fellow fishermen were reeling in huge basses, my father and I were standing over the side the boat, simply standing there like a couple of hapless doofuses. (I don't think my mother actually did any fishing, but she came to cheer us on.)
Well, ten minutes out on Sag Harbor Cove with chef Kerry Heffernan (pictured), and I'm a fishing cherry no more.
My adventure is chronicled in today's New York Post. (Well, it's more about Heffernan's country house, but I managed to squeeze a little of my fishing adventure in there, too.) And Eater was nice enough to link to it, too.
And, yes, as Kerry was frying up the three bluefish I caught (he caught two), Tom Colicchio dropped in. (Readers of this blog will remember that I've met him once... he did not remember me, naturally.) When I told him that I had never caught a fish before -- despite all my efforts -- he laughed, "That's really pathetic!"
I wish I could argue...
One of the funnier things that was left on the cutting floor:
After I asked him what we should call it, Kerry said, "I don't have a name for it... we could name it after you."
"Yeah," I said, "but the problem is my last name is 'Gross.' Nobody will ever order bluefish a la Gross."