My love letter to the sea bream

Painting of Sea Bream and Sansho Pepper (1832-1833) by Utagawa Hiroshige. Image by Minneapolis Institute of Art. Public domain.

If I had to choose one fish that represents me, my heart, my spirit, my rhythm, it would be the sea bream.

Call it romantic, poetic, or maybe just nostalgic, but there’s something about this humble yet elegant creature that speaks directly to who I am.

Roasted whole with salt and lemon, or sliced into delicate nigiri atop vinegared rice, sea bream carries with it the taste of the Pacific: clean, sweet, and quietly stunning.

It has no heavy bravado, no overwhelming punch; just the clarity of ocean water, the subtle kiss of the tide.

To me, sea bream is more than a dish. It is a memory of home.

Of the Pacific Ocean, where I was born.

Of waves that lapped against the shores of Oahu, carrying in their rhythm a story older than I can remember, but one I somehow feel deep in my bones.

There’s a reason I feel such kinship with the sea bream.

It’s not a flashy fish.

It doesn’t command the drama of a tuna or the luxury of a toro.

But it’s revered by those who know, those who recognize grace in simplicity, refinement in subtlety.

The sea bream is gentle but not weak.

It holds its shape in the fire. It shines in its stillness.

It adapts to many preparations yet always retains its own delicate character.

And that, I think, is me.

I’ve always found power in quiet things. In steadiness. In letting others speak first. In moving with intention, not impulse.

Like the sea bream, I prefer elegance to spectacle.

I’d rather be consistent than chaotic, genuine over grand.

I may not dazzle at first glance, but I endure. I hold flavor. I carry memory.

This is part of why I insist on living along the lakefront in Chicago. It’s not the ocean, no. But Lake Michigan has its own vast, mysterious pull.

It breathes, it churns, it sings its own freshwater hymn. And in that rhythm, I feel at peace. I feel aligned. There is a pulse to the lake—like the steady, unspoken grace of the sea bream—that mirrors my own.

People often ask why I cling so tightly to bodies of water. I think it’s because I don’t just like the sea—I am of it. The ocean shaped me. Its temperament, its stillness, its unpredictability. Its deep strength beneath a calm surface. The sea bream, to me, carries that same truth. Elegant, reserved, quietly resilient.

So yes—if I had an official fish, it would be the sea bream. Simple. Unassuming. Beloved by those who pay attention. And always, always close to water.

Photo: Gerald Farinas.