Sea Bass

One rule of travel is that where there are tourists there are scams. In the Czech Republic unbelievable exchange rates are often accompanied by counterfeit currency. Taxi drivers throughout eastern europe are notoriously dishonest. And if a lone woman that is incredibly attractive happens to be talking to you, chances are it's not because she likes your personality.


With these stories in mind, my two travel amigos and I found ourselves sitting down to a very pleasant dinner in the Taksim neighborhood of Istanbul. It was my birthday. We ordered mezes (small plates) - they were delicious. We drank two bottles of excellent and cheap Turkish wine. We soaked in the ambience of the bustling nightlife. The english-speaking waitstaff could not have been friendlier.



Then we ordered our entree. The waiter recommended the fresh sea bass. He said it would be enough for all three of us. It was to be served grilled and delicious. He explained that it weighed 1.5 kg, which would be sufficient for the table. It sounded great. Just before completely agreeing to this we naturally inquire about the price. Our waiter's english suddenly falters. Is price that complicated a word? He repeats that the fish weighs 1.5 kg. Great, I'm glad we won't be starving, but how much does it cost again? "Telephone." is his reply as he walks back into the restaurant. Something seems fishy.

We patiently await his return, our skepticism growing with each passing minute and sip of wine. We grab the attention of another waiter and explain our situation. "We would like to know how much our fish is going to cost." He nods in appreciative concern and retreats inside. More time passes until the original waiter returns with an uncooked and gutted fish on a plate. He explains again how much it weighs, how fresh it is, the name of the fisherman that caught it (almost), etc.

"And how much is it?"
"It is an excellent fish."
"But how much does it cost?"
"150 Lira" (about 115$)

All of the other entrees ran about 10-14 Lira. We were livid. We firmly explained that we don't want the fish, that he never told us the price, and that we refuse to pay for it. He continues to describe how beautiful this fish is, that they already purchased it, and that it will in fact be enough to feed all three of us.

This is where the hero of our story emerges. Jesse Feinberg, a mild-mannered political science student by day, leaps forth from his seat, eyes ablaze from the unjust embers of the evening. Our hero demands the check be brought forth immediately, and refuses to be seated until this request, nay, command is attended to. The waiter, at first bewildered by this righteous indignation, falters, before returning to the kitchen and retrieving our bill. The bill includes the 150 lira charge for a fish that only appeared at our table in its uncooked, and freshly gutted state. The waiter demands the 250 lira total for our bill. Jesse, a brilliant glow emanating from his corporeal form, removes the 100 lira we owe for the meal we asked for, slams it down on the table, looks the waiter in the eyes, and proclaims that we are paying for what we asked for and not a cent more. The waiter realizes he has more than met his match, accepts our offer, and defeatedly retreats from our table. We leave the restaurant having narrowly escaped the voracious jaws of a tourist scam.

Jesse Feinberg, you're my hero.