Walu

As in:

A 60 pound Walu must be a helluva fish because it’s arrival, fresh from the Alakakeiki channel, has the greeters all excited at Kihei’s newest Pupu restaurant (a regrettable name for a decent cuisine), right across from the skate park, not far from Chariie Young beach. The Australian hostess oozes with excitement but turns the briefing over to the waiter, a buff, tanned fellow in his early 40s, wearing a tight shirt that shows off his biceps. And the message, pretty much, is: you gotta try the Walu special tonight.

“I don’t eat a lot of fish. This fish, the Walu, is also what they call the Hawaiian Butterfish. Even uncooked it looks whiter than a halibut does cooked. Even halibut is too fishy for me. But this fish melts in your mouth. Now I eat it pretty much every day.”

He neglects the warning (common on the internet and restaurant reviews) that the admittedly delicious Walu can, because of its high oil content, induce unpleasant, delayed after-effects that obviate the desire for, say, a run on the beach in the morning, let alone an early breakfast.

Maybe that’s why the precious three-year-old girl at the next table kept telling him, “bye-bye.” She knew better.

The delicious looking filet comes, as promised, on a small mound of purple Molokai sweet potatoes, surrounded by fresh squash and green beans. It’s probably best with a white wine or a Longboard ale. Or, for the oily fish at-risk population, may I recommend a stout Kaopectate?

Some think the Walu is the Hawaiian equivalent of the Spanish Mackeral. It also goes by the name Escolar. By whatever name, it doesn’t appear to be a fish I’ve met, yet, in the ocean. That’s a good thing. The last thing I want is for word to get out that I’m prepared to eat my swimming partners.

Earlier, at Kamaole Beach Park #3, the natives and the tourists gathered with beer bottles and barbecue on a broad lawn above the beach, to watch the sun descend like an orange-red-purple piece of Fiestaware right into the ocean, presumably melting and dissolving Vanuatu in the process. A smattering of applause is heard at the moment of descent, and the beautifully muted sounds of conch shell horns follow shortly thereafter.