Chapter 4: The Convert's Journey

The morning light filtered through Jason's bedroom blinds in thin, pale strips. He'd been awake for twenty minutes already, lying in bed and staring at the folded piece of paper on his nightstand. Mia's handwriting, neat and precise, listed the ingredients he'd need. Romaine. Sardines in olive oil. Parmesan. The words seemed to pulse with a kind of challenge.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair. His apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of his neighbor's television bleeding through the wall. Saturday morning stretched ahead of him, empty of plans.

Jason picked up the paper, unfolded it, read it again. Then he grabbed his phone and checked the time. 8:47 AM. The grocery store would be open.

He dressed quickly—jeans, a worn t-shirt, sneakers that had seen better days. In the bathroom mirror, he caught his own eye and shook his head slightly. "What are you doing?" he muttered to his reflection. But he pocketed the recipe anyway.

The drive to the grocery store took twelve minutes. Jason parked near the back of the lot, away from the Saturday morning crowd already gathering near the entrance. Families with kids in tow, elderly couples moving slowly with their carts. He grabbed a basket from the stack by the door and headed inside.

The produce section came first. Romaine was easy enough—he selected two heads that looked crisp, their leaves a vibrant green. Into the basket they went. He found lemons nearby, chose three that felt heavy for their size. The garlic was pre-packaged in a mesh bag. He grabbed one without thinking too hard about it.

In the dairy aisle, he stood for a full minute in front of the Parmesan selection. There were more options than he'd expected. Pre-shredded, blocks, wedges. Different brands, different prices. He remembered Ethan's parting words about the Parmesan being key and reached for a small wedge of the more expensive stuff, the kind that came in its own plastic container with a fancy label.

The bread aisle was straightforward. Day-old French bread sat in a separate section, marked down. He grabbed a loaf.

Then came the part he'd been unconsciously avoiding. The canned goods aisle stretched before him, fluorescent lights making everything look slightly unreal. He walked slowly, scanning the shelves. Tuna, salmon, anchovies. And there, on a lower shelf, the sardines.

More varieties than he'd imagined. In water, in oil, in tomato sauce, in mustard. Different brands with different packaging—some with pictures of the Mediterranean, others with simple, utilitarian designs. He crouched down, Mia's recipe in his hand now, checking her specification. Sardines in olive oil.

A woman with a full cart maneuvered around him, and he stood quickly, stepping aside. When she'd passed, he returned to his examination. Wild Planet. King Oscar. Season Brand. The prices varied wildly too. Some tins cost barely a dollar, others were four or five times that.

He picked up a tin of Wild Planet sardines in extra virgin olive oil, turned it over in his hands. The label boasted about sustainability, omega-3s, protein content. He set it in his basket, then immediately second-guessed himself and picked it back up. Put it back on the shelf. Picked up a different brand. Compared the two.

"First time?"

Jason startled. An older man stood beside him, wearing a flannel shirt and holding his own basket. His expression was knowing, almost amused.

"Sorry?" Jason said.

The man nodded at the sardines. "First time buying them? You've got that look."

Jason felt heat creep up his neck. "Is it that obvious?"

The man chuckled. "I've been eating sardines for forty years. Started when my doctor told me to watch my cholesterol. You get good at spotting the newbies." He reached past Jason and grabbed two tins of the Season Brand. "Can't go wrong with these. Good quality, fair price."

"Thanks," Jason said, grabbing two of the same and dropping them in his basket before he could overthink it again.

The man nodded and moved on, leaving Jason alone with his small collection of ingredients. He looked down at them—such simple things, really. Nothing exotic or complicated. Yet they felt weighted with significance.

At the checkout, the teenage cashier scanned his items without comment, though Jason felt irrationally like she must know, must be judging his sardine purchase. But she just told him his total in a bored voice, took his cash, handed him his change.

Back at his apartment, Jason spread the ingredients on his kitchen counter. The sardine tins sat in the center like small metal promises. He propped Mia's recipe against the backsplash and read through it once more.

First, the croutons. He cubed the bread carefully, trying to make the pieces uniform. Drizzled them with olive oil—he had a bottle in his cupboard, half-empty and probably older than he wanted to think about. Garlic powder from the spice rack that had come with the apartment. A sprinkle of dried oregano he found pushed to the back of the cabinet. He spread them on a baking sheet and slid them into the oven.

While they baked, he washed the romaine, shaking the leaves dry and tearing them into bite-sized pieces. The rhythm of it was soothing, mechanical. He could do this. It was just following instructions.

The dressing came next. He minced garlic—badly, the pieces uneven, but he pressed on. Squeezed lemon juice into a bowl, added Dijon mustard from his refrigerator door. Whisked in olive oil slowly, the way Mia's notes specified. The mixture emulsified, turning creamy and pale.

The oven timer beeped. The croutons had turned golden, filling his kitchen with the smell of toasted bread and garlic. He pulled them out, set them aside to cool.

Now for the moment of truth. Jason picked up one of the sardine tins, found the pull tab, hesitated. Then, in one decisive motion, he peeled it back. The tin opened with a soft pop, revealing the silver fish nestled in golden oil. The smell hit him immediately—briny, rich, not unpleasant but definitely present.

He drained most of the oil, used a fork to lift the sardines onto a plate. They held together better than he'd expected, firm and whole. He broke them into smaller pieces with the fork, trying to distribute them evenly.

Assembly was simple. Romaine in a large bowl. Dressing drizzled over. Croutons scattered on top. Sardine pieces arranged throughout. He grated the Parmesan directly over everything, the cheese falling in delicate wisps. A final grinding of black pepper.

Jason stood back and looked at what he'd created. It looked... good. Professional, even. Like something from a restaurant. He pulled out his phone, angled it to catch the afternoon light streaming through his kitchen window, and took a photo.

Then he grabbed a fork and took a bite.

The flavors hit in layers—the sharp tang of lemon, the richness of the sardines, the nutty Parmesan, the satisfying crunch of the croutons. It was exactly as good as Mia's had been. Maybe better, because he'd made it himself.

He ate standing at the counter, each bite confirming what he'd discovered the night before. This was actually, genuinely good. Not just tolerable, not just acceptable. Good.

When half the salad was gone, he picked up his phone again. Opened his messages. Typed "Thanks" and attached the photo. Sent it to Mia.

The response came almost immediately. A string of emojis—party poppers, champagne bottles, fish, hearts. Then a second message: "I KNEW IT!!!"

Jason smiled despite himself, shaking his head. He typed back: "Don't get too excited. It's just lunch."

"It's EVERYTHING," she replied. "Welcome to the sardine side."

He set the phone down and finished his salad, already thinking about Monday.

The weekend passed in its usual blur. Sunday he tried the sardines on toast with sliced tomatoes and a squeeze of lemon. Not bad. Better than not bad, actually. He didn't tell Mia about that experiment.

Monday morning arrived gray and drizzly. Jason stood in his kitchen at 6:30 AM, earlier than usual, assembling sandwiches. Whole grain bread, toasted. Sardines mashed with a fork and mixed with a little mayo and mustard. Lettuce, tomato, red onion sliced paper-thin. He wrapped two sandwiches in parchment paper, feeling oddly like his mother packing his school lunches twenty years ago.

At the office, he stashed his lunch in the break room refrigerator and settled into his morning routine. Emails, spreadsheets, the weekly team meeting where everyone pretended to pay attention while secretly checking their phones.

Noon came quickly. The break room was already half-full when Jason retrieved his sandwiches. He usually ate at his desk, but today he took a seat at one of the round tables. Marcus from accounting was there, along with Diane from HR and Tom, the new guy from sales.

Jason unwrapped his first sandwich. The smell was immediate, unmistakable.

Marcus looked up from his sad desk salad. "Dude, what is that?"

"Sandwich," Jason said, taking a bite.

"Yeah, but what's in it?" Marcus leaned closer, nose wrinkling. "Is that... fish?"

"Sardines," Jason said simply.

Tom laughed. "Seriously? Sardines? What are you, somebody's grandfather?"

Diane looked interested rather than disgusted. "I haven't had sardines in years. My dad used to eat them all the time."

Jason swallowed his bite, surprised by his own lack of embarrassment. "They're actually really good for you. Tons of omega-3s, calcium, vitamin D. And they're sustainable, unlike a lot of other fish."

Marcus made a face. "But the smell..."

"You get used to it," Jason said. "And they taste way better than you'd think. Especially if you get good ones."

He kept eating while the others returned to their own lunches, but he noticed Diane watching him thoughtfully. Tom made another joke about old man food, but it felt hollow. Marcus poked at his salad with less enthusiasm than before.

"Where do you even buy sardines?" Diane asked suddenly.

"Any grocery store," Jason said. "They're in the canned goods aisle. Get the ones in olive oil, not water."

She nodded, looking contemplative.

Tuesday, Jason brought the same lunch. This time, Diane sat next to him deliberately.

"I bought some," she said quietly, as if confessing something. "Haven't tried them yet, but I bought them."

"Yeah? What kind?"

"The ones you mentioned yesterday. Wild Planet."

Jason nodded approvingly. "Good choice. Try them on crackers first, maybe with some hot sauce. Ease into it."

She smiled. "I might."

Wednesday, she brought sardines on crackers. They ate together while Marcus watched with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion. Tom had stopped making jokes.

"These are actually pretty good," Diane said, sounding surprised. "Kind of... meaty?"

"Right?" Jason said. "Not what you expect."

Marcus finally spoke up. "What do they taste like? Really?"

Jason thought about it. "Like the ocean, but in a good way. Salty, rich. Kind of like tuna but more interesting."

"And they're really that healthy?"

Diane pulled out her phone, did a quick search. "Oh wow. Look at this." She showed them the screen. "More omega-3s than salmon, tons of protein, basically no mercury because they're so small."

Marcus looked at his turkey sandwich with new skepticism.

Thursday, Marcus brought a tin of sardines and a box of crackers. "Don't say anything," he warned, but he was smiling. "I'm just trying them."

Tom held out the longest, but by Thursday afternoon, he was asking questions. Real questions, not jokes. About brands, about preparation, about nutritional content.

"My wife's been on me about eating healthier," he admitted. "And these are cheap, right?"

"Cheaper than most lunch meat," Jason confirmed. "And they last forever in the pantry."

Friday morning, Jason stood in his kitchen with four different sardine preparations: his standard sandwich, sardines on avocado toast, a small sardine and white bean salad, and what Mia had texted him was called a "sardine pâté"—sardines mashed with cream cheese, lemon, and herbs.

He packed everything carefully, added crackers and some sliced vegetables. It felt like too much, but something told him he'd need it.

The break room at noon was unusually crowded. Word had somehow spread—Jason wasn't sure how—and there were more people than usual eating lunch there instead of at their desks. Marcus was there, Diane, Tom. But also Sarah from IT, James from customer service, and a few faces Jason recognized but couldn't name.

He unpacked his spread on the table, feeling self-conscious for the first time all week. But Diane had brought her own sardine creation—a pasta salad with sardines, cherry tomatoes, and olives. Marcus had made what he called "sardine surprise," which turned out to be sardines mixed with rice and vegetables. Even Tom had brought a tin and some crackers.

"Is this a thing now?" Sarah asked, looking at the table with amusement. "A sardine club?"

Jason and Diane exchanged glances.

"I mean," Diane said slowly, "we could make it a thing. Like a lunch club. Try different recipes, share ideas."

"Friday sardine club," Marcus said, testing out the words. "I'm not hating it."

Tom nodded. "My wife would love this. She's always saying I should eat more fish."

Sarah picked up a cracker, looked at Jason. "Can I try some?"

He pushed the sardine pâté toward her. "Go for it."

She spread some on the cracker, took a tentative bite. Her eyebrows rose. "Oh. That's... that's actually really good."

James reached for a cracker too. Then someone else Jason didn't know. Within minutes, his extra supplies were being passed around, people were sharing their preparations, comparing notes on brands and recipes.

"We should do this," Diane said decisively. "Every Friday. Everyone brings something different with sardines."

"I'm in," Marcus said immediately.

"Me too," Tom added.

Others nodded, murmured agreement. Someone suggested making a group chat to share recipes. Another person mentioned they'd seen sardine tacos online and wanted to try making them.

Jason looked around the table at his coworkers—people he'd eaten lunch near but never really with for the past two years—now animated and engaged, planning next week's menu. He pulled out his phone to text Mia, then stopped. Instead, he took a photo of the crowded table, the various sardine dishes, the engaged faces of his colleagues.

"Next Friday then," Diane said, looking around the table. "Same time, same place. Everyone brings something."

"Friday Sardine Club," Marcus repeated, grinning now. "It's official."