To make Tuna Dusk, one must first find the hour. Our team travelled to Gull Quay at five on a grey morning, where a fisherman named Old Bartholomew gutted a bluefin with the grace of a concert pianist. We took with us glass jars, a thermometer, and Céleste on a lead, which she resented.
The scent we wanted is not the fish itself but the second after it, when the knife is wiped, the gulls have gone quiet, and the light turns the sea the colour of a pewter spoon. We captured it in a jar, which Céleste sniffed, and then sat upon. Tuna Dusk Extrait, at $240 for 30 ml, is the result. It has hints of salt, steel, and the profound loneliness of a cat who has finished the tin.
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