Welcome To The Happy Ray

Sam Ihle decided—about three seconds after opening the menu—that this was a mistake.

Not a relationship mistake. Not a career mistake. Just a restaurant mistake.

Across the small candlelit table, Jodie Williams-Ihle watched his eyebrows climb steadily north, like twin explorers who had found something deeply unsettling on the horizon.

“Oh no,” she said, folding her hands around her water glass. “You’re doing the face.”

“I am not doing the face,” Sam said, still staring at the menu. “This is a completely new face. This is… academic concern.”

“That’s the face you made when Danny tried to convince you that hot dogs count as sandwiches,” she said.

Sam lowered the menu just enough to peer at her over the top of his glasses. “That was a legitimate debate.”

Jodie smiled. This was why she loved him. Clark Kent glasses, earnest sincerity, and the inability to walk away from an argument even when everyone else had moved on to dessert.

The restaurant around them hummed softly—low conversation, clinking cutlery, the faint hiss of something sizzling behind a half-open kitchen door. The place was small, maybe twelve tables total, with mismatched wooden chairs, nautical knickknacks nailed haphazardly to the walls, and a chalkboard near the entrance that read:

WELCOME TO THE HAPPY RAY

Fresh Seafood. No Apologies.

A hand-painted stingray wearing a chef’s hat smiled cheerfully beneath the words.

Sam lifted the menu again.

“Jodie,” he said carefully, “this menu appears to be… monogamous.”

“Monogamous?”

“It’s in a committed relationship with stingray.”

She laughed, a soft, musical sound that made the candle flame between them flicker. “You didn’t notice that when we walked in and there was a literal stingray skeleton hanging over the bar?”

“I thought it was thematic,” he said. “Like… coastal vibes.”

Jodie leaned forward. “Read it to me.”

Sam sighed and cleared his throat, adopting the solemn cadence he usually reserved for city council minutes or Shakespearean soliloquies.

THE HAPPY RAY — DINNER MENU

Appetizers

Octopus Calamari

Lightly battered, flash-fried octopus tentacles served with lemon aioli and pickled fennel

Stingray Bites

Popcorn-style stingray with sea salt and chili honey

From the Grill

Stingray Kebabs

Marinated stingray skewered with bell peppers, red onion, and pineapple

Stingray Steak with Butter Sauce

Pan-seared, served with brown butter, capers, and herbs

From the Fryer

Deep-Fried Stingray

Crispy, golden, unapologetic

Raw Bar

Stingray Sashimi

Chef’s selection, sliced thin, served with soy, wasabi, and pickled ginger

Sides

Seaweed Slaw

Garlic Rice

Charred Broccolini

Dessert

Key Lime Pie

Sea Salt Caramel Pudding

Sam lowered the menu slowly, as if it might bite him.

“They’ve cornered the market,” he said. “There’s no escape.”

Jodie’s eyes sparkled. “This is amazing.”

“This is a mob racket,” Sam said. “You want fish? Fine. But it’s stingray. You want variety? Stingray prepared in a different emotional state.”

She grinned. “You’re the one who’s always saying you should be more adventurous.”

“I meant travel, Jodie. Or books. Not eating something that looks like it should be politely gliding through the ocean.”

The waiter appeared at their table as if summoned by Sam’s unease. He was tall, bearded, and wearing a faded T-shirt that read SAVE THE RAYS (BY EATING THEM RESPONSIBLY).

“Evening, folks,” he said cheerfully. “First time?”

“Is it that obvious?” Sam asked.

The waiter laughed. “You’re still holding the menu like it might explain itself.”

Jodie smiled up at him. “We’re intrigued.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s the correct emotional response.”

Sam gestured weakly at the menu. “Is… is there anything here that isn’t stingray or octopus?”

The waiter considered this. “The water.”

Sam nodded. “Sparkling or still?”

“Still.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Jodie kicked him gently under the table.

“Sam,” she said, “we never get nights like this anymore.”

That was true.

Between deadlines, city council meetings that ran long, Sam’s crime desk emergencies, Jodie’s political beat exploding every time someone sneezed in City Hall—dinner dates had become something theoretical. Something they talked about fondly, like pensions or sleep.

Tonight had taken weeks of coordination. Babysitter booked. Phones silenced. No breaking news alerts unless the mayor was actively on fire.

Sam looked around again. The candlelight. The gentle music. Jodie in her navy dress, hair pinned back just enough to show the line of her neck.

He sighed.

“Okay,” he said. “Fine. We’re doing this.”

Jodie clapped her hands once, delighted. “Yes!”

The waiter raised an eyebrow. “What’ll it be?”

Sam scanned the menu one last time. “Which stingray option is… least stingray?”

The waiter didn’t hesitate. “The steak. Butter sauce softens the existential dread.”

“I’ll take that,” Sam said. “Medium.”

Jodie tilted her head. “I think I’m going to go full chaos.”

“Oh no.”

“Stingray sashimi.”

Sam stared at her. “You don’t even like sushi.”

“I don’t like boring sushi,” she said. “This feels like an experience.”

The waiter nodded approvingly. “Excellent choice. And for an appetizer?”

Jodie glanced at Sam. “Octopus calamari?”

He grimaced. “That’s not calamari.”

“Emotionally, it is.”

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

When the waiter left, Sam leaned back in his chair.

“If we don’t survive this,” he said, “tell the Viking News I died bravely.”

Jodie reached across the table and took his hand. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I once gagged on escargot.”

“You gag on yogurt.”

“That’s different.”

The octopus calamari arrived first, piled high on a ceramic plate with curls of steam rising into the candlelight. The tentacles were sliced into rings, lightly golden, smelling of citrus and oil.

Jodie picked one up with her fork. “Smells good.”

Sam eyed it suspiciously. “It’s staring at me.”

“It does not have eyes anymore.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

She dipped it into the aioli and took a bite. Her eyes widened.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh wow.”

Sam hesitated, then followed suit.

He chewed. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

“Well?” Jodie asked.

“…Okay,” he admitted. “That’s… good.”

She smirked. “Score one for the sea monsters.”

They shared the plate, talking about nothing urgent. Not deadlines. Not politics. Not crime scenes.

Just things.

A ridiculous quote Danny had sent to the group chat. Grace’s new obsession with sourdough. Mike Simmons trying—and failing—to keep a houseplant alive.

When the mains arrived, Sam’s stingray steak looked… respectable. Firm white flesh, glossy butter sauce, a scatter of capers like punctuation marks.

Jodie’s sashimi was arranged artfully, translucent slices fanned across crushed ice.

They both stared at their plates.

“Well,” Sam said, lifting his fork. “To rare nights.”

“To us,” Jodie said.

They ate.

And somehow—against all expectations—it was wonderful.

The stingray was tender, rich without being heavy. The butter sauce anchored it, familiar and comforting.

Jodie sampled her sashimi, eyes closing briefly. “That is silky.”

Sam shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… I’d come back.”

She smiled at him over the candle flame. “See? Adventure.”

Later, over shared pudding and the last of the candle’s glow, Sam folded the menu carefully and slid it into his jacket pocket.

“What are you doing?” Jodie asked.

“Saving it,” he said. “Proof that we did something weird. Together.”

She reached for his hand again.

Outside, the night air was cool and quiet. Rare. Perfect.

And somewhere in the ocean, Sam hoped, the stingrays forgave him.