Tuna
Tartare

Midnight, or close to it. The last group on the course at PopStroke Palm Beach, a cold, clear winter night, every star out and every breath visible. Me and a stranger named Theo, paired up because our friends had gone home and neither of us wanted to admit defeat.

Theo putted like a surgeon. Quiet, unhurried, deadly. On the 14th he faced a slick downhill putt that broke left off a ridge, the kind that rolls past the cup and keeps rolling into next week. He barely touched it. It trickled in on the last rotation.

I asked what he did for a living. "Sushi," he said. Of course.

So after the 18th, when we ducked into the bar to thaw out, I let him choose: the tuna tartare.

It came out like something from a jeweler's case. Fresh tuna, deep red and glistening, bright with a citrus marinade that woke up every corner of my cold mouth. A spoonful of guac, rich and green. Crisp cucumbers, cool and clean. Green onion and onion relish, sharp and sweet in turn. And for scooping, crispy wonton chips that snapped like the frost underfoot.

Theo took one bite, considered it, and nodded once. High praise from a surgeon.

We lingered at the bar until they started stacking chairs, coats still zipped. I never got his last name. I still think about that downhill putt.