Seafood Sunday at the Sands

Sunday has its own pace—slow, unhurried, like a room settling after the door clicks shut. At the Sands, that pace comes on a wooden table crowded with plates and the quiet clink of glass.

The spread felt generous in the way good meals do: scallops seared to a caramel edge, shrimp tucked alongside, and thick pieces of fish marked by the grill. A lemon half sat charred and softened, ready to be squeezed until the last bright drop found its way into the sauce. There was a small dish of butter, a bowl of something creamy and comforting, and bread waiting in the background like an old friend.

It wasn’t just “Seafood Sunday” as a theme; it was a little ritual. You take a bite, you pause, you listen to the low noise of the place, and you realize you’re paying attention again—toward flavor, toward warmth, toward whoever is sitting across from you.

I like meals like this because they don’t demand anything dramatic. They just gather small details into one moment: salt, smoke, citrus, the cold glass sweating onto the table. Then the night moves on, and you leave with that settled feeling—fed, quieted, and somehow a little more present than when you arrived.