In praise of old-school fish joints

The kind of environment that takes you back to a recognizable America

I’m going to try something new on you folks.

Well, it’s not completely new. Last November I wrote a post called “The Best to You Each Morning,” a look at the connection between the Seventh Day Adventist denomination and America’s breakfast cereal industry (with a sidebar-ish mention of the role Columbus, Indiana nearly had, but relinquished to Battle Creek, Michigan). The piece also ran in Ordinary Times.

But as I was thinking about food a while ago (let’s not kid ourselves; when am I not thinking about food?), I reflected on my chops as a food writer. I currently write the Taste section of the magazine about life in the city where I live. For twenty-five years I had a Saturday morning show called Stirring Something Up on the local talk-news radio station. I did a recipe of the week, an herb of the week (in which I’d enlighten the listeners with some history as well as the botanical and culinary significance; for instance, at Easter / Passover, I always did hyssop), and a segment called Food History Corner. I’d have guests. People called in.

So it seems natural that I’d write about food for, say, this venue, at least on occasion. Who knows? Maybe it could lead to Precipice having a section for such content, or maybe I’d want to set up another Substack for it.

I guess my thoughts are running this way because I’ve been focusing on gratitude lately. (I’ll have a piece on gratitude in the Daily Saucer section of The Freemen News-letter that will post Sunday morning at 10.) That, and I’ve been doing a lot of cooking and eating. I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve had, and my turkey turned out magnificently this year.

So, with the foregoing as a table-setter (see what I did there?), I’d like to discuss old-school fish joints.

I’m not sure how widespread the phenomenon has been throughout the years. I suppose that depends on the definition of old-school fish joint. And maybe that’s done by process of elimination. It’s not a supper club, like one finds on Wisconsin’s many lakes. And it’s not one component of a Southern-fare menu.

When I was a kid, I often ran Saturday morning errands with my dad. We’d either stop for breakfast somewhere, or get lunch at one of downtown’s many such establishments. There was Horn’s, Cook’s, Carmichael’s. Some names are escaping me. Several of them were nearly in a row, occupying storefronts on one particular street within a two-block area.

Currently, there are two old-school fish joints accessible to me. One is in the small city where I live, and one is about twenty miles down the interstate. The owners of each can claim roots going back to the heyday.

Most use Alaskan whitefish or cod. The one down the road offers the option of catfish, which is always excellent.

The proper condiment for this kind of fish is spicy mustard. Generally speaking, I’m a major tartar sauce fan, but I also know that certain things in life have to be done properly if one is going to have a specific kind of experience.

In fact, the joint in the next town over offers an impressively broad selection of fried treasures of the deep - clams, oysters, shrimp - in addition to a few types of fish. On some of those selections I may go with tartar sauce.

Fried potatoes are the perfect side to fish in this kind of place. There’s generally some soup happening as well, and it’s generally of the comfort-food variety - bean soup, chili, chowder. The slaw is generally a cut above.

The array of pies at the local joint is a major attraction. It’s a good enhancer of the down-home atmosphere.

The. clientele skews local, for sure. It’s fairly common for patrons to run into people they know and with whom they can indulge in catch-up conversations over fish. The clientele is comprised of a few demographics. Bib overalls are fairly represented. Guys who obviously work with their hands, sometimes wearing uniforms, come from nearby jobs sites.

The old-school fish joint is impervious to the dictates of time. What such an eatery does well does not need to be fluffed up with any nods to current trends. It’s as unpretentious atmosphere as one could as for.

For that reason, lunch at one is a balm, a respite, a celebration of things being done in a reliably consistent way for decades. In a cacophonous world that remembers little and generally doesn’t acquaint us with that which is fixed in place, one is compelled to detect a connection to the lineage of fish enthusiasts from generations gone by.

Dining-as-experience need not always involve something posh and exclusive, or even adventure, as when we explore new ethnic cuisines. Sometimes, all you’re looking for is an assurance that what one’s forebears deemed good and fitting still is so. You want to hear some lore, or at least some scuttlebutt. You want to hear the sizzle of a deep fryer on the other side of the order window.

There’s nothing contemporary about such a place, and that’s the point.

It’s a step back from the precipice.

If any readers care to alert us to some old-school fish joints of note, please do so in the chat.