Call me a wimp, but I've never been much for noxious odor, bludgeoning or fish scales.
Genetically, none of these things should be a problem. My family tree is overloaded with hearty fishermen, but I shortwire at the moment right after you catch the fish and actually have to do something with it (other than put it back).
I idolized my paternal grandfather and would "help" him pour lead sinkers all day, but once the fish scaler (a board with bottle caps nailed to it backwards to expose the rough edges) came out, I disappeared -- quickly.
Every winter my father would go ice fishing up in Canada with his father and others. He'd return home with a large lumpy burlap sack that would disappear in the basement and reappear in the freezer as paper-wrapped piles of sweet pike, walleye, muskie, and trout filets. I liked that kind of fishing, until one winter day...
I knew my mother was in the basement cleaning the latest catch but deliberately thought nothing of the process until I heard the scream. My father and I both raced down the stairs to see a slick mountain of fish on the floor, several now with moving tails, the neat pyramid quickly scattering in sudden animation.
The air temperature was so cold where they were caught, that the fish froze very quickly on extraction from the water, their bodies flash suspended in the arching shape of their struggle with the hook. Whatever the conditions or species this time, they didn't die, simply went into suspended animation only to "come to" on the warmer basement floor.
As a dutiful filet-er NOT of fishing stock, my mother stopped working and started screaming at the return of the Zombie fish.
My father, being a take charge guy, picked up one of the largest and liveliest and smacked it's head on the edge of the stationary tub, solving the problem and permanently diminishing my appetite for Fish Fry.
Which would not be a problem most places.
Except Buffalo's Fish Fries are the institution of every Mom and Pop restaurant and neighborhood gin mill. The recipe is simple, a battered haddock filet the size of a Toyota, a mountain of fries and coleslaw,and a price tag generally under $7. The fancier places throw in a lemon wedge and tartar sauce.
Catholic town this is, Fish Fry is a Friday rite, especially during Lent.
Twenty plus years away changes a lot of things (I, for example, became a Lutheran), but not the Fish Fry.
The Fish Fry line was long at the office cafeteria yesterday, but I thought nothing of it. I needed to get back upstairs quickly and grabbed a slice of pizza and a salad. The nice lady behind me reminded me that I had pepperoni on the slice. My initial reaction was to remind her that her shoes were brown or some other equally inane observation, when I remembered this was the first Friday in Lent. She wasn't chastising me, she was just offering a quick offramp from damnation.
This wouldn't be the first time I missed the turn. My meat-laden slice and I snuck off to a corner for quick, anonymous consumption.
An late afternoon email from Andayln confirmed that this day had indeed been Vodka Tonic worthy and we made plans to meet at Brinks, a bar on Buffalo's club strip, Chippewa, which happens to be within walking distance of our apartment and her office.
Charlie and I didn't see Andalyn when we walked in, but found a table in the back. The signs for Brink's Fish Fry were everywhere.
And there was something just wrong about the large table of large Canadians next to us, in town for the Sabres (6-2 romp over the Toronto Maple Leafs) game with their mountainous platters of chicken wings.
I handed the menu , listing dozens of excellent choices, back to the waitress and ordered the Fish Fry.
I am, greater than any other consideration, a Buffalo gal.


Copyright 2006 Judi Griggs