The beer hall was packed wall-to-wall with people. Large men in extra-large Packers sweatshirts and women in after-work professional wear crowded along the long bar, waiting to be seated. A surly group of middle-aged men in leather jackets—the types who invaded Madison last weekend in the wake of the high school basketball tournament—kept toasting one another and looked dangerously close to falling over. And until the polka band took the stage, the background music consisted of laughing, screaming children, the clink of pint glasses and the swishing and swooshing of wind pants.
It was a Friday-night fish fry in Milwaukee.
Piled about six inches high with fish, french fries, coleslaw, a slab of rye bread and a tub of tartar sauce, nothing on my plate wasn't fried. There were tasty chunks of walleye, perch, bluegill and shrimp—each crunch deliciously greasy. Apparently, Catholics are supposed to abstain from meat on Fridays during Lent in order to strive for peace and cleanse body and soul. Nothing cleanses like fried food.
My roommate didn't believe me when I told her of the enormous hotel ballrooms filled with old ladies waiting for fried cod, 30-minute long traffic jams at fish fry drive-thru windows and waitresses crushed under pounds of rye bread and butter. Even chain restaurants from Chili's to Olive Garden join parishes countywide by frying up perch and bluegills during Lent.
""How could they really be that big of a deal?"" she asked. ""How many people could really like fried fish and coleslaw?"" she wondered. ""How can Lake Michigan—and your arteries—support the continued demand for fried fish?"" she pondered. ""It just isn't possible.""
So, to prove her wrong, I took her to Milwaukee. Home of the bubbler, the Bucks and other things that defy logic. And last Friday, I took her to one of the grandest spectacles to be found: a Friday-night fish fry at the Lakefront Brewery.
""What else have I missed out on for the past 21 years because I'm from Minnesota and all we have there are Lutherans?"" my roommate said, quickly squealing as she found another piece of fish hidden under some fries.
""Food-wise, all we have is hot dish [it's some casserole thing] and lutefisk [some weird fish thing from Sweden],"" she said, hunting down an elusive fry with her fork.
""It's no wonder Wisconsinites are a little big boned,"" I said, stealing some french fries off of my brother's plate. ""I can't help it if I was born in a city where beer is a major industry, in a state where we produce some of the finest cheeses, and in a culture where we fry things to make them more delicious."" The band interrupted me and struck up a polka.
She was afraid to come out of the locker
""Oh my gosh, is this really the most appropriate song to be playing,"" my roommate gasped in a low whisper, entranced by the chunks of spat-out fried fish dotting the bevy of nearby beer bellies.
She was as nervous as she could be
She was afraid to come out of the locker
""After eating like this for 40 days, how many people really can wear an...""
She was afraid someone would see
One—two—three—four—oompah, oompah, oompah—tell the people what she wore!
""...Itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini?""
I didn't hear her last comment. I was too busy trying to order more french fries.
If you can't ‘weight' to take Caitlin to her next fish fry e-mail her at cfcieslikmis@wisc.edu.
