Be Not Afraid

Error #11: An Odd Odyssey

At long last I come to an actual seafood restaurant. I would have done this much sooner—IF WE HAD EVEN ONE DARN LONG JOHN SILVERS still in the area. It beggars belief: in the very city where Long John Silvers was born, home of the corporate headquarters and the number-one restaurant location, they shuttered every last one of them. I loved Long John Silvers. I loved the original concept, entering the place via a wooden dock into an interior decked out like a pirate ship. I liked their fish. I liked the company, as my great friend Steven and I could be found there most nights, laughing and telling stories over a late snack. Those were the days. You know, WHEN WE HAD LONG JOHN SILVERS. Let me tell you something: I worked as a secretary for the corporate office of LJS—it was owned by Jerrico then (of local Jerry’s Restaurant fame)—and they seemed to have no interest in their own company. They actually seemed a bit ashamed of it, as if fried food was low-class. Listen here: if you don’t like fried food, then choosing to specialize in fish & chips was probably not your best move. They tried hiding it by remodeling the shops so they looked less like an old ship and more like the Love Boat. No one wants to eat on the Love Boat. I’d be afraid it would sink under the crushing weight of all the clichéd plot lines.

Anyway, I have fond memories of Long John Silver’s, which include a late night food fight with the employees, who knew us as regulars and instigated the battle. Ah, youth. Who these days would hurl fried balls of cornmeal at their loyal customers? I for one am proud to say I was there, fighting valiantly for Harrodsburg. I remain a decorated veteran of the Hush Puppy Wars, if, by decorated, you mean some pretty mean grease stains, and if by veteran, you mean battered, in every sense of the word.

That brings me to Captain D’s. Did you know it started out in Nashville as Mr. D’s? Congratulations on your promotion, Sir. The military has always had my highest respect, and I hope I can count on your support if another food fight erupts outside of dry dock. But relations with the captain have not always been smooth sailing. I did not support them in the old days, as they played rival to my beloved Long Johns. But as my home team faded, I had to give them more of my business. Another rift came a few years back when I went into a Captain D’s to get some chocolate cake for my birthday. Captain D’s had the very BEST chocolate cake—mini-confections with an estimated shelf life of 300 years, yet somehow moist and delicious to the end. Oh, Captain! My Captain! But on this day, this special day when I planned to buy FIVE, they didn’t know what I was talking about. They had discontinued the magical cake. I stayed away for years after that. Really, did I have any reason to come back?

I did not. Now I do. My Lenten journey has led me to forgive my enemies, and I found myself darkening their door once again. I had hopes, as the parking lot had cars in it. But when I went in, the place was nearly empty—three people in a booth, presumably having arrived in separate vehicles. And that was just the beginning. Again, my plans were dashed. You see, last year, the captain carried THREE fish sandwiches: their regular, a spicy version, and the Louisiana Catfish Sandwich. But I had neither the time nor the stomach to try them. This year, however, my schedule offered the opportunity to come here Three Days in a Row, achieving a fish trifecta. But, alas, the best laid plans of mollusks and men oft go awry: the three fish have been replaced by one. The spirits would have to do it all in one night. Anyway, it was advertised as the Giant Fish Sandwich. I ordered it, along with my customary water, and made my way to my seat.

Getting to the dining room proved to be a challenge. The three people in the booth were talking loudly and rudely on speaker phone, making prank calls. More strangely, one of them had placed his shoes in the middle of the aisle. What is this? Code? A warning? Are they marking their territory? Should I steer clear of this burgeoning gang?

If the intent was threatening, it was wasted on me. For I immediately thought of Moses. “Come not nigh hither, put off the shoes from thy feet: for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.” I stepped around the shoes. This must be some great sandwich.

Or not. It was not great in size; I’m not sure how to describe it, but the word Giant would not cross my mind. I’ve had a giant fish sandwich before. Giant implies some enormity. I thought I’d be facing Goliath, Leviathan, the Nephilim, something measured in cubits. This sandwich disappoints. It makes some attempt at length, but breadth and height are left wanting. Frankly, it disturbs. The Giant Fish Sandwich could be more accurately named the Mutant Fish Sandwich. I mean, look at it. No, it’s not a manufactured square. No it’s not a flat filet. This unearthly cut reminded me of the description of angels—strange forms, wheels within wheels, hundreds of eyes—and though it did not approach such extremes, it at least warranted a placard reading “Be Not Afraid.” It read more like an alien encounter than divine. The thing had FEELERS, for heaven’s sake—an unsettling geometry that made it ill-suited for its present manifestation as a sandwich. It consisted of two narrow fingers of fish that look like a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the table—wasted pincers hiding under a sand dollar— reaching out to grab you by the wrists and take matters into its own appendages.

I almost didn’t want to touch it, but I gingerly opened the Unidentified Frying Object and saw what now looked like two wooden dowels, industrial spools battered and fried and placed between two slathered buns. Tartar sauce spattered all over, as the deep pool on the bun had flooded its banks. You know what I’d call it? I’d name it the Giant Tartar Sandwich, because the stunted pygmy tentacles could not cover enough real estate to fill the bun. Was there a pickle in there? If so, full fathom five my pickle lies—I could never tell. Unable to endure the gaze of this bare quadrupus, I re-covered it with the bun, closed my eyes, and dared a bite.

The first four or five mouthfuls consisted of fish alone, those long spindle legs reaching outside the nest. Once I got past the weird look of it, I found a light crunchy batter, quite pleasant. I was enjoying nibbling the digits of my new extraterrestrial entree. But I knew at some point the bun would arrive and that deep tide of tartar sauce would be on the rise, and I’d be gustatorily swept away like the Egyptian army. When it came, it wasn’t the catastrophe I expected—the tang was also light, almost pleasant, though a bit damp for my tastes. Save the moistness for your NON-EXISTENT CHOCOLATE CAKE, Mr. D. This was especially unwelcome at the sides of the sandwich, which consisted solely of heavy tartar sauce and bread. Ultimately, I had to tear off the wet edges if I wanted to actually have fish for dinner. They remained—like the burning bush—unconsumed.

And this is where the parts fail to cohere into a unified whole. I enjoyed the fish—but I’m not here to judge the fish per se. My mission is the Sandwich as a whole, the gestaltefish, as it were. And in that respect it misses the mark. Three fish sticks at the time of consumption, two and a half in rueful retrospect. It does not sit well in memory. It suspect it may reappear as nightmare, however.

If you’d like a regular fish entree, you may dine at the Captain’s table on, say, a Wednesday. As for the sandwich, however, I think it could be a safe, casual Friday choice. Come on in. Make yourself comfortable. It’s not consecrated ground, but take your shoes off.