Schrödinger's Fish #1

Error #13: A Square Meal

I first tried Wendy’s fish sandwich a couple of years ago on Ash Wednesday. I remember the day distinctly because the young woman at the counter confided in me. I was the only customer there at the time (of course), so she said, “May I ask you a question? I’ve seen a lot of people today like you, with stuff on their foreheads. What’s going on?”

I appreciated the inquiry and explained to her about the day and how we mark it (and how we are marked by it). And one day, I will no doubt write an essay about this. I’ll save that for another day, as I’d probably go all T.S. Eliot on you, and we don’t have the time for that. Today I want to write about Wendy’s Crispy Panko Fish Sandwich, and I want to tell you how much I enjoy it. Enjoyed it. Because after two years of good fish sandwiches, none of the Wendy’s in my region carry it. I have shared with you elsewhere my frustration in seeing the Lenten sandwiches advertised nationally and the hostility I receive trying to order them locally: KFC, Hardees, Steak & Shake, etc. For people in the service industry, they’re awfully rude when they lecture me about my idiocy in even asking. Sometimes, to their credit, they do not get angry, but you feel the pity in their tone when they try to explain to this lowlight that the restaurant name includes such helpful English words as “chicken” and “steak” and “burger.” “You poor thing,” they seem to say. “Perhaps if you used your brain you would not have to publicly humiliate yourself in this way.”

Some places that used to carry seasonal fish no longer bother. Raising Cane’s discontinued it, as did Chick-fil-A. (Can you imagine what they must have done with it? I regret I never had to opportunity to try the Chick-fil-A take on it.)

But, aside from the Ash Ask, I have had no problem with Wendy’s. Until this year. The clerk had no idea what I was talking about. She called over the manager, who was similarly uninformed. “Oh, yeah—we get that kind of thing sometimes, probably around Easter.” Ummm, okay. Thank you for explaining Lent to me. Someday maybe I’ll explain it to you. But again, not now. I’ve got other fish to fry. I tried calling various Wendy’s restaurants around town, but I got no answer. I even tried to contact the corporate office, and every single time the call was dropped. Finally, I did what I should have done in the first place. I made a call to Nick Vegas, home of All Fast Food. The manager picked right up, and he was able to answer with erudition: “Yes, we had an excellent fish sandwich! Sorry, but we didn’t sell many around here, so no one carries it in this area.” And so not all roads lead to Rome.

So does Wendy’s still serve a fish sandwich? Yes, they do. No, they don’t. This essay will be in two parts. Today, I’ll post my Wendy’s review from last year. And tomorrow, God willing, I’ll meditate more on this topic. I hope you enjoy the review as much as I enjoyed the fish that was—and somehow, somewhere, still is.

A Square Meal

I have been putting this one off, as I remember that when Wendy’s fish sandwich was first offered on the market, it became my favorite. Why have I denied myself this long? Sigh. If you have to ask this question, clearly you have not yet grasped the concept of Lent nor the enigma of Carmen Geraci.

Lent is a forty-day season of penance, prayer, and fasting before the Easter feast. In some small way, it connects us to the forty days Jesus spent in the desert, which was like the forty years the Hebrews spent in the wilderness. We can do no better, I think, than to unite our sacrifices with His, and people have been doing it since the earliest days of the Church. Even longer, if you consider the ancient practices of Judaism. And you should.

In many languages, the name of this season includes that number 40, from the Latin word “Quadragesima.” Romance languages followed this. Not the Germans, however, who called it FASTENZEIT! which means “Fasting Time.” You have to hand it to the Germans: sometimes they know just how to cut to the cheese. And by the way, I think most German nouns (and all verbs) are written like that, in all caps with exclamation points. That’s my impression, anyway.

Our term, “Lent,” is from the Old English “lencten,” the “lengthening” of days—the springtime. I love English. I teach English.

And while I’m in teaching mode, let me share a fun bit of word history. (Fun for me. It’s tangential, but watch me bring it back to Lent like a master teacher.) I show my students Latin roots, so they know such words and affixes as TERRA and VALE and MEDI.

Then I ask them to recall the words for a formative assessment (formerly known as a “quiz” before education clotted the language with jargon. Get this: First they jettison everything traditional in language instruction and then they hypocritically rename all of our simple things like “quiz” and “homework” with long Latinate titles, like “formative assessment.” And teachers are, ironically and typically, unaware of the irony.) Then for a summative assessment (formerly and unpretentiously known as a “test”), I combine the vocabulary and ask students to define the words by translating the morphemes (bits of meaning) into English. For instance, what does SUBMARINE mean? (under the sea). MEDITERRANEAN (middle of the land or earth), TRANSYLVANIA (across the woods), VALEDICTION (farewell speech), and CARNIVORE (meat eater).

So what does CARNIVAL mean?

It means “Meat Farewell”— the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the fasting season. Goodbye, Meat. Ta-ta, T-bone. Buh-bye, Brisket. Arrivederci, Rump Roast. Go the way of all, Flesh. See ya around, Ground Round. So long, Sirloin. Skedaddle, Salami. Peace out, Porky. Later, Lardo. Scram, Spam. Kiss my—no, it’s Lent—carry, on, Kielbasa. Au revoir, Carnivore. AUF WIEDERSEHEN, WIENER! Depart in peace, all ye proteins. We’ll meet again at the feast. (Then it’s presumably “Hello, Deli.”)

And that, my captive students, explains a bit about some of the Lenten practices, why students drop my class, and how come I still live alone.

Anyway, Friday approaches, and I feel certain I won’t eat the Wendy’s fish sandwich then; so it is with some urgency that I get it now. Of course, when I say “urgency,” I still have to wait five to ten minutes while they fry my fish to order. I don’t know if this is Wendy’s policy or if it’s because no one orders the fish on Thursday but me. The things I do for science. (Or art, depending on how this turns out.)

While I wait, I ponder. Will it be as good as I remember? Am I too jaded by the world to be surprised again? Can I enjoy this as much? When it arrives, the odds look good, as the components look good.

The fish, of course; sauce - dill; lettuce - romaine; pickle - ubiquitous; cheese - American—oh, let me rewrite that: “cheese,” American. You know I don’t care for cheese on my fish sandwich, much less what is officially called “pasteurized prepared cheese product.” I don’t know—I have never enjoyed it. Probably because I grew up with cheese with much more personality and whimsy: mozzarella (little slice), ricotta (cooked again), pecorino (little sheep).

By the way, here’s another semi-interesting language fact: the term “American cheese” was first used in a Frankfort, Kentucky, newspaper in 1804. Before that it was called “yellow cheese” or “store cheese.” The more you know….

And what is “dill sauce”? I’m certain that dill sauce is just a fancy way of saying tartar sauce, but you know what? If I’ve taught you anything today, it’s that Words Matter, so you should choose them wisely. Like when I first started teaching, the kids called me “Egon.” That wasn’t very Christian.

Back to the point: “Dill sauce” just sounds more interesting, more piquant, than “tartar sauce.” And this is still a good sandwich. Not AS good, I’m sorry to say, and I can’t blame that on dear Wendy. The fish is wild Alaskan pollock fried in panko bread crumbs, and to tell you the truth, I’m about panko-ed out. This was new to me a few years ago, but now I see it everywhere. It still tastes good, but it can no longer pass as a novelty.

I can’t fault the filet for being square because Wendy’s has built its brand on square sandwiches, and I myself have been accused of basing my own demeanor on said maligned geometric figure. But I can say that I don’t enjoy the cheese. Presumably it’s there to offset the crunchiness of the filet—but some of us DON’T WANT anything to detract from the supreme crispiness of this wonder. The panko (Japanese for “bread powder”—delightful) has an exquisitely rough texture and the only way you’re going to get any better is if you substitute it for a roof shingle or some sharp gravel. Yet it somehow manages to be as flaky as my last girlfriend, but in a good way this time.

The smell of the cheese just detracted from the whole eating experience. Need I mention the pickles? Unnecessary. You’ve got DILL SAUCE, for heaven’s sake, glorious, carefully-named DILL SAUCE, so why paint the lily? I doubt anyone is eating pickles and thinking, “Y’know what this dill pickle needs? MORE DILL.” (or in Germany, “MEHR DILL! GEBEN SIE MIR MEHR DILL! DILL—IM ÜBERFLUSS!!)

I’m going to give it four fish sticks, based on the memory of fish sandwiches past. Fish sandwiches future will be denuded of cheese and pickles. Take Care, Pescatarians! I won’t be seeing you there on Friday.

Appendix: Supplemental Valedictions for Departing Meats

Vaya con Dios, Venison.
Adieu, Andouille.
Until we meet again, Meat.
Good night, Deer.
So long, Sausage.
Ta-ta, Tartare.
Safe travels, Tripe.
Outta here, Olive Loaf.
Let’s roll, Pork Roll.
Head out, Head Cheese.
Take off, Turkey.
Leave me alone, Liverwurst.
Begone, Boloney.
Regards, Rib Roast.
Best wishes, Bacon.
Bon Voyage, Braunschweiger.
Off you go, Goat.
On your way, Wagyu.
Don’t be a stranger, Free Ranger
Bye-bye, Bison.
That’ll do, Stew.
It’s been real, Veal.
Toodle-oo, Tenderloin.
Cheerio, Chorizo.
Pip, pip, Pepperoni.
Aloha, Capicola.
Fare thee well, Mortadell’.
Stay cool, Gabbagool.
(Fly! You Gabbagools!)
Take a bow, Cow.
Adios, Moo-chachos.
Hasta la vista, Ham.
Pasta la vista, Pastrami.
Quit it, Corned Beef.
Ciao, Chuck.
Scrap it, Scrapple.
Get out, Goetta.
Chop, chop, Lamb Chop.
Peace be with Ewe.
Get thee hence, Hambone.
That’s that, Bacon Fat.
Take care, Hare.
Run, Rabbit, run.
Duck, duck, Goose.
Take it on the lam, Lamb.
Game over, Game.
You bore me, Boar.
Scram, Squirrel.
Take a powder, Possum.
Run away, Chicken.
Let me be, Frank.
Hit the road, Jack Links.
Arrivederci, Tony Roma’s.
Shuffle off, Buffalo Wings.
Happy trails, Ham Hocks.
Sayonara, Sirloin.
Quittin’ time, Prime.
Time to pull up stakes, Steaks.
I’ll miss you, Mutton.
Over and Out, Burger.
Stay cool, Cold Cuts.
Live long and prosper, Prosciutto.
That’s all, Meatball!

If you can think of more, feel free to add to the list:

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