Tragedy strikes

So on Labor day weekend I went for my final fish fry at the best fish fry in Wisconsin—they are only open from Memorial Day to Labor Day (not saying where, it’s my secret)—and was greeted with this terrible news. I will have to wait until next spring to see if I will ever have those delicious potato pancakes again.

End of summer, other sadnesses

From Memorial Day to Labor Day at the Lake Beulah Country Club has a Friday night fish fry. The fish is good. Blue gills, lake perch, walleye. All good Wisconsin fish, although as I understand it the fish we’re eating cannot, by law, be from Wisconsin. In any event, I can get fish fries anywhere in Milwaukee. But I cannot get these lovely home made potato pancakes. It’s bad enough that there will be no summer tomatoes, but that sadness is compounded by the loss of these waist expanding beauties.

Fabulous fish fry

You can’t really miss with anything deep fried. Unless we are talking the brown shrimp fritters they eat in Belgium that taste like filth. But basically speaking I can enjoy practically any fish fry. This one, at the I’m-not-going-to-say-where country club (it’s already crowded enough and they don’t take reservations for less than 8) is awesome. The place is totally old school. Like you HAVE to order an old fashioned sweet when you glance inside the place. Although I did not. Their wine is pretty good and the fish fry has all the requisites.

Although there was a moment of consternation when we were seated next to a family with 5, count ’em FIVE, children. They turned out to be entirely lovely, and well behaved. (And can you believe that woman gave birth to 5 kids?? She was very pretty too, not that I cared.)

The cole slaw was awesome, the bread was several grades above the machine sliced rye one usually gets. And then, the glorious potato pancakes, served piping hot, the german potato salad swimming in its sweet and sour hot dressing, the fish itself and miracle of miracles, TARTAR SAUCE IN A SQUEEZE BOTTLE so you don’t have to keep asking for those little paper cups of the damn stuff.

As far as I’m concerned a fish fry is a delivery system for tartar sauce and this one delivered. In spades. The one problem is the bits of relish getting caught in the tip and splatting out in a not altogether gentle or gentle sounding way. But I didn’t care. The kids were well behaved, the wine was good and, well, tartar sauce.