A Michigan Friday Fish Fry

You guys know that song "Always On My Mind?"  The one that was originally a country song that has been re-recorded by Elvis Presley, Willie Nelson, and the Pet Shop Boys?

Well, I'm at least 98% certain it's the song that exemplifies my husband's relationship with fried fish over the past twelve years.

Every restaurant we grace with our presence gets scrutinized by his hungry Michigander eyes, in hunt for the glorious "fish and chips" on the menu.  And if it's there, he then begins the incessant debate - chance it, in the hopes of finally discovering someone who knows how to adequately fry a fish filet? Or go the safe build-your-own fiery taste of hell cheeseburger?  More often than not, the cheeseburger won.  Nothing could compare to Michigan's fish.

Needless to say, the past several years of our growing relationship has been an incessant chorus of "Just wait 'til you try it - you'll see.  Michigan has the best fried fish."

"Yea yea, yadda yadda.  Fried fish is fried fish is fried fish - it all tastes the same."

Oh how sweetly ignorant I was.

When we visited Michigan last August to find a house, Matt sampled some central Michigan fried perch.  I took a bite, and my expectations were not met.  In fact, the stuff was gross.  Significantly worse than most fried fish I've had before.  Limp, rubbery, and tasteless. He heaved a sad sigh, hanging his head in disappointment as he picked at his soggy fries, and I contemplated his sanity and the credibility of his tastes (surprisingly, generally pretty good).  After we moved, we tried again at a well-rated sports bar near our house. Again, limp. Rubbery. Tasteless.  I'm a foodie.  I thrive on sampling a wide variety of flavors and techniques - it makes me all warm and bubbly.  We were but a couple months into this crazy cross-country move, and literally everything I had eaten in Michigan outside of my mother-in-law's house was awful. How am I ever going to survive up here when they fail at even their own specialty?!

Then Lent arrived, and Matt mentioned visiting his childhood favorite place for fried fish.  With the last two experiences still fresh on my starving tastebuds, I was skeptical.  Alas, the Michigan Bucket List gives me courage and a sense of adventure, so I agreed to make the two-hour trek to Adair Bar in Casco, Michigan.

Adair is located on St. Clair in Casco, Michigan, a small town on the southeast side of the Lower Peninsula.
(Kinda near the bottom of the thumb.)

My in-laws insisted we get there early, since it was Friday and it's Lent.  (For those unfamiliar with the Catholic tradition, this is why Michigan is allegedly the master of frying fish - they have a lot to fry, thanks to the lakes, and it's all they could eat on the "Fish Fridays" of Lent - no meat allowed.)  It was still light out as my Father-In-Law dropped us off at the door to go search for a parking spot, but their concern quickly proved valid - the bar was already packed.  Thankfully, we beat the major crowd by about ten minutes and were seated just as the masses flooded the entry way.

Diners come for the fish, and remember it for the fish, and talk about the fish... But Adair is known for it's larger-than-life-size wooden statue of fish diners.

Placing our orders almost immediately, my mother-in-law filled me in on the history of Adair's famous fish-feasting wood carving, evidently dating back to the 1800's.  I'd link you to the website so you can read about it, but they don't have one. (Another observation of Michigan - this is the second wildly popular restaurant I've encountered today that has no website - the madness! You can, however, find them on Facebook.) She also explained why our previous attempts had failed - the fish wasn't fresh.  Here, we were so close to the lake, the fish we'd be feasting on was probably caught last night.

The waiter overheard us talking about the history of the statue,
and was kind enough to bring us this old menu to read about it.

Or, perhaps, after we ordered.  It took forever.

By the time those golden nuggets arrived to our table, we were starving.  Some small, snobby voice in my head pondered at why mobs of hungry patrons were willing to wait an hour to be seated, and then an additional 45 minutes to be served.

This is the "large" Perch plate.  It was far too much.

And then I took a bite.  And the world made sense again.

An exterior salty, crispy crust yielded to tender, buttery, flaky Perch - the most common of the fresh water fish to fry.  It was heaven.  And it came with sides of a creamy, but still crunchy cole slaw (not too much sugar, not too much vinegar), and hot, crisp steak fries.

This is a Southerner thing - cole slaw is a side dish as well as a condiment.

It was heaven in a poorly lit, crowded hole-in-the-wall, no website fish fry bar.

Guys, my husband was right.  So right, I'm willing to put it in writing and disperse it across the whole internet.  I have seen the light.  The gorgeous, golden-brown, battered light. There is nothing like fried freshwater fish in the thumb of Michigan.

If and when we move again, that song is going to be a chorus for the both of us.

But for now, Adair bar and lower Michigan fried fish has another evangelist.


Read about my only other positive Michigan food experience so far here.

(Puhn-Chkee): P-A-C-Z-K-I

Most people don't know that my husband is one-quarter Japanese.  His mom's mom was born and raised in Japan, and taught her daughter all kinds of delicious Japanese recipes.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), my mother-in-law's cooking is the only food I've really enjoyed up here thus far.  To be fair, she's a spectacular cook, and puts an enormous amount of effort and love into each of her elaborate, multi-faceted meals, so reaching the caliber of her cooking is kind of a tall order (I'm sincerely not trying to suck up, it just happens to be a plus that it's true and may or may not flatter my MIL). But as of this moment in time, Michigan food outside of my in-law's home has consisted of a lot of salt and sour cream (bleh), without much else as far as seasonings and condiments go (aside from the time I was served mozzarella sticks with Ranch dressing - that was weird). There has yet been but one exception to my culinary adventures in the past few months, and that lies in a seasonal pastry.

And this is where the other almost three-quarters of my husband's heritage comes in - Polish.  As it turns out, a significant portion of Michigan is made up of Polish-American ancestry.  It becomes evident at a certain time of year, when the smell of confections hits every bakery in the state, and the Meijers are flooded with stacks of little red and white boxes, with a myriad of letters on the side that may have been picked at random through a game of the official unofficial sport of Michigan, and don't seem to actually make up a full, sensible word - Paczkis. P-A with a squiggly underneath- C-Z-K-I.

Say it with me now - Puhn. Chkee.

No, I'm not trying to set you up to sound like an idiot next time you have a conversation with a Michigander about Polish pastries, which is obviously a common topic at the water cooler.  That's really how you say it.  Somewhere in between Poo and Punch, with a Key on the end.  Purse those lips like you're kissing Aunt Gerta.  Puhn-Chkee.  There ya go.


And guys, Paczkis are a really big deal.

Chi Chi, get the #Pączki. pic.twitter.com/8eRMFSM2DD

— Nicole Szymczak (@nicsimzak) February 9, 2016

Like, Clemson vs. Carolina big.  Summer is here big.  Oh my god they're forecasting an inch of snow and Publix is out of bread big.  Making enemies because you described it to "foreigners" as a jelly-filled doughnut big.  So I'm not saying it's a doughnut.  Instead, I will say that it is "a small, fried cake of dough, generally formed in a flattened sphere-like fashion, filled with a fruit-flavored gelatin or custard."  There. Now I won't get strung up and beaten with egg noodles.

It's like Christmas with cholesterol! #paczki #paczkiday pic.twitter.com/PzENreoQf3

— Jake Neher (@GJNeher) February 9, 2016

Michigander legend has it that the Paczki originated when bakeries in Poland were trying to get rid of their perishable, too-rich-for-lent ingredients before Lent, because, traditionally, they were devout Catholics, and gave up sweets (and meat, hence the popularity of fish frys) until Easter.  So, they just dump all of their leftover eggs, sugar, flour, yeast, fat, and milk into a mix and fry it, and the result is a super rich, super heavy, slightly chewy, insanely delicious pastry.  It's then poked and filled with a sugar-drenched jam or custard, and distributed to the masses to get in one last sugar fix bender before fasting for six weeks.  And they are only available one time a year - the day (or week) before Ash Wednesday. Thus, in Michigan, "Paczki Day" and "Fat Tuesday" are one in the same, interchangeable phrases. (Although in Poland, it is actually "Fat Thursday." See the purist debate on Twitter.)

When I told Matt we had to go get Paczkis (because eating them will obviously help me remember how to spell them), he initially said we had to "get there early."  I, of course, am thinking, "ok, so, like, 8?"

Getting Paczkis on Fat Tuesday is an early morning event.  For us, it was 5am.  And it was snowing.

Nope.

Apparently, on Paczki Day, some bakeries open as early as 3am.  Some close their doors to the public and will only let you in if you've placed an order ahead of time.  The majority are out of pastries by 8am.  Matt's dad used to leave their house at 4am and sometimes stand in line for almost an hour to get their two dozen and be home in time for breakfast.  Like I said, these Paczkis are a serious business.

Thankfully, my husband is merciful (and sleeps like the dead), so we awoke at a leisurely 5am to heavily falling snow (our yard has been bare for weeks) and drove the 30 mins to Krzysiak's (I have no idea how to pronounce it - it took four attempts just to spell it correctly), where we stood in line for about 20 minutes to get our assorted dozen.  Other people in line were commenting on how tame it was this year, and grumbling that people could come in "first come, first serve." ("I thought you had to order ahead of time!")

Krzysiak's paczkis at 5:45am.  According to their Facebook page, these were full when they opened this morning only 45 minutes before our arrival, in addition to the hundred something boxes ready for pre-placed orders.

Guys, they had already almost run out.  Serious. Business.

Additional Polish goodies they offer, like egg noodles and pierogies, heavy potato-filled pasta shells.

That poor bakery was so busy the boxes were spotted with powdered sugar and jelly.
Which I in turn got all over my lap.

We drove back, the Paczkis happily awaiting consumption on my powdered sugar drenched lap, and discussing how glad we are that we got there in time.  Then, once arriving back home, sat down to coffee and a box of assorted Paczkis and began the guessing game of which pastry enveloped which sweet, gooey filling.

They may all be covered in strawberry jelly, but don't let that fool you. You have to inspect the hole they use to inject the jelly to get a pretty solid (but not certain) idea of what's inside. We got lemon, custard, strawberry, blueberry, and cherry.

I'm slowly learning that, much like the weather, and when the next snow plow will come by, not really knowing what's coming is all a part of the fun of living in Michigan.  It's a constant adventure.

Matt says this happens in almost every batch. Bakeries are in such a hurry to meet demand that a pastry just slips through the cracks and gets no filling.  He calls them "duds." But they're still awesome.

Now, is this sucker Strawberry, Cherry, or is that jam from another Paczki?

Double-check me - did I spell Paczki right every time??

What Michigander food should I try next?

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The Official Unofficial Outdoor Sport of MI (TUT16)

Michiganders will tell you left and right that it's the perfect state for people who love the outdoors.

My reaction when Matt and I started this list was that we'd have to complete the whole thing in the five months that we wouldn't be snowed in.  What kind of outdoors could possibly be enjoyed when it's too cold to actually DO anything the majority of the year??

What I'm beginning to understand is that Michiganders have their own definition of "outdoor sports."

Matt's sister and boyfriend are pursuing their medical careers a bit further north of us, near a small town known to be highly popular for it's population of senior citizens, as well as it's ice fishing.

Yea, I thought it was a myth too, but evidently it's really a thing.  People actually sit on literal feet of frozen water and stuck a baited string in a drilled hole to catch dinner.

What's even a step beyond that stranger danger? They have an actual festival to celebrate the absurd activity.

So we wandered up to their neck of the woods a couple weekends ago to see what all this ice fishing business was about during Tip Up Town, the annual event that attracts attendees from all over the state.  I was excited to learn more about the "outdoor sports" of Michigan.

Before we embarked on this grand adventure to trudge on a frozen lake and learn about ice fishing, Matt's relatives deeply intimidated and concerned me, because up here, when you go outside for an extended period of time and there's snow on the ground, extensive undergarments become a comfortable commodity.  But when you start talking about venturing out onto a frozen lake - then it gets serious.  Long underwear, snow pants, multiple pairs of socks, and at least six other layers the South likes to joke about but if you ever required it, they'd probably determine "safety indoors." It's about a two-hour conversation up here before risking the elements while you pile on garment after garment.  It's possible I exaggerate that length of time because I was sweating from both overheating in my seven layers as well as nerves that I was going to be that stupid Southern girl Matt used to be married to that froze to death because she didn't take the nice Michigander's advice.

Once we finally arrived, we spent about twenty minutes hiking through the snowy festival, a square half block of a couple rides, an ice slide and food trucks, populated by maybe fifty people, then I took my first step on ice.

The lake was beautiful.  A wide expanse of white, topped with a wispy blue sky, the already setting sun sparkling off of everything. Snowmobiles, trucks, even a mobile home, dotted the ice, blanketed with a couple inches of fluffy snow.  I literally would not have known it was a lake.

Somewhere in the distance, a couple tents and huts were propped up, presumedly sheltering some dedicated ice fishers, but for the most part, it was snowmobiles racing across the horizon.

And I wish I had more to tell you about ice-fishing. I'm not sure what I was expecting, perhaps educational displays on the process of ice fishing, or someone actually explaining what a tip-up is, or people kindly attempting to sell their frozen-solid catch in a slightly Canadian vernacular... but, as it turns out, events like this are not really so much about the whole fishing in the ice thing.

Apparently, it's about drinking.

My companions allowed me a moment to oh and ah in marvel of standing on a foot of solid naturally-frozen ice-lake, before trudging on to the beer tent, where we camped out for the next two and a half hours, dancing, talking, taking goofy photos, and enjoying ourselves.  We emerged for another twenty minutes of play time on the lake, during which I made snow angels with a stranger, and Matt wrestled in the snow with his sister's boyfriend.

And that was it.  Two hundred and ten minutes of exploring the great outdoor sport of ice fishing - and I think I got the gist of it. It's not about fish at all. It's about hanging out in a tent with your friends, trying not to freeze to death, and drinking beer.

That's the official unofficial "outdoor sport" of Michigan.  Beer.

Created with flickr slideshow.

What else should I put on my Michigan Bucket List?