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.