Each flounder filet is unique, with dimensions that refuse to fit geometrical parameters. One may be not-quite rhomboid while another takes the shape of a five-sided trapezoid. Fish thicknesses vary as well, but most are bulky in the middle and taper to a crusty edge. The filets that are uniform in girth indicate a cut from the center of the fish. The showpiece of the sandwich is the slim slather of spicy sauce, the color of dried-out French dressing. Each fish sandwich is tucked into an aluminum-lined pouch like some sort of steampunk marsupial whale baby. Jonah wouldn’t have been swallowed if God wasn’t so punishing. But Jonah’s three-day, three-night stay in the belly of the scaleless whale gave Jesus a foreshadowing of his own dark future.
Fast food was not part of my growing up as I was raised by a mom who had very few rules, but one was about food; you must always have something green on your plate. Her other rule was that you must go outside every day. And by the time I was an early teen, she added the rule; nobody fucks in this house but me. Once I was able to drive, I became a fast-food connoisseur. Whoppers from Burger King, a double bacon cheeseburger with a baked potato and a frosty from Wendy’s, and the spinach and broccoli pizza from Sbarro, the only meal that held true to the Green Rule. By the time I turned 20, my then-friend and now brother-by-love Craig introduced me to the easily chewed and impetuously fatty joys of Taco Bell. When I quit drinking six years later, after ten years of drinking too much, I quit fast food too.
It's been just over a year since my mom was diagnosed with colon cancer. And in a few weeks, it will have been a year since her surgery. Her hemicolectomy was originally scheduled for late April of 2023 but was moved up to April 7, the date that was known to my mom and many others as Good Friday. She was elated about the date change, saying if she died on the table then she’d be back for Easter. Her joke was nimbussed by a seriousness tho, too, as if having her surgery on Good Friday protected her; at least that’s what I gathered. An omen of good fortune. My mom converted to Catholicism for my dad, who then left and had the marriage annulled when I was one, leaving me the littlest bastard in the sanctuary. But my mom continued her faith in a blended way, believing not just in God but also in Gnomes and Unicorns and Nature. The only unmixed aspect of her faith is Religion and State; she is a firm believer that religion should be separate from government. She was also a devotee of the Cult of Mary, adhering to the power of Woman as much as the power of God. I have seen my mother’s face for decades but it wasn’t until just now that I realized her eyes have the aquamarine hue of a light rosemary flower, the bush turned blue by the Virgin Mary.
On my mom’s first night in the hospital, after our 5 am arrival, she told me to head home at about 7 pm and instructed me to pick up dinner for Jim at Popeyes as she knew it was his new favorite fast-food joint and was located equidistance between the hospital and our home. She directed me to get a $50 bill from her backpack to pay for dinner, not because she was clueless about cost but because she’s overly generous with money. I took a $20 instead, told her I’d see her in the morning, and headed to Popeyes Louisiana Kitchen. As an aside, as opposed to other fast-food chains like McDonald’s or Arby’s, there’s no apostrophe in Popeyes because founder Al Copeland claimed he was too poor to afford the apostrophe. As another aside, it’s strange how easy it is to sound flippant when you haven’t really dealt with your emotions yet. The day of my mom’s surgery was difficult. Craig was undergoing a kidney biopsy at the same time mom was in the operating room, and my negativity bias kept me thinking about all that could go wrong instead of all that could go right. I was hopped up on too much coffee from the Starbucks in the lobby, and if it wasn’t for Megan in the morning and Elisabeth in the afternoon, the day would’ve felt like an eternity of coral cuts. Ever since Juan died, I’ve realized that I’m slow at processing tough emotions. Or maybe they go totally unprocessed, like the chicken who escapes the unplucking on the conveyor belt and emerges with feet still attached. I am the feathered, fearful chicken in full escape.
The drive-thru menu was an array of orange graphics, images of fried chicken, and a variety of prices. As a pescatarian, I was elated to see a fish sandwich on the menu. Jim and I feasted, he on spicy chicken and me on spicy fish, and I was hooked! Maybe it was the exhaustion from the day or the slightly lifting anxiety, but that fish sandwich was divine – crispy, pliant, and zesty.
Two days later, on Easter Sunday, as I was leaving the hospital, mom again gave me cash so that Jim could have a chicken sandwich. And I, I would treat my tongue to the delicacy of that New Orleans-inspired fish. But when I looked at the menu, the fish sandwich was gone, and the answer to my inquiry about its whereabouts was a crumpled intercom reply of, “The fish sandwich is just for Lent.”
FUCK!
“But it’s Easter,” I explained, as if he didn’t know the day. But Lent ends before Easter. I’d missed my religious window by hours. I was both enraged at and grateful for the Believers. The rising of Christ snuffed out my fish sandwich, but the fish sandwich’s existence was wholly dependent on Christ in the first place. The ouroboros logic of this seafood feedback loop left me irate and hungry.
Since then, for an entire year, I’ve been awaiting the resurrection of the fish sandwich. January had me scouring food news blogs and the Popeyes website. February, at a Super Bowl party dubbed Yellow Pants Party by my bestie and host, had me sitting next to Jason, who is a fast-food aficionado. I inquired, “Jason, do YOU know if the fish sandwich will be back for Lent at Popeye’s again this year?” My famished eyes never blinked. His laugh pounded and ricocheted the room as he looked at me intently and said, “I’m intrigued by your seriousness.” I can’t recall if he was intrigued about the apparent quality of the sandwich or intrigued that I was asking about fast food. For months, Jim kept patiently saying, “They’ll probably offer it at Lent like last year.” The day before the start of Lent, also known as Tuesday or the day before Valentine’s Day or the day before Ferriss Wheel Day, I called our closest Popeyes. While it hadn’t yet shown up on their website, they did indeed HAVE THE FISH! They’d had it since Monday.
At 5:30, I drove to Popeyes so we could feast while watching the Bruins’ game. The line in the drive-thru was long but the lobby looked empty, so I went inside. A Door Dasher and his toddler daughter waited for an order. Bedazzled and braided, she pointed at me and began to dance. I followed suit, both of us shimmying confidently and silently. I was the snake to her charm. They left with multiple bags in hand, and now it was just me and a gal in her late 20s with fingernails several inches long that curved back in towards her hands, cradling her pocketbook. I love a woman who will eschew the heft of a purse for the handheld intimacy of an oversized wallet. She ordered and then took her place next to me by the waiting window. The door opened, but the vestibule protected us from the wind. The man who walked in looked like he’d just walked out of a New Orleans church on a Sunday morning. When I visited NOLA, I was struck by how well people wore their clothes, even the most casual dressers had an effortless formality about them. He was maybe in his late 60s, wearing a lush brown suit and a player trilby hat that capped off his sophistication and self-respect. He strode, not with arrogance but with ease, and had the essence of a Preacher. A wise orator as comfortable in front of a crowd as one-on-one. The pocketbook gal and I both let the Preacher know that we’d already ordered.
“Ahhh, I’m in no rush,” he explained.
His voice had the cadence of dark syrup and the sound of a faraway boom that coalesced into a soothing experience for all within earshot.
And then he said something about Time. . .that he looked at Time differently now, or that he didn’t rush Time like he used to. . .
I can’t recall his exact words, but they impressed upon me enough that I inquired, “Is that a realization that came with age, or something else?”
He put his head back as if a fly had just traversed his path too closely, swallowed, and said, “Well, you know, my wife died suddenly a few years ago.”
The unresolved devastation gave his eyes a wet shine as he leaned towards us and finished, “And I realized then that every breath counts.”
Every
Breath
Counts.
He gave each word its own space, sealing them in an unintentional sermon. As I left with a spicy chicken combo, a spicy fish sandwich, and two heart-shaped strawberry biscuits, the Preacher and I turned to each other. I let him know I was grateful for his sharing, and he let me know he was grateful for my Time.
I’ve since had a fish sandwich once a week and have two sandwiches left to go. And while other fast-food franchises offer year-round fish sandwiches, I will remain devoted to Popeyes and let six weeks of fast food be my own version of observance.
To Believers, the stylized ichthys is a symbol of Christianity. But to me, Popeyes spicy fish sandwich is a symbol of gratitude for Life and reverence for Time.
fast fish always sounds good - ever since the first episode of the wire i hve wanted to try lake trout - maybe i'll get to baltimore one day
I haven’t had fast food in over a decade, and yet, here you are with such a story involving a fish sandwich and it makes me want to have my own special order from some fast food joint to indulge in because there’s an end date and you know you’ll be forced to detox but it’s worth it because it’s so infrequent making it all the more special. Hot damn. Brava 👏