Maryland understands the art of hot oil and patience in a way that feels learned, not trendy, and you notice it long before you take a bite.
I have followed that sound of crackling fryers down side streets and toward unassuming windows, where the air smells faintly of pepper, lake water, and yesterday’s work clothes, and where nobody is rushing the process even when the line starts curling past the corner.
These places are not chasing novelty or plating tricks, they are chasing consistency, the kind that comes from lifting thousands of baskets and knowing exactly when the fish has crossed from pale to perfect…