When my best friend raved about a tiny counter near the railway tracks serving the crispiest cod in the state, I rolled my eyes but headed over anyway.
The memory of a soggy fish sandwich I’d tried in some Arizona spots still haunted me, proving that not every specialty travels well inland. Still, curiosity won out, and I slipped into a modest shop that looked like a garage.
The moment the plate arrived, the crunch echoed like a drumbeat and the aroma of malt vinegar floated through the air. One bite erased my doubts. Flaky flesh, ethereal batter, salted fries turned a skeptic into a believer…