Nobody warns you that this state would completely ruin every other fish fry you would ever eat. Eight supper clubs, hundreds of miles of Wisconsin roads, and a growing realization that what you thought you knew about Friday night dining was embarrassingly incomplete.
Crispy perch from a northwoods kitchen so remote the GPS second-guessed itself. Lakeside dining rooms where the view and the food compete for attention and neither one loses.
Supper clubs are buried along county roads that only locals know by name, doing the same thing the same way for decades without any reason to stop…