I’ve always believed that you can judge a person’s character by how they react to a perfectly fried piece of walleye. In Michigan, this sandwich is a localized obsession that borders on a spiritual experience.
There is a smug, quiet joy in sitting on a weathered dock, dodging a particularly bold seagull, and realizing that the tartar sauce hs just the right amount of zip to match the lake breeze.
Whether you’re pulling up by boat or car, a true walleye sandwich earns every minute of the detour, turning a simple road trip into a mission for the flaky, golden prize…