Friday night fish fry traditions run deep across America, but Arizona puts its own spin on this beloved custom. I’ve always thought of myself as a culinary daredevil-armed with a fork, a sense of adventure, and a suspiciously low tolerance for anything that isn’t deep‑fried to golden perfection.
When I first stumbled upon the desert’s secret society of fish‑fry fanatics, I thought I’d accidentally walked onto a covert chicken‑wing convention.
Little did I know that just beyond the humming neon signs and the occasional tumbleweed, Arizona has been perfecting a ritual so crispy, so buttery, that it practically demands a weekly pledge of allegiance…