On a recent trip to Louisville, Kentucky I picked up the local publication called the Leo, a weekly free magazine on all things happening around Louisville. Upon flipping through the pages, a recommendation by the Leo staff caught my eye. "Voted Louisville's Best Fish Sandwich" at Stan's Fish. My next adventure was fated there on the page and with giddy anticipation and a bit of cautious curiosity I set off with more hope than a pre-election Obama grassroots rallier. With a name like Stan's Fish Sandwich restaurant how could I go wrong?
Upon my arrival, my suspicions quickly grew. Not having an ocean in Kentucky made me wonder how good this could actually be. After walking through the doorway into what I can only describe as if Long John's Silver and a homeless shelter had sex and I was now standing in the result of its offspring, I was without words. Confused and with much trepidation I got enough motivation to not turn around and walk out and instead pressed ahead and ordered the Stan's Fish Sandwich dinner. At only $6.95 served with fries and slaw I had either stumbled upon the best dive treasure or a real fish sammich nightmare. I wish the latter had not been the case.
After receiving my red lunch lady tray of food, I walked to the nondescript table with no condiments on it and sat and just stared for a moment feeling as though I had just reached the climax of a Steven King classic. In front of me was an anemic chunk of fish deep-fried to hell, resuscitated, released back into a pond, caught again and re deep-fried for another 5 minutes for good measure. It sat contorted onto itself on top of a pair of white bread pieces. I became physically angry. Angry at the Leo, angry at Stan, angry at an establishment who would commit such an atrocity. Should I call Amnesty International or vomit from anger first?
After staring blankly for several moments I decided to eat this meal anyway. One, because I was hungry as hell and Two, because I knew it would burn this experience into the cortex of my brain so vividly that I would be able to angrily reproduce this blog as though it were happening in real time. I would tell you about the sides, but I don't remember eating those. Etched in my mind was every crusty, flavorless bite of fish. With as much displeasure as when german film director Werner Herzog ate his shoe after losing a bet, I finished my "sandwich" and left knowing that Stan and his Fish Sandwich were forever dead to me.
So to recap:
Bun: What bun? It was white bread and I am guessing not even Wonder bread. We are talking Wal-Mart on sale bread here.
Batter: Like a coroner trying to identify a burn victim...I could not make a positive ID as to the makeup of this substance.
Fry: Lower into deep fry bin, go watch an episode of Sanford and Son in the back room. Come back after it's over and remove. Voila! Anemic, overdone, crusty dog vomit.
Toppings: Where?I would love some!
Portion: Just about right because had been any bigger I still wouldn't want to finish it.
Service: It was an immediate walk up and order. Once we were seated, however, we were never checked on again for the duration of the meal.
Ambiance: Kind of like eating in an abandoned Long John Silver's.
Wait: No wait on a Saturday mid afternoon...in fact it was a near ghost town with a few diners in the main area an not one other guest in the side dining room we sat in.
Bottom Line: This experience should not be on anyone's To-Do list. Save yourself a trip and order some takeout Chinese instead. Either I was in the wrong place or the Leo should be ashamed of writing positive reviews in exchange for cash.
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