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| - Late this past Friday afternoon at the Lawrenceville Asylum For The Criminally Inane, a couple of my co-workers decided to get us some fish sandwiches from Nied's, a strange bar with a strange name. A nice Lenten treat is what I stumbled onto. Or did it stumble onto me?
Wildly fresh, thoroughly breaded, and consummately fried, the fish jutted out from each side of a bun that was just not big enough to hold it.
This fish sandwich wasn't some frozen fallacy foisted onto unsuspecting lushes; this fish sandwich was made by someone who cares, someone who isn't afraid of people eating these sandwiches sober, someone who knows and appreciates craft.
"I'll be waitin' for that review, Darren," one of my errr...colleagues said in a muffled tone with a smug grin on his face, which was full of bread and pescaterian excess.
"Gimme a few days," I replied, my mouth also stuffed with said barroom fare.
"Did you like it?"
"Call me Ishmael..."
"Huh? Call you what?"
"Nevermind."
I lost him after the Moby Dick reference.
I don't normally eat fish sandwiches, but in the future, I'll keep Nied's in my mental rolodex when the urge comes over me.
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