The smell is the first hint that I’m in the right place. A quiet Carondelet neighborhood at dusk seems an unlikely setting for a Friday fiesta, but the thick, savory scent of batter wafting down Eichelberger Street confirms I’ve arrived at the St. Cecilia Catholic Church Mexican Fish Fry.
Any hesitation my friends and I have about intruding into this faith community dissipates as we cross the threshold into the gym. The scene is animated and friendly, part school cafeteria, part church potluck, part community picnic. A long line snakes around the perimeter of the room, composed of businessmen in suits, older couples and college kids already halfway through pitchers of beer. At the front of the gym, women fuss over catering trays of fish and rice, scooping and serving in a well-rehearsed rhythm.
They’re putting together the dinner platters that make this fish fry one of the city’s most popular. Eleven dollars buys two entrees, two sides and ‘church lemonade,’ a sweet sunny drink familiar to anyone who’s spent time at a house of worship of any denomination. Half the food options are Mexican, ranging from quesadillas to refried beans. The traditional offerings include fried cod, jack salmon and shrimp. There’s no meat to be found; every Friday during Lent, the six weeks before Easter, observant Catholics abstain from eating it.
Elementary school children duck in and out of the crowd to deliver food, pausing occasionally in corners to whisper and giggle. One young child with a serious expression pushes a trash can between tables, quietly asking diners if they’re finished with their plates. Older boys guide a tamale cart around the room, selling the corn husk-wrapped treats in pairs and by the half-dozen. For the kids, these Friday nights are probably a highlight of the year, when they can scamper through the halls of their parish school unsupervised but safe among friends and parents.
Stations set against the gym walls serve people as they advance in line and sink deeper into hunger. At the first table, volunteers hawk T-shirts and hats with the St. Cecilia fish fry logo, a grinning green pepper wearing a sombrero and holding a frying pan. What do the volunteers recommend we order? “Chile relleno,” they say without hesitation, a large fried poblano stuffed with cheese. The next booth offers soda, beer and giant margaritas, neon yellow and rimmed with salt. Workers at a third table sell chips and pico de gallo in two sizes. They, too, suggest the chile relleno.
Finally at the front, I hand over a $20 bill (the credit card machine is down), place my order and receive a number. A mariachi trio strolls into the gym as we claim chairs at the end of a long communal table. Midway through the second song, a small girl runs up to us and breathlessly squeaks, “We’re out of cod!” Before we can answer, another one arrives, also panting. “We’re out of cod!” she confirms. Those of us who ordered it select something else off the menu, and the girls run off to complete their mission.
When the food arrives, there’s cod after all. The first bite of fried jack salmon makes my mouth water. It’s salty and crunchy and mild, the perfect base for tartar sauce and surprisingly spicy salsa. The macaroni and cheese oozes gratifyingly. Crinkle-cut fries are perfectly crisp. And the chile relleno, as big as a pizza slice, lives up to its reputation. Dinner at St. Cecilia is worth the wait—and it’s such fun, we barely noticed anyway.
by Rebecca Koenig
