TulaneLSU's review of Popeyes fried flounder sandwich

Dear Friends,

“Right over there,” the 65 year old man, a retired NOPSI employee instructed me. He called himself an engineer, but I think he was a meter reader before advancing to work in an office at Market Street Power Plant, that beast of a building that still occasionally haunts my dreams. His skin was the color of almond skin, and he took great pride in his skin color, constantly applying sunscreen whenever it was before 5 in the evening. His hair had tight curls and was the color of Spanish moss after it has dried for several weeks. His lips always were glossy, and when he smiled you could see he had all his teeth, even if they were not smooth and shiny like his skin. His eye color is unknown to me. He never once in my presence removed a pair of fluorescent yellow rimmed sunglasses. I think he got them from Wendy’s for a dollar during one of their unusual promotions in the 90s. He said they were polarized and let him see the secrets of the sea.

He was pointing to a circular piece of concrete on the northwestern edge of the Industrial Canal. It was wrapped with old rail ties or perhaps 2 x 4s covered in turpentine. The structure, about ten feet above the water’s edge, stood sentinel at the entrance of that artificial sliver connecting the River to the Lake. With a good cast, I could reach it with my Abu Garcia Black Max which was fixed to a burgundy Berkley rod that had quite a delightful action to it.

On the old Seabrook fishing dock he was known as Samps. I never found out if his actual name was Sampson or whatever became of him. I assume he no longer walks among us. I have not seen him since 2005.

For a period of two or three summers, when I was not crafting or reading at home, praying and worshiping in church, conducting a streetcar, or solving the mystery behind the people who are chasing me, I could be found at Seabrook. Mother seemed happy to bring me, to get me out the house. I think she was worried that after my experience with Captain Mike that I would never again return to the outdoors. When I showed a desire to do so, she was most encouraging.

During one August evening, after one of those New Orleans thunderstorms that appears suddenly and rages uncontrollably for a half hour to give way to chirping birds, a steambath, and rays of refracted sun that strain the eyes as they bounce off puddles, the bite was one. Samps was already there and he had an ice chest full of fish. He was casting his typical dual speck rig, with a gold and silver head on each jig that had white monofilament tails.

As I approached, like an early disciple, he was happy to share the good news. “They are biting good. Get your bait right up next to the concrete barrier. Let it sink, and give it a bop off the bottom every few seconds.”

Any fisherman who hears a report like that becomes overjoyed to the point that the mind works far faster than the hands. I tossed my tackle box to the ground and went to tie on a red bellied chartreuse sparkle beetle. But my hands could not keep up with the mind’s vision of having a lure already in the water. It took me several tries before I could finally get a good knot on my line. I cast to the spot.

“Darn! Shoot! Heckfire!” I was still young and had not yet tamed my tongue to guard it from curse words. My lure was caught on one of the many obstacles that found a home at the bottom of the Lake there. There was so much rebar and rip rap that once lined the streets of the city down on the seafloor that being able to retrieve your lure all the way back to the rod after bumping it on the bottom was enough to give a true thankful prayer to God. But God’s plan for that sparkle beetle was to find its rest around a submerged rod of iron.

I tied another jighead to my line and made a similar cast. “Good cast,” Samps assured me, “That will get you one.”



And sure enough, after two bumps, my rod tapped thrice in succession. I yanked back on the rod, and that satisfying feeling of resistance sent joy through my hands. The fish did not rise to the surface like the trout usually did there. It dug down, like it did not want to see the sun. I hoped it was not a stingray.

About a minute passed before the fish finally showed its colors in the dark lime waters. It was late August, when salinity and clarity are at a peak in Pontchartrain. And this was before MRGO was shut, so we were essentially fishing in Gulf water. A flash of white briefly appeared before the fish pulled down even harder. The run was short lived; I turned him and he was on the surface, a beautiful mat of brown which tapered at his head giving rise to a tiny head with one visible eye and some intimidating teeth.

It was a flounder, and the flounder bite was on. Those who have fished Seabrook know that it is not everyday you catch flounder there, but this day, between the two of us, Samps and I reeled in 14 flounder. This was back in the days when there was no size or creel limit for flounder I believe. Now I think you can only keep ten per person. Samps had a limit of specks, and by dusk, he was ready to go. “You be sure to let me know how those flounder taste.”

This was the summer before Ms. Mae returned to glory, and when Mother and I returned, Ms. Mae was thoroughly jubilant when I opened the ice chest. “Oh my! Flounder!” Ms. Mae was one of the great chefs of New Orleans, and anyone who ever tasted her fish dishes wanted nothing more than another one.

She turned on our oven to broil and in minutes that fish was dressed. She rubbed some Crisco -- this was before we discovered Great Value vegetable oil -- on both sides of the fish. Using her favorite serrated knife, she scored it with three long lines. “Each line represents Jesus, our Father, and the Holy Ghost.” Then she shook some sort of seasoning that had a lot of paprika in it. She squeezed some lemon juice on top just as she slid it into the heat.

Flounder do not take long to finish and before I knew it, I had a whole fish staring at me as I sat to devour it. It tasted as good as you can imagine. Eating whole flounder, besides being delicious, is fun and so satisfying because you end up with nothing but the head, fins, and bones. There is a sense of accomplishment when there is nothing but bone and cartilage left, as you know that fish truly reached his telos.

Ms. Mae prepared flounder for us over the next few days in several other ways. One night she marinated it in Italian dressing and baked it. It was okay. The next night, she fried two whole. Although they looked as good as the whole fried flounder at Middendorf’s they did not taste as good. I always preferred her broiled version.



I tell that story because when Popeyes recently announced that it was releasing a fried flounder sandwich, I had great hopes. Popeyes is a proud representative of the great city of New Orleans. It is the pinnacle of fast food dining. With its excellent service, clean dining rooms, and outstanding food, it is a clear cut fast food favorite for all people who love good food. Its fried chicken is better than any restaurant’s. Its sides are among the best. I know many shared sadness when they learned the dirty rice was leaving. Dirty rice was never one of the sides I chose. My favorites from the top are the red beans, mashed potatoes, and green beans.