It was the smell that hit us first- dancing with the bass notes of a Nenah Cherry track crackling from a broken speaker in my car. Continuing along Central Avenue, past white-washed cement boxes, crumbling walls and, nobody, red and white awnings above a gated courtyard rippled outwards like the curling of an index finger telling us to come hither, pointing up towards a sign that read: Fisherman’s Outlet.
The restaurant straddles a triangular block and is reminiscent of the helm of a ship. It didn’t matter if this was a kitschy marketing ploy – a courtyard squeezing a flock of devotees eating off red trays blessed with mountains of fresh manna was indicative of seafood success – We had to pull over.
Inside, queues of hungry regulars weaved around us as servers in mechanic overalls shouted orders off an omega-rich menu board.
A militantly operating since 1961, we weren’t left waiting too long for our charbroiled catch-of-the-day and giant seafood combo: an unpretentious arrangement of 5 giant scallops – that you would usually find on diminutive plates for triple the price at a slicker windex-ed pop up down the road – accompanied by 2 giant butterflied shrimp. Apparently, their gumbo is quite good too judging by the number of people breathlessly slurping Andouille sausage and crawfish off plastic spoons.
See, here it’s not about the refined carbohydrates or anemic dribbles of batter crumbs, it is all about the Sea – paper plates drowning in it.