Ah, the fish camp—a beloved institution in the southern United States. Just about anywhere there's enough people, you can find—tucked away, no doubt—a rickety old building packed with a large clientele. These fish camps are not chains, but a kind of restaurant, and their sole purpose is to take the fruits of the sea and deep-fry them until any semblance of flavor disintegrates.
I generally try to avoid these kinds of places, but as I am still with my grandmother during her surgical recovery, she dictates meals if she has a particular craving. First it was a burger, then it was fried chicken, and today? A fish camp.
This particular place is an establishment, though I know not how. Family on my mom's side used to get food from this place at every reunion, although thankfully they stopped that tradition a few years ago. Tucked away behind a drugstore, its smell can be sniffed anywhere in the vicinity—and it smells more of old oil than of fish.
Their staple? Overwhelming portions. They prize quantity over quality, and the more you get, the less is edible. There was enough in my box to feed a family for three weeks, so I'll let you figure out how it tasted. My grandmother was wise enough—despite frequent medicine-induced mid-sentence sleeping spells—to order broiled shrimp.
If there ever is a need to go back to that place, I think I'll follow her lead.
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