After a Southern barbecue winds down and Black families and friends begin to depart, the signs of a thoroughly enjoyed feast are unmistakable. Cast-iron skillets, now cooling on the stove with remnants of cornmeal, signify the aftermath of a delightful fried fish gathering. Scattered around are bits of cabbage and carrots from the slaw, and empty plastic bags that once cradled slices of white bread. Abandoned bottles of French’s mustard and Crystal hot sauce lie about, their caps seemingly vanished into another dimension. As the final conversations linger and the last car door closes with a resounding slam, the cleanup ritual begins. Those assisting the host engage in a choreographed dance of clearing plates and bagging trash, their gentle laughter echoing the significance of the event.
As a Black Southern woman with deep roots in Georgia, Alabama, and Tennessee, fish fries represent more than just social gatherings—they embody cultural traditions. A recent trip to Chattanooga, Tennessee, reignited my appreciation for the profound connections forged through food. This wasn’t my first visit; weekends spent in Chattanooga visiting family are a cherished routine. Last autumn, seeking local culinary gems, my relatives enthusiastically recommended Uncle Larry’s, a beloved Black-owned barbecue spot renowned for its fish. Days later, I arrived with a craving for catfish. It had been months since I last savored the crunch of perfectly seasoned cornmeal coating enveloping tender fish. Dressed with hot sauce and yellow mustard, nestled in a warm slice of white bread, this dish links me to generations of Black camaraderie. To me, fish fries are not just gatherings of friends, family, neighbors, and loved ones, but sacred cultural rites.
Owner Larry Torrence, long the designated fish fryer at family reunions, finally succumbed to the urging of his wife and other relatives a decade ago, opening the first Uncle Larry’s in Chattanooga’s MLK District, near the Bessie Smith Cultural Center.
Uncle Larry’s menu extends beyond fish because for Black Southerners, fish fries are more than routine—they are extraordinary events. These occasions unfold throughout the year for various reasons: celebrating a birth, observing Lenten “fish Fridays,” welcoming visiting family, or simply sharing leftover catfish, whiting, or tilapia.
Historically, the concept of fried seafood paired with starch is not new. The British have their iconic fish and chips, featuring beer-battered cod with thick-cut fries. Some historians trace its origins back to Portuguese or Spanish Jews who introduced the dish to British palates as early as the 1600s. Centuries later, European immigrants carried this tradition to the Americas, often with religious significance, particularly during Lent. In the South, fish fries have different origins. Native American traditions of frying fish often intersected with those of enslaved African communities. Fish, especially catfish abundant in the Mississippi Delta, became a staple. In other Southern regions like Georgia, tilapia took precedence; in Alabama and Tennessee, it was whiting or swai.
During my visit to Chattanooga last year, my focus was on catfish. At Uncle Larry’s, I opted for lemon pepper catfish paired with pasta salad, hushpuppies, and onion rings. With the first bite, I was transported from a Chattanooga hotel room to my childhood in Huntsville, Alabama, watching my mother and aunts prepare for a barbecue. They would pat dry the fish with paper towels, season it generously with Lawry’s, coat it in cornmeal speckled with salt, pepper, and cayenne, and the sizzle of the fish hitting hot oil would echo with jubilation.