Ode to a Fish Sandwich by Rebecca M. Hale Page A

knife’s gleaming edge.
    “…his last fish sandwich.”
    ~
    DELILAH’S BEACHSIDE DINER was one of the few notable attractions in this isolated corner of the Caribbean.
    The sparsely populated island received only a trickle of tourist traffic. The little infrastructure that existed was maintained by a five-star resort on the south shore, and the guests to that all-inclusive establishment rarely ventured outside its gated boundaries.
    Beyond the rocky shoreline, a rugged interior commanded the bulk of the island’s topography. A dormant volcano rose from the inaccessible center, a hulking shadow that somehow made its presence felt even when the scalloped peak disappeared in a bank of clouds.
    Abandoned sugarcane fields spread across the short skirt of the island’s lower elevations, a head-high tangle of reeds, ferns, scrubby bushes, and the occasional mangrove. Once planted on every arable acre, the colonial-era crop was being slowly choked out by the natural vegetation.
    The diner was located in the island’s only officially designated “town,” a community represented by a far bigger dot on the map than warranted by its actual population density. A one-pump gas station, tiny grocery, and a handful of cinderblock houses filled in the rest.
    Limited commercial activity centered on the ferry dock, which hosted two boats a day to and from a much larger, built-up island to the north. The passengers were generally either guests to the resort or children commuting to school.
    Delilah’s provided the town’s sole dining option, and its menu was selective, at best, with the majority of listed items frequently being unavailable. Most orders were for the daily special, which hadn’t changed in years. No one ever asked for clarification when they requested the special; the locals knew to expect the fish sandwich.
    If the diner’s menu lacked variety, at least its top seller was a culinary success.
    The daily special was a straightforward preparation of a fish filet, grilled on both sides, and served with a toasted bun, a few pickled condiments, and a mound of potato chips. But everyone agreed that the fish sandwiches at Delilah’s tasted better than anywhere else within a hundred mile nautical radius. Passing mariners, the employees at the resort, and the ferryboat operators all regularly ate the diner’s fish sandwich.
    Of course, it had been many years since anyone named Delilah had worked at the shack by the beach. Winnie had been manning the kitchen counter for the better part of the last decade. She was the chef responsible for the diner’s fish sandwich reputation.
    It had taken a great deal of work to perfect the deceptively simple dish. After much trial and error, she had settled on a few key elements.
    First, the fish should be extremely fresh, preferably caught and gutted the same day. The filets should be cut thick and basted with a light coating of spices (her own special blend) and then cooked at precisely the right temperature on a heated metal grill. The stove itself was an important component to the preparation as the iron surface conveyed its own unique seasoning from the countless seared fish that had been cooked on it before.
    The diner wasn’t much to look at. The shack’s exterior walls were made of sun-bleached plywood that once had been painted a colorful array of pastels. On one of the boards, faint yellow text spelled the now barely discernable label, “Delilah’s.”
    Wedged between the beach on one side and a dirt road on the other, there was little space for permanent outdoor seating. The diner’s metal roof extended a couple of feet out from the kitchen, providing a narrow band of shade.
    Beyond the rustic building, a scattering of stubby palm trees bent over the picnic tables that were dragged onto the sand each morning from a nearby storage shed.
    The meager accommodations were more than sufficient. Even with the popularity of the fish sandwich, the diner rarely saw a huge crowd.
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