After a Southern barbecue winds down and Black families and friends begin to depart, the signs of a satisfying feast are unmistakable. Cast-iron skillets, still warm with remnants of cornmeal, rest on the stove, evidence of a well-enjoyed fried fish feast. Bits of cabbage and carrot linger from the slaw, and empty plastic bags that once held slices of white bread are scattered about. Abandoned bottles of French’s mustard and Crystal hot sauce, their caps lost in some other realm, punctuate the scene. As the final conversations fade and car doors slam shut, the cleanup begins. Those lending a hand engage in a dance of clearing plates and bagging trash, their soft laughter echoing the event’s importance.
As a Black Southern woman with roots in Georgia, Alabama, and Tennessee, fish fries are more than social gatherings—they are cherished cultural traditions. A recent visit to Chattanooga, Tennessee, reignited my appreciation for the food traditions that unite us. This wasn’t my first visit; I’ve spent countless weekends in Chattanooga visiting family. Last autumn, seeking the best local food, my relatives pointed me to Uncle Larry’s, a renowned Black-owned barbecue spot famous for its fish. Days later, I found myself there with an insatiable craving for catfish. It had been months since I’d savored the crispness of perfectly seasoned cornmeal and the tender fish beneath. Coated in hot sauce and yellow mustard, nestled in a soft, warm slice of white bread, this dish connects me deeply to generations of Black fellowship. For me, fish fries aren’t just gatherings of friends, family, neighbors, and loved ones—they are cultural rituals.
Larry Torrence, the owner, had long been the designated fish fryer at family reunions. A decade ago, urged on by his wife and other relatives, he opened Uncle Larry’s in Chattanooga’s MLK District, near the Bessie Smith Cultural Center.
Uncle Larry’s isn’t just about fish; for Black Southerners, fish fries are far from ordinary. These gatherings occur year-round, celebrating occasions like new arrivals, Lenten “fish Fridays,” family reunions, or simply sharing leftover catfish, whiting, or tilapia.
The historical roots of fried seafood and starch are deep. The British have their fish and chips—beer-battered cod with steak fries—a tradition that some trace back to Portuguese or Spanish Jews introducing it to British diners as early as the 1600s. Centuries later, European immigrants brought this tradition to the Americas, often with religious significance, particularly during Lent. In the South, fish fries have their own distinct origins. Native Americans had their frying traditions, which intersected with those of enslaved African communities. Fish, particularly catfish abundant in the Mississippi Delta, became a staple. In other Southern regions like Georgia, tilapia was favored; in Alabama and Tennessee, whiting or swai.
During my recent stay in Chattanooga, I focused on catfish. At Uncle Larry’s, I opted for lemon pepper catfish with pasta salad, hushpuppies, and onion rings. With the first bite, I was transported from a hotel room to my childhood in Huntsville, Alabama, watching my mother and aunts prepare for barbecues. They would pat the fish dry with paper towels, season it with Lawry’s, coat it in cornmeal dusted with salt, pepper, and cayenne, and the sizzle as it hit hot oil would fill the air with joy.
Nneka M. Okona is a writer based in Atlanta, originally from Stone Mountain, Georgia. Her work has been featured in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, The Wall Street Journal, Travel + Leisure, Food & Wine, and more.