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“If you want a fried fish to fly and enter your mouth, you must keep waiting till the unending time ends. Dead fish doesn't fly. If you want to eat it, your own hands must carry it.”
― Israelmore Ayivor

“I feel like it's comically obvious whose meal is whose. Benny's fish is beautifully seared, with a lemon-rosemary glaze and sitting on a bed of wild rice with grilled asparagus on the side. It's becoming clearer to me all the time that the boy understated his abilities that first day, telling me he could only do pasta and pastries. Anyone who can whip something like that up without a recipe at their side is a pro in my book.
On the other hand, my dish is straight out of a heart surgeon's worst nightmares. Piles of fried fish still shimmery with grease and heavily salted and peppered, next to mashed potatoes with an extra pat of butter on top, as if the multiple sticks that went into their preparation weren't enough. It's stick-to-your-ribs, clog-your-arteries goodness.”
― Kaitlyn Hill, Love from Scratch

“I don't want to call Jess, because we have bigger fish to fry than to chit-chat about my issues. I'm so upset with her right now that fried fish doesn't even sound good to me. Although once in Calabria, William and I had the most perfect fried sardines, silvery melt-in-your-mouth crisp and not at all fishy. God, what I would do to have a platter of them, along with a helping of 'nduja, the region's famously spicy pepperoncini salami spread, smeared across a fresh loaf of crusty bread. And an earthen pitcher of vino rosso, made by the contadini locali.”
― Jenny Gardiner, Slim to None