Sunday, February 28, 1999

Thank cod it's Friday

---

St. Lawrence Church in Price Hill spreads fish fry fever

BY CHUCK MARTIN
The Cincinnati Enquirer

Alyssa Durbin, 6, bites into a fish sandwich. (Craig Ruttle photo) | ZOOM |

        The rest of the world has its pig pickin's, waffle-and-gravy suppers, pancake breakfasts and other fund-raising feeds.

        We have Friday night fish fries.

        Folks in other parts of the country may fry fish — they might even fry pretty tasty fish. But it's hard to believe anyone puts on as many fish dinners as we do during the Lenten season.

        Sometimes, it's hard to believe there's enough fish to go around.

        It's a God-given rite of late winter and early spring. Seems like just about every religious and civic group in the Tristate that can find a flashing sign hosts fish fries on Fridays between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday.

        .

        Probably no one fries fish with more pride than the volunteers at 131-year-old St. Lawrence Church in Price Hill. The Parent-Teachers Organization hosts its Lenten dinners only a few blocks from St. Teresa of Avila Church, but no one will admit to ever venturing up “the hill” to sample St. Teresa's fish.

        “No reason to,” says Margie Panzeca, the woman in charge of St. Lawrence's fish fry. “Ours is the best.”

        She pauses in St. Lawrence's school kitchen on Ash Wednesday afternoon, as a half-dozen volunteers stir soup and spoon coleslaw for the first fish fry of the season.

        Ms. Panzeca has reason to be confident. Her fish fry team has a secret weapon, and his name is Shawn McGreevy, a veteran chef who has helped with the St. Lawrence dinners for the last two years. He cooks the soups and prepares many of the side dishes at Uno's Pizza corporate kitchen in Clifton, where he works.

        This is quite a coup considering Mr. McGreevy moved from St. Lawrence several years ago, and belongs to St. Teresa parish.

        “Basically, he's a nice person,” Ms. Panzeca says sheepishly, “and we play on that.”

        He sports a slick, Mr. Clean haircut and a fresh meatless spaghetti sauce stain on his shirt.

        “This crew is pretty good,” Mr. McGreevy says in his deep, gravelly voice. “Seems like they're becoming progressively less frantic.”

        Two young girls in plaid school uniforms hungrily watch him scatter grated mozzarella over tomato-sauced sub rolls for “pizza bread.” Other volunteers quickly unpack paper plates and stuff tubes of ketchup and tartar sauce in bowls at the serving line. Cold February air bristles through the back door as workers lug in bags of bread and tubs of pasta.

        Although it's not written down, everyone at the St. Lawrence fish fry has a job.

        At the stainless steel table under the hanging pots, Kathy Hagedorn fixes big pans of macaroni and cheese for the oven, cutting chunks of orange cheddar and squeezing cartons of milk over the short noodles.

        “I don't cook by recipe,” Ms. Hagedorn says. “But I know the kids like it wet and cheesy.”

        Another of Ms. Hagedorn's responsibilities is making her famous black forest cake, a devil's food-cherry sheet pan creation tucked away in one of the refrigerators.

        The whipped cream-covered cake is not meant for the fish fry customers, but for the fish fryers — the gaggle of men who come to dunk breaded cod tails, shrimp and crinkle-cut fries into the hot oil.

        “Some of those fryers might not show if they don't get their black forest cake,” Ms. Hagedorn says.

        She's serious.

Portable fryers
        Unlike most fish fry operations, the St. Lawrence kitchen doesn't come equipped with deep-fat fryers. So the volunteers set up two portable fryers in a small open shed behind the school.

        This suits the fryers just fine. It allows them to joke and sneak bites while working. Kind of like their own fish-fry fraternity.

        “I cook 'em by sight,” says burly George Moore, watching 27 cod fillets sizzle furiously in the oil in front of him. “I don't time 'em or anything. They just need to be nice and golden brown.”

        He cuts open a cooked piece of cod on a rickety table and steam gushes from the pearly fillet's insides. The men scramble like tom cats to grab a morsel.

        It's less than 30 minutes before 4 p.m. serving time, and as it's cooked, Lou Nie Sr. carries pans of fried fish and potatoes to the kitchen.

        They call him “Big Lou.” His son, “Little Lou,” sits at the back of the shed, trying to read a fat English literature textbook in the low light. A senior at the College of Mount St. Joseph, Little Lou is preparing for tomorrow's class.

        “Somebody has to keep the ideas flowin' out here,” he says.

        Like the rest of the fryers, he wears several layers of clothing to keep warm. If it gets much colder, they'll snuggle up to the gas-fired fryers.

        “Tide will take the smell out of your clothes,” Big Lou declares.

        “We've done this in the snow and we've done it in hot weather, too,” says Walt “Mack” McDonald, the unofficial foreman of the fryers, wearing a camouflaged cap.

        He shakes out a basket of crispy fries and dumps them into a pan. As always, he leaves a handful piled on the table for snacking.

        “Hey, who's doin' desserts tonight?” Mr. McDonald wonders.

        At St. Lawrence, dessert responsibilities are rotated according to grade. On this night, kindergarten and eighth-grade parents are donating homemade or store-bought sweets.

        “It's better when the younger grades are doing it,” Mr. McDonald says, in his voice of experience. “The younger mothers try to impress people with their desserts. But by the time their kids get older, they don't care as much.”

Desserts detail
        Inside the dining room, eighth grader Lydia Tscheiner, who's in charge of desserts for the night, surveys a table of fudgy brownies, chocolate chip cookies, pound cakes and leftover Valentine's Day cupcakes with pink icing. Everything is 50 cents.

        “The brownies and cupcakes always sell well,” says Lydia, a one-year veteran of dessert sales. “We've never had angel food cake before, so I don't know how it will do.”

        Back in the kitchen, the steam tables are stocked and the workers are ready to serve. Ms. Panzeca has time to brag about the grilled cheese sandwiches, made with thick, chewy “Texas toast” and three slices of gooey American cheese.

        Mr. McGreevy thinks it may be a touch of garlic that sets his sandwiches apart.

        “I cook them on the same grill that I make the garlic bread on,” he explains. “People will come back and say it's the best grilled cheese they've ever eaten. Then they ask: Did you put garlic on that?”

        The first customer, a rushed woman wearing a burgundy jacket, walks through the line at 3:59 p.m. She orders fish on rye with macaroni and cheese and fries — to go.

        About 30 percent of business is dinners to go, and it grows every year, Ms. Panzeca says. They even take phone orders.

        Customers trickle in for the first hour, but everyone warns that the line will stretch out the door when afternoon Mass is over.

        Out in the shed, Mr. Moore holds a rack of frosty cod fillets poised above the gurgling oil.

        “Whenever they yell out, I'm ready to start cookin',” he says earnestly, like a soldier manning a weapon before battle.

        By 5:25 p.m., the clanging of pans and chatter of cooks has grown so loud that it's hard to hear over the kitchen intercom when the Rev. Ralph Westerhoff ends Mass.

        Soon, parishioners begin spilling through the side door, climbing out of heavy coats, staring at the hand-printed menu, trying to decide what they will eat on their first fish dinner of the year.

        A man makes a face when he hears the soup of the day is cream of broccoli with cheddar.

        “My daughter had it and says it's real good,” says Linda Tscheiner, who is responsible for printing food orders on tickets at the head of the line. Persuaded by this testimonial, the man orders a cup of the creamy soup.

        No one seems to mind waiting to place their orders. A fish dinner with choice of two sides costs only $3. Plus, it gives parishioners a chance to ask their neighbors about the family and work. To wonder if it will snow this weekend, or get unusually warm again.

        Kitchen workers move quickly — as quickly as they can wearing awkward plastic gloves — digging into macaroni and cheese with long spoons, stuffing Styrofoam containers into paper bags. In between, they scold their children sitting at the front of the room, who are only pretending to do their homework.

        Holding a french fry pensively, Mr. McDonald sticks his head out the front of the kitchen to eye the line of shuffling customers. The back doorknob is already greasy from the hands of his fellow fryers bringing in trays of fish and potatoes. They work methodically in the dark, dunking food up and down in the hot oil, still stopping to cackle at each others' jokes.

        In the dining room, families and friends settle down to eat familiar food. Joe Bonno bites into a fish sandwich and starts fanning at his mouth, as if it's on fire.

        “It's the horseradish,” he says. “You ever tried horseradish on fish?”

        “We used to work these dinners,” his wife, Carole, says. “We had four kids go through this school. Now, we can sit back and enjoy it.”

        No one knows for sure when St. Lawrence started doing fish fry dinners. Charlie Voss, who sits down to eat with his wife, Madelyn, can't remember. And he's 90.

        Many parishioners have been coming to the Lenten dinners all their lives. Most have difficulty explaining why they keep coming.

Wait 'till Friday
        Before anyone realizes it, the rush of customers is over.

        The most excitement during the last half hour happens when a woman asks for a takeout menu. Her husband works at the Hamilton County Correctional Center.

        “That could be $60 dollars in takeout business,” Ms. Panzeca says, while scrambling for a menu. The food would go to corrections workers, she explains, not prisoners. Although the prisoners would certainly enjoy it.

        In the dining room, children stack chairs on tables while parents push brooms down aisles. The kitchen crew begins packing up leftover food and scrubbing macaroni and cheese pans. Someone notices that the fryers already have snuck out with Ms. Hagedorn's black forest cake.

        “They try to get it when no one is looking,” she says. “They don't like to share.”

        It's been a long night for the chef in charge. Every year, Mr. McGreevy says he's going to be too busy to help with the fish fry.

        “But every year I find time to do it,” he says. “I sent three kids through this school and paid no tuition (until a few years ago, St. Lawrence was one of a few Catholic schools that didn't charge tuition). So I figure I owe them some time.”

        Father Westerhoff walks by looking pleased, and asks how many people the volunteers served.

        “Were we supposed to count?” cashier Kim Pope responds.

        Based on other dinners, Ms. Panzeca is a little disappointed by the Wednesday night turnout.

        “But it'll be busy Friday,” she says.

        “Just wait.”

       

---

BockFest is a reminder of what we are
Repeat offender charged in deaths
Tug of war over Justin
Judge gets angry letters for ruling
Portune will back strong-mayor plan
Widow, trustees battle over $100 million estate
Aquarium quandary: Parking
Asian demand said to be causing gas-price rises
Comisars lure legendary Maisonette chef
Thank cod it's Friday
Worries pop up, strong-mayor plans get whacked down
Secrets you'll never see on 'NYPD Blue'
Schroder makes case on 'NYPD'
New high school test: Prenatal exam
30 years of keeping the beat
Boss Clown gets to have last laugh
Sideshows drive Greatest Show on Earth
'I'd never be a patient'
N.Ky. rivals constantly crossing paths
Fifth-graders travel 'Underground Railroad'
Housing agency proceeds with plan
Kehoe trial starts Monday in Arkansas
Large donations fuel wins
Man accused of drug, food stamp scam
Mason stakes downtown role
Ohio gets Frost-y response
Sheriff starts from scratch
TRISTATE DIGEST