The Roots of Black American Food Entrepreneurship in a Fish Dinner

This is a nice way to introduce Black American food history without boring you to death.

Some years ago, my neighbor told my granddad about a new fish restaurant up the street. He told us both that the lines were long, the fish was fresh and delicious and the owner was the former cook at a Black fine-dining restaurant. We were sold. There were a couple of catches though. No call-in orders and when the fish was gone, it was gone. Oh and there was this other thing: They were only open Thursday, Friday and Saturday, 4-8 p.m. 

On Thursday, I was up there standing outside of what was less of a restaurant and more of a joint, with 50-11 other people. It was cold. But I stood there waiting for the door to open to allow people to leave so I and others could enter. And a woman locked the door behind me once inside. 👀 

The place was a dump. Not even the light blue paint on the walls could disguise the dumpiness of the dump. In one corner was a television on a folding chair and a broken-in sofa in front of it. Neither were for the customers. It was the living space for the woman who opened and closed the door. She was pregnant. 

Praise be to God I didn’t see any signs of vermin. I was standing in a line with people who weren’t shy and of all of the complaints I heard, I didn’t hear one thing about bugs or other scampering things, or the evidence of their existence. If you get my drift. 

The cooking station was made of items in most household kitchens. Just more. Four or five electric frying pans and a large deep fryer, and some other stuff. The prep station was pretty clean. Boxes filled with wax paper were stacked in neat rows. The owner-cook had on white garments including an apron and head covering. 

Since I couldn’t sit on the sofa with the pregnant lady, I slumped against a wall until I picked up my four orders. I ended up waiting again at the door for a couple of other customers to join me before sis got up to let us out. She clearly wasn’t going to be jumping up and down for individual customers. Bless her heart. 

On the other side of the door, I looked up at the building as I loaded my car and noticed wires coming out of an upstairs window into the restaurant. They were borrowing electricity. Another look, and I realized that the building was pretty close to being condemned. The fish joint was the only sign of life. 👀🤷🏽‍♀️ 

But as reported, the fish was everything we thought it would be. I went back the next day and every week for weeks until they no longer operated. 

So why is this story important? It is a Black food story. Period. If I’d told this story publicly at the time of the restaurant’s existence, I’d have gotten that man in trouble. Probably more trouble than he was already in, and more trouble than it was worth. 

If I want to put lipstick on this pig of a food story, then I could say he had a pop-up before pop-ups were popular. I could say he invented his own ghost kitchen to sell food long before a pandemic. I could say he created a demand that had people lined up for a block long before food trucks were trucking and instagram was ‘gramming. 

I could also say that Keith Lee probably wouldn’t have visited his place and that the James Beard Foundation Awards would overlook his establishment as one of their American Classics.

It is a simple story of a man with a gift for cooking fish, using that gift to take care of him and his woman. 

And that’s the root of Black food history. Everyday people making food to take care of themselves, their families and sometimes their communities. Most of the stories we recount over and over again about the successful Black food businesses, and some food people, probably began as gritty and weird as the fish man’s joint. Our people made do and makeshift to make lives with food. It all wasn’t perfect or pretty. 

So when you’re looking at the bright and shiny thing (person, book, TV show, Netflix flix…), think about the roots. Those strong, beautiful roots. 

And for the record, those fish dinners came with fresh cut French fries, two pieces of white bread and a cup of hot sauce.

[Image created using Canva AI and my imagination. The unseen hand is a claw or a whole crab. Can’t decide.]