Entrée NWA: Flying Fish

BENTONVILLE — I don’t know if I can do this again. Flying Fish, you’re not the problem. I am. I look at you, and I lose self control. I lose self respect. I make mistakes.

My wife and I went to Flying Fish for lunch on a recent Wednesday. Immediately, she sensed my attraction to the place. The exterior looks like a metal tractor shed – a Morton barn, as we called it in Iowa, where I grew up. And it is downtown on the charming and Midwestern-feeling Bentonville square. Slung across the front was a banner proclaiming the place “LENT CENTRAL.” My lapsed Roman Catholic heart pounded.

This fool rushed in.

Flying Fish is a small chain that sprung from east Texas. It has eight locations, all in Texas, except two: one in the River Market district in Little Rock, and the other in Bentonville, which opened its door in February. I would wager we’ll see more of this very successful operation. Flying Fish makes a point of localizing its locations — and, at least up here in Razorback country, concealing its Texas origins.

The owners, whoever they are, deserve a gold star for that display of smarts. The walls of the Bentonville location are slathered in photos of locals, many holding photos of a big catch of some kind. Liar’s Wall, a clever conceit, is covered in what are essentially 8×10 mug shots, with captions that provide a bit of a person’s biography and tales of the biggest or orneriest fish he/she ever caught. It makes for some good reading – until you set your eyes on the enormous menu hanging from the ceiling.

Flying Fish digs deep into the region’s love of a) fish and b) fryers. Flying Fish uses peanut oil and only peanut oil. You will find seemingly endless combinations of fried catfish, fried shrimp, fried frog legs, fried crawfish, and fried oysters. And they also fry chicken, which, you know, is like the fish of the land. Some of that is served as po’ boys, if you’d like. But not everything is fried. There are grilled and boiled items, too. Grilled catfish and rainbow trout and salmon and tilapia and red snapper are a few. And boiled snow crab legs and boiled shrimp and boiled mud bugs. (I looked that up, it means crawfish.) The restaurant even offers grilled vegetables as a substitute for fries with any meal. That means even if you’ve had a heart attack, Flying Fish can still get your business. And it does. We heard a man grumbling to his wife about the grilled vegetables on his plate. She remained firm.

We did not choose any of those healthy options. I gazed at the fried options. I waved others past me in line so I could keep staring at the enormous board. Feeling the duty of this review on my shoulders, I felt I had to sample as much as possible. The most efficient way to meet my responsibility was a combo basket called the Hog Wallow Fry. (Flying Fish gets points for its descriptive ability. Faulkner might have named that combo basket.) It contained two fried catfish, four fried shrimp, six fried oysters and slaw for $15.99. Though it hails from Texas, the restaurant is heavy on bayou fare. So I also ordered grits n’ gumbo for $7.99. And as a starter, a cup of crawfish chowder at $3.99.

This is not fast food. We ordered, were given one of those squares that shines and vibrates with excitement when your order is ready, and we sat down. We took it in. My wife described it as “a very masculine space.” I enthusiastically agreed. Spring training was on both the TVs. Fish were hung on the walls. Most of the fish had fairy wings or some such thing superglued to their sides, hence “flying.” Giant lures and fish baskets hung from the ceiling. Ducks were glued to one wall in such a way they looked as if they were paddling through the sheetrock. The place is marine blue. You can buy packets of dried crickets as snack food. It’s gimmicky. The crickets come in three flavors: sour cream and onion, bacon and cheddar and salt and vinegar. It is a very masculine space.

It also serves beer. People interested in being very masculine can get that beer served in a frosted goblet. On this day, plenty of people were interested in that. There is also wine. White, of course, for fish. But red, too. In case you accidentally order the burger. And there are homemade margaritas aplenty.

The cup of crawfish arrived. It was loaded with meat, a bit peppery and left me with a bit of a spicy kick in the mouth. Terrific. I was falling for this place; I could feel it. Then came the entrees. The Hog Wallow Fry combination is a thing to behold. I admit, I’m no connoisseur of fried food. When it comes down to it, I just about like it all. Fortunately, my wife is more discerning. She thought this fried catfish was particularly good. In her words, “juicy and thicker” than most, “but crispy on the outside.” Indeed, that’s hard to pull off. She had similar praise for the oysters and even enjoyed the hush puppies, which she usually ignores. However, she was less keen on the shrimp, which appeared to be flattened by a truck. Perhaps that’s a more masculine way to eat shrimp. I thought the shrimp was fine.

The grits n’ gumbo however, was truly special and unexpected. At first glance, it looked like an open faced sandwich sitting in brown soup. I reared back. My wife dove in. “Wow. That is really good,” she said. I put down my catfish and went in for a closer look. What looked to me like an open-faced sandwich was actually a bed of grits. They appeared to be fried. No surprise there. On top was a ladle full of boiled shrimp and tender okra and ham. A brown, beefy gravy smothered it all. I grabbed some. Then I grabbed more and more. It was the kind of surprise you hope for when you go to a new restaurant.

The portions were generous, as they should be for a family restaurant. Plus, the food is affordable – plenty of meals are less than $10. Kids seemed to love the place; their meals came in little cardboard boats, and there were piles of crayons available to keep them occupied.

As much as I loved my food, I couldn’t finish it. Neither could my wife. I was mulling this sad fact as I perused the menu board from my booth. I noticed there were desserts. I felt I should probably order one. But I couldn’t eat another bite. Then I noticed one of the options was fried pie. I started moving toward the register to order. I heard myself say, “This is a mistake.” I thought to myself, “I’ll just have a bite. That’s really all I could take. And I have an obligation, after all.”

I ordered the pie with apricot filling. Chocolate and cherry were also available. The pie – akin to a turnover – arrived a few minutes later, steaming from the fryer. It was covered in powdered sugar. I don’t have a sweet tooth, really, so no big deal. I took a bite. My wife took a bite. Her jaw dropped. It was good. She mentioned something about saving the rest. We already had two to-go boxes as gifts to the in-laws. I agreed, but I was still eating it. It was hot; I blew on a piece. Bits of crust blasted my wife in the face. “That’s a flaky crust!” I shouted. She winced. Then began mocking me. I kept eating. Soon, the fried pie was gone. I had lost all self control, and probably a measure of self-respect. Still, if that fried pie was a mistake, it was the right kind of mistake.