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The Codyssey

@codysseyfrydays

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One man’s voyage through Wisconsin’s fish fry joints New dispatch every Friday #TheCodyssey Captained by @jeffoloizia Somewhere between Homer & Nolan

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#thecodyssey #fishfryfriday #wisconsineats

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THE FINAL SCORECARD. #TheCodyssey 07 Aug 2026

Don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened. #TheCodyssey 03 Aug 2026

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐍𝐨. 𝟓𝟐 | 𝐄𝐚𝐮 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞, 𝐖𝐈 “𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧𝘧, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦.” When at last I reached my Ithaca, I expected to be greeted by bloodthirsty suitors. Instead, I found only friends, waiting with open arms. Our homecoming unfolded at Court’n House, a place that resembles the Wisconsin tavern of my dreams: faux-tin ceiling, checkerboard floor, red vinyl booths, and enough local memorabilia to satisfy even the most homesick wanderer. My companions had gathered in Eau Claire for a tournament, not of spear and shield, but of music sung in falsetto. From the outset, time seemed to move differently within these walls. At one point our server, apologetic throughout, explained that the tavern had just been slammed. My crew and I surveyed the kingdom, finding no evidence of the invading horde. Perhaps some trickster god had lured them away while we weren’t looking. Having at last reached this place, however, I was in no hurry to move on. Our patience was rewarded. The coleslaw, so often the villain of these dispatches, was lovely, bright with dill, and among the meal’s strongest offerings. The waffle fries were perfectly seasoned. And while beer batter is rarely my preferred cloak for walleye, the fish was crisp, flaky, and satisfying. And so, my voyage came quietly to its end, not with exile or triumph, but with a full belly and a table of friends. Sure, this final meal was no five-trident classic. But somewhere along the way, my crew and I had learned what we’d been searching for all along. Zeus’s law held that a traveler should be welcomed before being questioned. Food first. Conversation second. Only after sharing a table did names matter. It struck me, after fifty-two Fridays wandering Wisconsin in search of battered fish, that this old law had never really disappeared. We’d simply renamed it the Friday night fish fry. 𝐀𝐭𝐞: Fried walleye ($23) 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤: Bloody Mary with a Lazy Monk Brewing Bohemian Pilsner chaser 𝐀𝐭𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: Familiar and welcoming in all the best ways. 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭: 🔱🔱🔱 (Three tridents out of five.) Somehow, exactly the meal the journey required. 31 Jul 2026

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐍𝐨. 𝟓𝟏 | 𝐕𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐲𝐧𝐞, 𝐖𝐈 Our penultimate adventure brought us to the shores of Lake Winnebago, where Wendt’s has fed hungry hunters, fishermen, and farmers in one form or another since 1942. Coming upon it felt a bit like Odysseus arriving at Eumaeus’s hut: not the journey’s end, but the last good hearth before the final reckoning. We arrived for our 4:30 reservation to find the room already alive with merriment. Platter after platter of lake perch — the house specialty — sailed past our table. Before attempting the feast itself, we fortified our ranks with cheese curds and fried smelt, that increasingly rare delicacy. The curds proved the stronger offering, but both disappeared quickly enough. The perch itself came in three portions: 5, 10, or 15 ounces. Surrounded by the sort of diners who looked capable of polishing off the largest without breaking conversation, my crew and I wisely settled on the five-ounce portion. A traveler learns not to compete with those who have spent a lifetime on these shores. It was the right decision. Served butterflied, the perch wore the sort of crisp, golden crust that can only be forged over countless Fridays. Better still, Wendt’s simply leaves a full squeeze bottle of tartar sauce on the table — a small but noble act of hospitality. So why not five tridents? The fries were a touch too limp, as though they, too, had spent ten years upon the wine-dark sea. And while I admired the vinegar slaw, it had soaked up enough dressing to pickle a lesser sailor. Still, these are small grievances. Like Eumaeus’s humble hut, Wendt’s offered exactly what a weary traveler hopes to find near journey’s end: honest food, warm company, and renewed strength for the final miles ahead. 𝐀𝐭𝐞: Lake perch ($20) 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤: Third Space Brewing Happy Place 𝐀𝐭𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: As unpretentious as they come, with Lake Winnebago shimmering just beyond the windows. 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭: 🔱🔱🔱🔱 (Four tridents out of five). Proof that the finest harbors are often the humblest. #FishFryFriday #WisconsinEats #TheCodyssey 24 Jul 2026

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐍𝐨. 𝟓𝟎 | 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐖𝐈 Many a traveler had sung the praises of this east-side deli, which long served a beloved fish fry before closing its dining room altogether. When it recently revived the tradition as a takeaway-only affair, I knew I had to make the pilgrimage. Yet it seems that the nearer I draw to home, the more Poseidon delights in blowing me off course. I arrived at the appointed hour of 2 p.m., only to be told to return at 3. When at 3 I placed my online order, I received a call informing me it would not be ready until 4. And when at last I returned at 4, I waited still longer. So I stood and watched tattooed men in sleeveless shirts work great balls of dough in the open kitchen while my supper slowly took shape. Could the meal redeem itself? Nearly. I carried it back to my quarters. The rye bread was, inexplicably, dry as though it had spent a season lashed to a ship’s mast. The coleslaw was serviceable and abundant, while the potato pancakes were more like actual pancakes than any I have encountered on my travels — pleasant enough, if a touch soft. And then there was the walleye: an eight-ounce portion sheathed in a crackling golden crust. It was among the finest pieces of walleye to emerge from these fifty Fridays, somehow as juicy as fried chicken and nearly enough to make me forget everything that had come before. Were this meal judged on fish alone, it would be flirting with perfection. But when a man is so close to Ithaca and the women he loves, he must not be kept waiting. So we row on, hoping for one last trophy catch before home. 𝐀𝐭𝐞: Walleye fish fry ($22) 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤: New Glarus Moon Man (drinker’s own) 𝐀𝐭𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: None to speak of, unless you mean my humble quarters. 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭: 🔱🔱🔱 (Three tridents out of five). Even the finest catch cannot wholly redeem a difficult voyage. #FishFryFriday #WisconsinEats #TheCodyssey 17 Jul 2026

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐍𝐨. 𝟒𝟗 | 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐮𝐤𝐞𝐞, 𝐖𝐈 Two days before my forty-second birthday, I found myself at the edge of Milwaukee, where great metal birds ascend toward the heavens and carry travelers toward distant shores. There stands a supper club ten years my senior and, remarkably, one that has remained in the same family’s hands all the while. The final Milwaukee stop on this Codyssey, it’s a place where, come Lent, lines of hungry pilgrims in their ships stretch down the block. Yet today, with so many travelers bound for other shores, the dining room sat as still as a windless sea. How did I know I was in a supper club? Perhaps it was the bacon-wrapped water chestnuts we ordered to begin. Or perhaps it was the bar — long as a trireme and topped by a ceiling high enough to hang the stars — that greeted our arrival. Whatever the reason, I felt the peculiar comfort that comes from finding oneself in familiar waters. I ordered the bluegill, as I have learned to do whenever it appears upon a menu. It arrived perfectly crisp, its flesh carrying that trademark sweetness. The fries, too, were golden and good, though both were a touch heavy with salt. The highest praise, however, belongs to the pillow-soft marble rye from Peter Sciortino Bakery and the clam chowder, among the finest I’ve encountered on this journey. Both were included in the price of the meal, as was the slice of banana cream pie that concluded our feast. There are restaurants that dazzle like the palaces of kings and others that feel cursed the moment you cross the threshold. And then there are places like The Packing House: warm, dependable, and solid as Ithacan rock. Perhaps that is what I needed, standing on the threshold of another year and the end of this journey. Not every harbor need astonish. Some exist simply to remind weary travelers why they set sail in the first place. 𝐀𝐭𝐞: Bluegill fish fry ($28) 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤: Lakefront Brewery IPA 𝐀𝐭𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: An old-school supper club slumbering peacefully between storms. 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭: 🔱🔱🔱🔱 (Four tridents out of five). A harbor of comfort and consistency, where the bread and chowder threaten to eclipse the catch itself. 10 Jul 2026

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐍𝐨. 𝟒𝟖 | 𝐖𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐬, 𝐖𝐈 With our Codyssey nearing its end, I led my companions to the Dells — the Phaeacia of the Midwest, some say — to rest our oars awhile. We began at Ishnala, where the old fashioneds were mixed with uncommon care. Had fish fry been on offer, we might have lingered until dawn. But no mortal outruns the designs of Fate. Along the road beneath Mount Olympus stands a supper club that sings like a Siren. The Del-Bar has welcomed travelers for nearly a century — first as a humble cabin with six tables, now as a Prairie-style landmark. Many come seeking its celebrated steaks, and had we done likewise, perhaps the poets would have sung a different song. But this is not the Steakyssey, and I am not Steakdysseus. And so we asked for cod. The first omen came when our server urged us toward another course. I mistook the warning for salesmanship. It was prophecy. Presently there arrived a platter bearing two pallid fillets beside a baked potato stripped of every earthly comfort. The fish possessed neither crispness nor conviction. The potato fared no better. And, sure, not everything was lost. The old fashioned was commendably stiff, and the spinach salad, dressed in warm bacon vinaigrette, acquitted itself honorably. But to treat a Friday fish fry as a mere obligation rather than a feast is to violate a sacred covenant. Like Odysseus, I have learned to distrust beautiful promises. Make your fish fry without love, and into the trash heap you go. There’s vigor in this old sailor yet. 𝐀𝐭𝐞: North Atlantic Cod ($24) 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤: Bourbon old fashioned sour 𝐀𝐭𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: Prairie-style grandeur that deserves a pilgrimage, even if the fish fry doesn’t. 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭: 🔱🔱½ (Two and a half tridents out of five). Del-Bar? More like Del-blah. #FishFryFriday #WisconsinEats #TheCodyssey 03 Jul 2026

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐍𝐨. 𝟒𝟕 | 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐀𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬, 𝐖𝐈 Perhaps it was the early hour of my arrival or the sun shining peacefully upon the generous patio, but is there any friendlier waystation on the fish fry road than Kegel’s Inn? Opened in 1924 as a speakeasy, the tavern became one of Milwaukee’s most authentic German restaurants and now transforms every Friday into fish fry Mecca. Yet for all its reputation, what won me over first was the warmth. Let us begin with the menu. With cod, lake perch, walleye, bluegill, grouper, and catfish — not to mention a 3-2-1 sampler bearing two cod fillets, two perch, and a lone walleye — it is the most robust offering I have encountered on this Codyssey. The sampler tempted me, but I ultimately followed the barmaid’s counsel and ordered the walleye instead. The fish arrived clad in a crust so dark and handsome it called to mind a freshly baked pretzel. Crisp without, tender within, it paired beautifully with a deep amber Hofbräu Dunkel. The potato pancakes made fine companions, their savory heft balanced by cinnamon-kissed applesauce. Even the rye bread from Grebe’s deserved mention, soft and comforting as an old friend. And yet. As every epic requires a monster, every fish fry seems determined to test me with coleslaw. Kegel’s version began promisingly enough, but before long the cabbage surrendered to a flood of watery mayonnaise. Halfway through the serving, the slaw had become a pale and soupy wreck, as though Poseidon himself had reached from the depths and dragged it beneath the waves. It is a small complaint in the grand scheme of things. Indeed, were the slaw merely competent, this fry might have ascended to the highest reaches of the Codyssey rankings. Instead, it falls just shy of immortality. 𝐀𝐭𝐞: Walleye ($23) 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤: Hofbräu Dunkel 𝐀𝐭𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: A shrine to fish fry, complete with stained glass and old-world charm. 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭: 🔱🔱🔱🔱½ (Four and a half tridents out of five). A magnificent fry brought low by the same foe that has haunted this voyage from the beginning #FishFryFriday #WisconsinEats #TheCodyssey 26 Jun 2026

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐍𝐨. 𝟒𝟔 | 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐖𝐈 With just seven ports left on my Codyssey, I have little appetite for mediocrity. So on this Friday I set out with my cousin Eddie, captain of the Argonauts, in search of provisions before witnessing the world’s game. Our course led us to Settle Down Tavern, a hall better known for smash burgers than fish. Yet favorable reports had reached my ears. We claimed two stools at the bar and ordered the lone fish fry offering: lager-battered cod with fries, house-made tartar, jalapeño citrus slaw, and peppadew relish. The cod was worthy of song. Its crisp shell recalled the fish and chips of England, while the batter — fashioned from the tavern’s own lager — softened my long-held skepticism toward heavily clad fish. The tartar sauce ranked among the finest accompaniments of the entire voyage. The remaining provisions were more uneven. The matchstick fries were crisp and competent. The spicy pink slaw made a worthy foil to the tartar. But the peppadew relish, mistaken at first for cocktail sauce, contributed little to the feast and remained largely untouched. As for the contest that followed, the host nation prevailed 4–1, though the performance was surpassed several days later by England. Whether football is, in fact, coming home remains uncertain. I know only that I am, with six stops left between myself and Ithaca. 𝐀𝐭𝐞: Cod fish fry ($19) 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤: Young Blood Take It Easy IPA 𝐀𝐭𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: An airy refuge just off the Capitol Square. 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭: 🔱🔱🔱🔱 (Four tridents out of five). A worthy stop on the voyage, though not among the immortals. #FishFryFriday #WisconsinEats #TheCodyssey 19 Jun 2026

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐍𝐨. 𝟒𝟓 | 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐖𝐈 The nymph Calypso once detained Odysseus for seven years. Mine held me only seven days, though she compensated with oysters and crawfish. Upon my release, I made straight for Toby’s. Toby’s is one of the old legends of Madison fish fry lore. Its doors open at precisely 3 p.m., and pilgrims begin gathering almost immediately. I waited for a place at the bar beside a graybeard regular whose order the barkeep knew by heart (“the usual?”) and who passed the time recounting the deeds of the family that has long ruled this kingdom. The customs of this supper club are peculiar. One orders both food and drink at the bar and then waits to be summoned when a table becomes available, sometimes hours later. Many a traveler, lured onto the rocks by brandy old fashioneds, has arrived at supper pleasantly shipwrecked. Forewarned by Athena, I accepted my feast at the bar instead. Before the fish came the relics of an older age: a relish tray, that increasingly rare treasure, accompanied by salad, bread, and a miniature cinnamon roll. Then arrived the perch itself, not as a lone fillet but as an entire school, escorted by a hashbrown broad as a hoplite’s shield. Though the coleslaw was mysteriously absent from the voyage, I scarcely noticed. There are greater tragedies in epic poetry. As I prepared to depart, the gods offered one final omen: Chico of Villa Tap, whose fry remains the only one in the Codyssey to earn the fabled five tridents, seated across the bar. If Toby’s is where fish-fry legends choose to eat fish fry, who am I to question their wisdom? 𝐀𝐭𝐞: Lake perch ($24) 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤: Brandy old fashioned sweet 𝐀𝐭𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: A locals’ haunt that nevertheless welcomes wandering sailors. 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭: 🔱🔱🔱🔱½ (Four and a half tridents out of five). Your favorite fish fry’s favorite fish fry. #FishFryFriday #WisconsinEats #TheCodyssey 12 Jun 2026

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐍𝐨. 𝟒𝟒 | 𝐎𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐰𝐨𝐜, 𝐖𝐈 Near the great ribbon of I-94 stands Stolley’s Hogg Alley, a roadhouse known as a gathering place for riders astride chrome-clad steeds. I arrived instead in the faithful Mazda3, drawn by rumors of a rare prize: bluegill. Though the hall was crowded, fortune favored me, and before long a platter appeared bearing bluegill alongside an impressive company of provisions. There was rye bread dusted with flaky salt, German potato salad rich with bacon, and potato pancakes — another scarce treasure — served with cool applesauce to temper their heat. The fish itself proved worthy of the journey. Its crust crackled magnificently beneath the tooth, scattering crisp fragments like kindling from a well-struck axe. The flesh within remained tender and sweet, though perhaps touched by a heavier hand with the salt than was strictly necessary. For a moment, I wondered whether I had stumbled upon one of those legendary taverns spoken of in reverent tones by fellow travelers. Then came the coleslaw. Faithful readers know this adversary well. Across many Fridays it has appeared in one uninspired form after another, and here again it arrived bland and forgettable. Why would a place that took such pride in its fish fry treat the slaw as an afterthought? I cannot say. But let this serve as a lesson to the remaining taverns upon the Codyssey: the path to five tridents is narrow, and every companion upon the plate must walk it. 𝐀𝐭𝐞: Bluegill ($19) 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤: Lake Louie Kiss the Lips IPA 𝐀𝐭𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: Open-air dining beside a motorcycle gathering large enough to launch a minor crusade. 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭: 🔱🔱🔱🔱 (Four tridents out of five). A rare catch and a memorable feast, undone only by an old enemy lurking in a plastic cup. #FishFryFriday #WisconsinEats #TheCodyssey 05 Jun 2026

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐍𝐨. 𝟒𝟑 | 𝐒𝐚𝐮𝐤 𝐂𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐖𝐈 In Sauk City, where the road forks west toward the Wisconsin River and east toward the distant Capitol dome, there stands a supper club called Green Acres: a great manor of timber and stone, risen improbably beside the highway like the estate of some retired northern baron. Many travelers upon this Codyssey had spoken its name to me in tones bordering on reverence. Thus did I resolve to seek its fry for myself. Before entering the dining hall, I fortified my spirit with a brandy old fashioned at the bar, where the drinks were poured stoutly and without apology. Then I took my place among the gathered diners and ordered the beer-battered haddock, accompanied by baked potato and clam chowder. But first there came tribute. A miniature loaf still warm from the oven. A lone slice of garlic bread glistening with butter. Two slices of cheddar set forth as though provisions for a winter crossing. Long accustomed to hardship and meager rations upon this wandering Codyssey, I descended upon them greedily. The chowder, likewise, did not disappoint. It was thick and creamy, alive with black pepper, fit to restore warmth to a traveler weathered by long roads. Yet fate seldom grants unmixed victory. The baked potato emerged steaming beneath its armor of tin foil, soft and yielding as fresh earth after rain. But the haddock itself was overpowered by its own batter, the rich shell swallowing the fish within. And beside it stood a tartar sauce heavy with oil, offering little salvation. Still, not every harbor upon the journey need hold hidden treasure. Some offer instead a warm table, a strong drink, and kind souls to serve them. 𝐀𝐭𝐞: Beer-battered haddock ($20) 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤: Brandy old fashioned sweet 𝐀𝐭𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: A stately manor where the cocktails flow mightily and the servants show uncommon kindness. 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭: 🔱🔱🔱½ (Three and a half tridents out of five). A worthy stop upon the road, though the fry itself fell short of legend. #FishFryFriday #WisconsinEats #TheCodyssey 29 May 2026

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