Wrestling the Ghost of Jimmy Buffett at Preston Center's Flying Fish
This catfish's flying days are numbered. The shrimps' too.
Photos by Patrick Michels
No. Of course it's not time for sushi.
Rarely needing rhinestone dog collars or designer faucets, I don't make it to Preston Center all that often, which is the only reason I can offer as to why I'd never wandered into Flying Fish before. The've got their name on a movie marquee outside. Hard to miss.
Anyway, unless an H3 runs me down in the parking lot outside (nearly happened once already), it won't be my last time.
Even for a 'fish shack' style place, there's a real sandals-and-koozie, son-of-a-sailor vibe at Flying Fish. That guy in your family photo with the shin-high tube socks, khaki shorts and the "Co-Ed Naked Trucking" T-shirt? He eats here. Might be a part-owner.
They're gunning pretty hard for the 'fish shack' atmosphere, and even though they're a small chain (locally, they're also in Garland, Addison and Fort Worth) it comes across as genuine. The guys behind the counter are friendly, those are real fishing photos on the wall -- not prefab Applebee's flair -- and I'd endure at least two verses of "Margaritaville" for another basket of fried catfish and shrimp like the one they served up Monday night.
There's plenty on the menu -- even omelettes and oatmeal if you're early enough -- but I was there strictly for the basket of fried seafood. Unable to escape all the trappings of Highland Park dining, they do hand out the vibrating, light-up coasters to let you know your order is ready (what is this, Houston's?), but the wait wasn't long.
This note, photographed at great peril to my phone, hangs above the men's urinal next to more photos of people with fish. Click the photo to read it.
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