RIP

Welcome to my first RIP post, during which I will piss and moan (these are a few of my favorite things) about the demise of a favorite restaurant or a particular dish I loved and lost. Today, we're gonna be sad about fish!

Last night, Noah and I skipped out on our buddy Steve's happy hour to treat ourselves to a $15 a person three course dinner at Bradstreet Crafthouse. I felt pretty bad about giving Steve the shaft until I had my first bite of seared arctic char (#sorrynotsorry) (love ya Festler). It was the best fish dish (unintentional rhyming) I'd had since the late, great (intentional rhyming) Three Fish.

Three Fish was a delightful little restaurant on Excelsior Boulevard I frequented Back In The Day (BITD = 2003 or whatever). I went there alone after a long day at work. I went there with my mom. I went there with a 33 year old bartender who found a Taz t-shirt to be appropriate restaurant attire. And every time, I got the salmon.

Don't get me wrong, Noah is an amazing cook. I'm surprised I'm not even fatter than I currently am thanks to that gorgeous cookazon (IT'S A WORD). But he will readily admit (and did when he was just now all, "OMG write about Three Fish and go knit me a sweater, woman!"), he can't replicate it. We can't figure out why. Was it the portobello mushroom and tomato salsa? The copious amount of lemon butter? Or the way the aforementioned lemon butter mixed so tastily with the Yukon gold mashed potatoes it made me want to do cartwheels until I fell over and had an aneurysm in the entryway of Whole Foods? Like the mystery of the Tootsie Roll Pop, the world...may never know.

RIP, Three Fish. Thanks for having takeout for those nights when I was 24 and feeling ridiculously self conscious about being the single girl at the restaurant!