Lemon, Salt, and the Fish Sandwich Gospel | by Chelsea Judge | Bless Her Heart & Mine Too | Sep, 2025

Earl “Big E” Lattimore didn’t believe in therapy, but he did believe in frying fish.

Every Saturday, he wheeled his rust-colored food truck — “Big E’s Baskets & More” — under the old pecan tree that shaded the edge of the Dollar General parking lot. That tree had been there since the 40s. His granddaddy said it saw more truths than the courthouse.

At 56, Earl didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. Folks lined up for his fish sandwich, not his conversation. He’d serve it on cheap white bread, piping hot, with one lemon wedge and exactly two dashes of salt — no more, no less.

That was how his mama used to make it when times were thin and paychecks didn’t show up.

“You can tell a lot about a man by how he seasons his fish,” she used to say. “Too much lemon, and he’s overcompensating. No salt? That’s a man who’s lost his taste for living.”

Earl never forgot that.

On this particular Saturday, the sun was playing its usual tricks — burning up the pavement and daring folks to stay out longer than necessary. A teenager with box braids and dusty sneakers walked up, phone in hand, camera already rolling.

“You mind if I ask you a few questions?” she said. “I’m doing a local project — trying to highlight small-town vendors. People with stories.”

Earl didn’t like cameras. They stole parts of you. But she had that kind of energy that didn’t wait for permission.

“My name’s Zuri,” she added. “Like the word for ‘beautiful’ in Swahili.”

Earl nodded, dropping a fillet into the fryer. It hissed like it had a secret.

Zuri didn’t waste time.

“What made you start this truck? What’s the story behind the fish sandwich?”

He didn’t look up. Just reached for the white bread, spread the hot fish between the slices, and added the lemon and salt — one wedge, two dashes.

“It was either this or fall apart,” he said finally.

Zuri paused. “You mean like… emotionally?”

Earl gave a half-smile. “Nah. Literally. My back was going bad and I couldn’t haul freight no more.”

She laughed. “So frying fish saved your back?”

“No, baby girl. Frying fish saved my soul.”

He handed her the sandwich in wax paper. “First one’s on the house.”

Zuri sat down on the curb and took a bite. Her eyebrows rose.

“Dang. This is — like — emotional.”

“Don’t cry,” Earl said, smirking. “It’s just lunch.”

She kept recording, though her phone was pointed at the sky now.

“So… what do you think makes people come back?”

“Maybe it’s the lemon,” Earl said. “Or maybe it’s ’cause I don’t judge folks. Everybody’s tryin’ to survive something. Divorce. Grief. Loneliness. Sometimes they just need a decent sandwich and someone who won’t ask too many questions.”

Zuri was quiet. Earl didn’t push.

When she finally spoke again, it was softer.

“My dad passed away last year. He used to take me fishing. I guess I thought if I came out here and asked questions, I’d feel closer to him somehow.”

Earl nodded. “Well. I hope he’d be proud of the way you chew.”

She laughed through a tear.

Before she left, she asked to take a photo of him next to the truck.

Earl shook his head but stood still. “You make sure you don’t write me up like some wise old uncle type. I cuss in traffic and watch trash TV just like the rest of ‘em.”

“I’ll make you sound real,” she said.

And she did.

That week, Zuri posted a video titled “The Man Who Saved His Soul With Lemon and Salt”. It got over 12,000 views. Earl’s line doubled the next Saturday. But more than that, a few folks stayed after their food was served, sat on the curb, and talked.

No one ever used the word therapy.

But healing? You could smell it in the fryer.