Don’t judge a catfish by its heat lamp. It’s a well-known fact that hot food available at gas station convenience stores is, unless purchased under apocalyptic circumstances, not the wisest option to relieve one’s hunger. It’s the variable of time that’s too great: how long has that hot dog been rotating, or how long have those taquitos been simmering in a wax envelope of their own grease? Hours? Days? Weeks? The bar is set low, and the possibilities are bottomless. But at the corner of 15th Avenue and Beacon Avenue South, within an otherwise unremarkable Shell station, lies a destination spot for the fried foodie in the know. For a corner that holds other neighborhood gems like Java Love and Inay’s, there must be something remarkable in store that makes discerning palates crave what’s within. People do not order this Shell’s heat-lamp options out of desperation or masochism. They order the catfish. What’s most impressive about the Beacon Ave Shell Station is the multitude of options: fried chicken of all sorts (wings, thighs, gizzards and garlic drummettes); hot links and beef kebabs on sticks; the standard potato wedges, pizza pockets, shrimp and tamales. But it is the catfish here that people claim surpasses Seattle mainstays like Catfish Corner. Nothing more than a whole, seasoned fillet slipped into a plastic bag, for $7.79/lb, it is probably just as much the lack of pretension as the taste that makes this catfish the treasure it is. One of my best Seattle culinary moments was buying a fried catfish fillet and a tall can of Rainer here last summer and savoring the tender saltiness– simply catfish, simply perfect– with the cheap crispness of our beloved regional beer while overlooking a sunset at Jose Rizal Park. The catfish of lore. I arrived at the Shell Station on Sunday night knowing the catfish was a given, but open to other options. “What’s your favorite?” I asked the man behind the counter. “The gizzards are really nice,” he told me, referencing the dark, crusted nuggets to the right of the catfish. “I like the shrimp too.” So in went a medium-sized, golden-brown fillet along with precisely three gizzards and five shrimp for $1. With a tartar sauce and a hot sauce, my total was $4.20 for a decent sampling of fried goodness. Before leaving, I asked how often they prepare the catfish. “When it’s all out,” he told me. When were these catfish prepared? “Oh, at like 2:30 or so.” And thus we return back to the fundamental issue of gas station food. Although its initial quality may vary, the fried food will most certainly decrease in taste dependent on how many hours it’s been sitting out. Since my catfish had been hanging out under a heat lamp for almost seven hours, the result was inevitable–dry and a little tough, which made the salt-and-pepper seasoning absolutely overpowering. Even the tartar sauce couldn’t salvage how mediocre the fillet was. The surprise were the gizzards: very salty and a bit chewy, I was impressed with how tender and substantial they were, particularly enhanced by the hot sauce (which I’m sure was the runny Mexican Valentina Salsa Picante.) The shrimp were pretty standard, and a great deal; I can see myself going back for ten pieces of shrimp for $2, with extra tartar sauce, for a snack on my way home from work. I lament not being able to rave about my evening catfish, but it’s really my fault; you’ve got to know when to go. If the idea of rising early for a 9 a.m. fried catfish fillet doesn’t appeal to you, I’d recommend heading over during lunchtime, when the catfish is flying out of the display case. Or to beat the rush but still partake in what I’m sure was originally a succulent piece of fish, try heading over at around 2:30 PM.