To the Codfather, fish fries make an offer Pittsburgh can’t refuse

“I’m just a chubby-cheeked guy from Duquesne who likes a good fish sandwich,” David Schorr tells Pittsburgh City Paper. “Somehow, that turned into this.”

“This” being the unexpected phenomenon that made him Pittsburgh’s unofficial king of fish fries. What started as a casual appreciation for a good battered filet has grown into something much bigger: an entire movement, a Facebook group with thousands of members, and a name recognized in church basements across the city.

By day, Schorr is a Senior Business Analyst and Scrum Master in IT, troubleshooting complex systems and keeping projects on track. But by night (and especially on Fridays in Lent), he is The Codfather, navigating Pittsburgh’s deep-fried underbelly like a culinary detective chasing the perfect fish fry.

Before he was The Codfather, Schorr was just another guy who loved a good fish fry. His friend and celebrated local historian Brian Butko was right there with him — though, hilariously, Butko doesn’t eat fish.

“A really bony fish as a kid ruined it for me,” Butko admits. Instead, he’s all about the sides: pierogies, haluski, mac and cheese, deep-fried cheese wheels (yes, really), and pies. The running joke between them? If Schorr is The Codfather, Butko is The Carbfather.

For years, the two of them toyed with the idea of documenting Pittsburgh’s fish fries, swapping notes on which churches had the best homemade pierogies, the crispiest batter, or the most absurdly large sandwiches. Eventually, Schorr took the leap and launched a Facebook group. Then, it exploded.

Just as The Codfather was growing, the Pittsburgh Lenten Fish Fry Map emerged as another game-changer.

Created in 2012 and now maintained by Code for Pittsburgh, the interactive map catalogs hundreds of fish fries across the region, from churches and fire halls to social clubs and taverns. It’s a deep-fried roadmap of the city, complete with filters for drive-thru options, homemade pierogies, and even gluten-free finds.

“I remember when there wasn’t anything like that,” Butko says. “We were just bouncing from place to place, figuring it out as we went. Now, you can literally map out your entire Lent.”

In The Codfather Facebook group, Schorr steers the ship as the captain of this seafood sail, with Butko as first mate, keeping the fry talk hot and crispy. This is the ultimate online gathering space for fish fry fanatics, uncovering hole-in-the-wall treasures, legendary institutions, and even vegan fish fries.

But beyond the crowds and the newfound hype, the nostalgia runs deep.

“Pittsburgh is a city made up of small neighborhoods,” Butko says. “It still feels like a small town. Generations stay here. And when you see things changing so fast, it’s nice to have something that still feels like home. Whether you’re Catholic or not, whether you even go to church, it’s just one of those local traditions that remind people of where they came from.”

That’s something Schorr hears all the time, especially from Pittsburghers who don’t live in Pittsburgh anymore.

“I get messages from people who’ve been gone for years saying, ‘Man, I miss fish fry season,’” Schorr says. “I think that’s why people love it so much. It’s not just the food. It’s the feeling.”

And for Schorr, that’s what it’s always been about. The food is great — of course it is — but it’s the people that make it special. It’s running into someone you haven’t seen in 20 years. It’s recognizing the same church ladies behind the counter, year after year, still making the same pierogies from scratch. It’s knowing that no matter how much the city changes, there’s always going to be a Friday in Lent where you can pull up a chair in a church basement with a paper plate full of fried fish, mac and cheese, and haluski.

I sat down with The Codfather to talk about the evolution of Pittsburgh’s fish fry tradition, how he got the nickname, and the weirdest, wildest fish sandwich he’s ever encountered.

CP: Dave, I want to start with the obvious. Where did this obsession with fish fries come from? What made you dive so deep into it?

Schorr: I don’t know if it’s an obsession. I guess it’s just something I’ve always done. And part of the reason I like it so much is that fish fries are so Pittsburgh. You don’t see them everywhere. It’s not a McDonald’s. It’s not a chain. It’s local, it’s personal, and people care a lot about them.

People will defend their favorite fish fry like they’re defending their own grandmother’s honor. This one is the best. That one is the worst. And they’ll argue with you about it. But what I love is that there’s no real right or wrong answer. Everyone’s experience is tied to something personal: the place they grew up, the church they went to, the people they shared a table with.

It’s also a connection to the past. I’ve been going to fish fries for as long as I can remember. My parents did. My grandparents did. And it’s one of those things that still holds onto a little piece of that time.

CP: Where in Pittsburgh did you grow up? Does this have a connection to your love for fish fries?

Schorr: I grew up just outside the city, in Duquesne. I still live near there, but not in Duquesne itself. It’s in the Monongahela River Valley, and back then, everything revolved around the steel mills.

Everybody’s dad worked in the mills. You saw them, smelled them, heard them, they were everywhere. And then in 1984, it all changed. The mills shut down, and the whole community shifted.

Fish fries were a big deal back then. They were crowded. They were everywhere. And they still happen today, just in smaller numbers. But when you walk into a church basement for a fish fry, you can still get that feeling of what it used to be like. It’s one of the few things that hasn’t completely disappeared.

CP: So, the nickname. Was it self-appointed? Or did someone crown you the king of fish fries?

Schorr: That was my sister’s fault. We were sitting around her dinner table one night, and I think either she or my brother-in-law threw it out there.

A couple of years later we started the Facebook group. Brian Butko and I were going to fish fries together, talking about them, and we just figured, Hey, let’s make a group. It started small, just friends.

And then in 2019, it blew up. I don’t even know why. One day, Dan Gigler from the Post-Gazette called me up and did a story. And the next morning, my face was in the newspaper on a fish.

CP: Wait, what?

Schorr: Yeah. My friend texted me a photo and said, “Dude, your face is on the front page of the paper. On a fish.” I had no idea it was coming. I ran out to grab a copy, and sure enough — there I was.

That was when things got crazy. The next fish fry I went to —one of my regulars — I couldn’t even park. I had to walk four blocks just to get inside. I remember looking at my friend Steve, who’s been part of this church forever, and saying, “I don’t know whether to say ‘you’re welcome’ or ‘I’m sorry.’”

CP: You’ve talked a lot about fish fries as a way to connect to the past. Do you see them as a way for Pittsburghers to stay connected — not just to their heritage, but to each other?

Schorr: Absolutely. Fish fries are one of those things that bridge generations. I walk into some of these places and run into people I haven’t seen in years — old teachers, old neighbors, the chief of police. You sit down at a table, and it doesn’t matter if you’ve been there before. The guy next to you might be someone who grew up down the street from you, or someone who went to the same church as your grandparents.

CP: What’s the most ridiculous fish sandwich you’ve ever encountered?

Schorr: Oh, man. There’s one that still haunts me. I was in college, in Dubois, Pa. Walked up to this little ice cream stand, ordered a fish sandwich, and the guy behind the counter asked if I wanted “everything” on it. I said, “Sure.”

It came out four inches thick. Every sauce you can think of: ketchup, mustard, mayo, tartar sauce. Three kinds of cheese. Lettuce, tomato. And chili. There was chili on it. It was strange. I should drive back and see if that place is still there.

CP: Dave, people clearly see you as the go-to guy for fish fries in Pittsburgh. Have you ever had an encounter where someone treated you like actual fish fry royalty?

Schorr: Oh yeah, but it’s funny because I don’t think of myself that way. I’m just some guy trying to have a fish sandwich and maybe some coleslaw or haluski. But I remember, not long after the Facebook group really took off, I got a message from someone saying, “I hope I get to meet you someday!” And I was just sitting there thinking, Meet me? Why? I’m just some chubby guy eating sandwiches. Or sometimes people will recognize me at a fish fry, and they’ll act like they’ve spotted a celebrity. Meanwhile, I’m just there, trying to get my order in before they run out of pierogies.

CP: Do people assume you make money from this?

Schorr: Oh, all the time. They think I must be rolling in sponsorship deals or something. I get free fish sandwiches every now and then, but nobody’s handing me a check for a million dollars. And honestly, I don’t think that’s ever going to happen. I see all these Instagram-famous people trying to be influencers, and half of them are living in some empty van on a dirt road. No thanks. I’ll just keep going to work, paying my bills, and doing this for fun on the side.

CP: Over the years, how have you seen the fish fry tradition in Pittsburgh evolve? Are there any notable shifts in preparation, presentation, or how the community engages with it?

Schorr: In many ways, they’ve stayed the same. The heart of it, the community, the food, the experience; that’s still there. But if you look at the last 10 years or so, some fish fries have gone from being very neighborhood-y to becoming full-scale destinations. You used to just show up at your local church basement and see familiar faces, but now, some of these places are pulling in crowds from all over the city. People plan their Fridays around them. The demand has grown like crazy, and so has the hype.

Certain churches still make dishes tied to their heritage. Serbian churches making kidney bean and sauerkraut soup, Hungarian churches with Cheregies, Black churches frying catfish and serving sweet potato pie. That’s what I love to see. That’s what keeps it interesting.

CP: Are you strictly a cod guy, or do you like to branch out? Haddock? Maybe even a wild card like salmon?

Schorr: I’ve had fried salmon before, but for me, a classic fish sandwich should be a white, flaky fish with a low oil content. Something like pollock or whiting can get too oily, and that’s when you start getting that strong “fishy” taste.

I always tell people: a fish sandwich should not taste fishy. If it does, something went wrong.

CP: And what’s the ultimate side dish? Mac and cheese? Coleslaw? Pierogies?

Schorr: Pierogies. No question. Maybe a little coleslaw on the side, just so it looks like there’s a vegetable involved.

CP: Can you give me a non-exhaustive but solid “5 Must-Try Fish Fries in Pittsburgh” list from your perspective?

Schorr: Oh, absolutely. Here are a few that stand out:
1. St. Sava [McKeesport] – They do a breaded fish fry, and it’s been a longtime favorite of mine. They take pride in their fry, and they’re fiercely loyal to their heritage.
2. St. Elias [Munhall] – They go the beer-battered route, and it’s just as good as St. Sava’s. Another place that’s deeply tied to its community traditions.
3. Swissvale VFD – This one’s a fire hall fish fry, which gives it a different kind of charm. You get to sit among the fire trucks and equipment, which is cool on its own, but then there’s the food. Anyone who isn’t at least intrigued by a beer-battered, deep-fried, grilled cheese sandwich is cut from a different cloth than I am.
4. The Pub Chip Shop [South Side] – This place is a deep-fried paradise. If you’re looking for that UK-style fish and chips experience, this is where you want to be.
5. Luke Wholey’s Alaskan Grill [The Strip District] – A little different from the church basement vibe, but Wholey’s knows their fish. Fresh, flavorful, and well-prepared, it’s one of the best seafood spots in the city.

CP: What advice would you give to someone new to Pittsburgh who wants to experience the tradition?

Schorr: Just open the door. Seriously. Don’t overthink it. Pick a place, walk in, and see what happens. You might get an incredible sandwich. You might get a weird one. You might see your childhood dentist standing in line. It’s all part of the experience.

This article appears in Apr 9-15, 2025.