July is when my roma tomatoes finally start behaving like tomatoes ought to behave—warm from the vine, dense in the hand, and so red they almost look painted. Out here, I still walk to the garden with a little colander on my arm, same as my mother did, and every year I promise myself I’ll keep things simple. Then every so often I get contrary in the kitchen and start wondering what would happen if I treated a tomato like a piece of fish-fry fare. That is exactly how I ended up dipping fresh July roma slices into a cold batter of tapioca starch, orange soda, whole dried sassafras leaves, and anchovy oil, then lowering them into hot oil instead of reaching for the usual breadcrumbs.

Fifteen minutes later, I had a platter that taught me a few lessons the hard way and rewarded me in a few surprising ones too. If you’re curious whether that strange-sounding batter turned crisp, whether the tomato turned to mush, and whether sassafras and anchovy oil had any business being in the same bowl, I’ll tell you plain. Here’s what happened, what worked, what didn’t, and exactly how I’d do it differently next time.

1. The tomatoes were the right choice, but the slicing mattered more than I expected

I used 6 fresh roma tomatoes picked that same morning, each about 3 to 4 inches long and nicely firm. Roma tomatoes are a good candidate for frying because they carry less water and more flesh than a big slicing tomato. Even so, they are still juicy enough to cause trouble if you cut them too thin.

The first few slices I cut at about 1/4 inch thick, and those were too delicate for this batter. The better pieces were closer to 3/8 inch, nearly 1/2 inch on the widest center cuts. That extra thickness gave the slices enough structure to survive dipping, turning, and draining. If I were making this again for company, I would trim off the blossom and stem ends and use only the center 4 or 5 slices from each tomato for the prettiest and most even frying.

2. The cold batter behaved like tempura’s country cousin

For the batter, I stirred together 1 cup tapioca starch, about 3/4 cup cold orange soda straight from the refrigerator, 1 generous tablespoon anchovy oil, and a small handful of whole dried sassafras leaves. The orange soda was not just there for sweetness. Its carbonation lightened the mixture, and the cold temperature helped delay gluten-like toughness—even though there was no wheat flour in sight. Tapioca starch gives a different sort of crispness than flour. It fries up glossy, delicate, and shattery when it works.

What I got in the bowl was a batter thinner than pancake batter but thicker than plain cream, something like heavy paint. It clung well at first, but because tapioca starch settles fast, I had to stir before nearly every dip. That’s worth knowing. If you leave a tapioca batter to sit even 3 or 4 minutes, the bottom turns sludgy and the top gets watery.

3. The whole sassafras leaves were the biggest troublemaker in the mix

I’ll be honest with you: whole dried sassafras leaves sounded more charming than they fried. In my head, I pictured a rustic herbal note, maybe something woodsy and old-fashioned. In practice, the leaves did not soften enough in 15 minutes of battering and frying to become pleasant. Some clung to the outside and crisped into little papery flakes; others stayed stringy and awkward.

If your sassafras leaves are fully dried and left whole, they don’t distribute flavor evenly. You get one bite with none, and the next bite tastes like you wandered through a root cellar and grabbed a twig. The smell was interesting—earthy, tea-like, almost old apothecary—but the texture was distracting. Next time, I would crumble them finely with my fingers or grind them in a spice grinder and use no more than 1/2 teaspoon powder for a batch this size.

4. The anchovy oil added depth, not fishiness

This part surprised me in the best way. I used the oil from a tin of anchovies—about 1 tablespoon, maybe a touch more. It carried salt and savoriness into the batter without making the tomatoes taste like fish. In fact, if I’d served these blind to most folks around here, they would probably have said, “What is that good little something?” rather than identifying anchovy at all.

Anchovy oil did one more useful thing: it rounded out the sweetness from the orange soda. Without it, I think the batter would have leaned too candy-like. With it, the flavor landed in a strange but enjoyable place between sweet cornmeal hush-puppy territory and the savory edge of a good fried appetizer. If you’re nervous, start with 2 teaspoons instead of a full splash, but I wouldn’t leave it out entirely.

5. The orange soda gave color and lift, but also a little too much sweetness

I used a standard orange soda, the bright supermarket kind, not a fancy one with pulp or cane sugar. The bubbles helped the batter fry up airy around the edges, and the sugar encouraged quick browning. Within about 60 to 75 seconds per side, the coating took on a deep golden-orange cast that looked awfully pretty on the plate.

But here is the tradeoff: sugar browns fast, and in a 350 to 360 degree oil bath, fast can become too fast if you’re distracted. One batch came out ideal, another got darker than I wanted before the tomato inside had fully heated through. Flavor-wise, the sweetness was noticeable. Not dessert-sweet, but enough that I immediately wanted something tart or salty to go with it—maybe a yogurt dip with lemon, or even a sharp buttermilk dressing.

6. The frying happened quickly, and the window between perfect and overdone was narrow

I heated about 1 1/2 inches of neutral frying oil in my old cast-iron skillet until it held at roughly 355 degrees. If you don’t use a thermometer, I strongly recommend one for this sort of experiment. Because of the sugar in the soda and the starch-heavy batter, these slices moved much faster than a breadcrumbed green tomato would.

Each slice needed about 1 minute on the first side and 45 seconds to 1 minute on the second. Any longer and the batter browned past golden into chestnut, especially around the thinner edges. I fried only 4 or 5 slices at a time so the oil temperature wouldn’t crash below 340. Crowding would have been a mistake; these needed space to puff and set.

7. The crust was dramatic for the first few minutes, then softened underneath

Fresh from the skillet, they were beautiful. The coating crackled when I set them on the rack. The edges feathered out in lacy little crisp bits, and the centers looked almost glassy the way tapioca batters often do. For the first 3 to 5 minutes, I thought I had stumbled into something truly special.

Then the tomato juices started pushing back. By the 10-minute mark, the underside of any slice resting too flat had softened. By 15 minutes, the pieces were still good, but no longer truly crisp all over. The top crust held better than the bottom. This wasn’t a failure exactly; it’s simply the nature of a wet vegetable meeting a delicate starch shell. If I were serving them, I’d send them straight to the table within 2 minutes of draining, no dawdling.

8. The flavor was odd, memorable, and better with salt than I anticipated

The first bite made me laugh, which in my kitchen usually means either disaster or promise. It tasted of bright tomato, a faint citrus candy note, a savory back-end from the anchovy oil, and an herbal whisper from the sassafras. That sounds like too much, and perhaps on paper it is, but the hot oil tied it together more than I expected.

The thing that improved it most was a final dusting of flaky salt while the slices were still hot. I used about 1/2 teaspoon over the whole platter. Salt tamped down the orange soda sweetness and pulled the tomato flavor back into center stage. A pinch of black pepper helped too. Without salt, the whole idea tasted like a novelty. With salt, it tasted intentional.

9. Texture was the make-or-break point, and drying the tomatoes would improve everything

I did not salt and drain the tomato slices beforehand, and that was a mistake. I simply sliced, dipped, and fried. If I had laid the slices on towels, sprinkled them with 1 teaspoon kosher salt, and let them sit 20 minutes before patting them dry, I would have removed a fair amount of surface moisture. That would have helped the batter cling more evenly and reduced the steam trapped under the crust.

As it was, the centers were soft and jammy, which is pleasant if you expect that. But the seam between crust and tomato got a little slippery on a few pieces. Not disintegrating, not greasy, just a touch loose. A drier tomato and maybe a very light pre-dust of plain tapioca starch before battering would solve much of that.

10. Fifteen minutes later, the verdict was: successful experiment, imperfect snack

If by “what happened” you mean did they fall apart into a skillet full of orange-scented chaos, no, they did not. They held together. They browned fast, looked handsome, and were genuinely tasty for a short window. The batter made a crisp shell, the anchovy oil made the flavor deeper, and the roma tomatoes were sturdy enough to carry the whole business.

But if you mean did I discover a foolproof replacement for breadcrumbed fried tomatoes, also no. This version was more fragile, more time-sensitive, and more temperamental. It demanded immediate eating and a little forgiving spirit. I’d make it again for kitchen curiosity or as a conversation starter, but not as the only appetizer for a church supper where things may sit on a table.

11. What I would change on the second round

I’d keep the roma tomatoes and the cold batter, but I’d refine nearly everything else. First, I would use 1 cup tapioca starch and only 2/3 cup orange soda to start, thinning with an extra tablespoon or two only if needed. A slightly thicker batter would shield the juicy tomato better.

Second, I’d replace the whole dried sassafras leaves with finely crushed leaves, no more than 1/2 teaspoon, or I’d steep one leaf in the soda for 10 minutes and strain it out so the flavor stays while the fibrous bits go. Third, I’d add 1/4 teaspoon fine salt directly to the batter, because seasoning inside the crust matters. And finally, I’d salt the tomato slices ahead of time and dry them thoroughly before dipping.

12. The best way to serve them if you try this at home

These need a companion on the plate. I liked them best with something cool and sharp. A quick sauce of 1/2 cup sour cream, 2 teaspoons lemon juice, a pinch of salt, and 1 tablespoon chopped chives would be excellent. Plain Greek yogurt with cider vinegar would also work. Even a simple swipe of mayonnaise mixed with hot sauce could steady the sweetness.

As a plate, I’d serve 3 or 4 slices per person alongside grilled sausage, pan-fried catfish, or a supper salad with cucumbers and sweet onion. They are too rich and fleeting to pile high on a platter and forget. Serve small, serve hot, and let folks know what they’re eating. Half the pleasure is in the raised eyebrows before the first bite.

13. Who will enjoy this and who probably won’t

If you like culinary experiments, tempura textures, or that old-fashioned Midwestern habit of making do with what’s in the pantry and seeing where it leads, you may get a real kick out of these. They’re for the cook who doesn’t mind standing at the stove and eating the first good piece right over the cooling rack. They’re also for tomato lovers who appreciate a soft, almost molten center.

If you want a dependable, uniformly crunchy, crowd-friendly fried tomato, stick with green tomatoes, cornmeal, or breadcrumbs. This recipe is not neat, and it is not restrained. It has a little summer foolishness in it, and I say that fondly.

14. My final kitchen-table verdict

What happened after 15 minutes was not a miracle and not a mess. It was one of those lively little kitchen lessons that reminds me cooking is half memory and half nerve. The tomatoes came out crisp-edged, softly centered, and touched by sweet, savory, and herbal notes that shouldn’t have cooperated as well as they did. They were at their absolute best almost immediately after frying, and every minute after that cost them a little crunch.

I wouldn’t call this my new standard tomato recipe, but I would call it worth trying once if your garden is full, your curiosity is awake, and you don’t mind a few odd turns on the road to supper. Some recipes become heirlooms. Others become stories. This one, for me, is a story—but a tasty one.