Fifteen minutes before The Gift was set to open at 2 p.m., a line was already forming outside the restaurant. “This is the shortest I’ve ever seen it,” said customer Sherron Day of the dozen or so people ahead of her.

Hungry patrons sheltered around the corner to catch some shade from the harsh afternoon sunlight. “The last time, I arrived at 7 p.m. and didn’t leave until near midnight,” Day said.

Five. Hours. While that wait sounds extreme, it’s not totally out of the ordinary at The Gift. Recent reviewers online report waiting two, three or four hours for the privilege of buying a fish sandwich.

It wasn’t always like this. For almost two decades, the restaurant at 2102 Harford Road fed Baltimore in relative obscurity. Founder Curtis Shipman, who did not respond to a request for comment, got his start at another famous seafood restaurant in the city: Bertha’s Mussels in Fells Point. He worked there for nearly 20 years, according to WMAR, but eventually decided to start his own shop, bringing his gift (pun intended) for cooking to Northeast Baltimore.

It was only a few months ago that customers began posting TikToks about The Gift and its fish sandwiches. And then more. And more. In the videos, most order it with fried whiting, cheese, mayo and tartar sauce, lettuce, tomato, fried onions and hots. At $9, it’s a bargain.

For some, a multihour wait can lead to out-of-this-world expectations. One Baltimore reviewer who spent two hours waiting at The Gift last month said on TikTok that the sandwich had “better taste like the one Jesus had with the two loaves.” She unwrapped the tin foil and took a bite. The sandwich was tasty. It was huge. It was a solid fish dish. It wasn’t worth the amount of time spent in line, though, she said.

But a sense of community forms among people in a long wait together for food. The atmosphere was festive with anticipation. Some customers bought egg custard snowballs from a stand set up on the front porch of a nearby home.

As she stood outside The Gift on Friday, customer Jeanette Edmonds said that growing up in Baltimore, her mother used to make fish for the family every Friday, along with cornbread, lima beans and homemade jam. And the city itself has a rich history with fried fish. Lake trout, which is really whiting, has long been one of residents’ favorite carryout foods, up there with chicken boxes and crab cakes.

Edmonds, a first-time customer, asked for Day’s take on the sandwich. “It’s not over-seasoned, its not under-seasoned,” Day said, and the portions were beyond generous. “You really could make two sandwiches out of it.”

Though they had never met before, Edmonds decided within a few minutes that they were family: She began referring to Day as her niece.

While the clock ticked, Edmonds shared other morsels from her life story. She graduated with the class of ’61 at Paul Laurence Dunbar High School. She was elected homecoming queen her junior year, a feat that wasn’t hard to imagine, given her outgoing personality. She charmed fellow customers by passing out copies of the menu; a few said they thought she worked for the restaurant.

Others in line varied in their commitment to the sandwich. As the clock approached 2:30 p.m., a woman visiting from out of town told her family member she could get a fish sandwich back home, and the two soon left. Another customer fainted in the blaring sun, but refused to immediately give up her spot.

When it was my turn to order, I kept it simple: a whiting sandwich with cheese and everything on it, plus two bottles of water to rehydrate after all that standing around. Oh, and a slice of lemon-frosted cake from behind the counter, because it looked too good not to get one.

As soon as I got back to my car, I unwrapped the sandwich from its foil. It smelled amazing. True to Day’s description, it featured two massive pieces of fried fish — so much food that I wondered if I’d have room for dinner in a few hours. (I didn’t.) The fish had a crispy crust and tender interior, with tangy hots lending a subtle spice balanced by the mayonnaise’s creamy goodness, all wrapped up in a pillowy kaiser roll.

Of course, an unpredictably long wait is a high barrier for many diners in Baltimore.

After more than an hour waiting with no sandwich in sight, even Edmonds looked like she was on the verge of giving up. But the line inched forward, and she soon found herself standing inside the tiny shop.

“Guess who finally made it?” she told Kimberly Ward, who was taking orders behind the counter’s bulletproof glass. “Meeeee!”

Though she hadn’t yet tasted the food, Edmonds said, she already knew she would be back.