On my first foray into the glorious fatty fat of the chippie, I ordered what was described as battered cod fish pie, waiting for the usual apologetic potato platter. What appeared, after the mysterious plate of bread and butter and the obligatory cup of tea, was a petrified sailor the size of a curly stone and standing, self-supporting, on legs of solid mass. Breaking his golden shell was an epiphany of the sweetest kind.
The cake turned out to be a mere drug of entry: drunk with the joy of dripping, I quickly graduated to haddock, when I realized that, with fish and chips, fish, if fresh and well cooked, is largely irrelevant, a mere supporting actor of the star of the show, his crisp coating. And boy, have I been making up for lost time. I have eaten chips from Stonehaven to St Ives, from Dun Laoghaire to Dalston, … Read the rest