Ambrosia
Off the boat, across the road, into the batter, into the frier, onto the plate. Fish and chips, Churchill, Nelson. Fish and chips are England, so it's ironic that the Guardian recommended best fish and chipper in Wells is called French's. The newspaper proved itself worth more than just a wrapping for the fish and chips this time, the fish and whips was fantastic. The tea, too was sublime, you get a polystyrene cup of boiling water, a tea bag and some milk and sugar - a tea kit, meaning you can have it as strong or weak, milky or not and sweet as you like. This, together with a wooden chip fork, is the perfect storm of food, crisps done to perfection, batter crisp as crisp can be and cod whiter than a shark's smile.
This is not a meal, this is an event.
2 Comments:
I have an intense desire to cram all of those fries into my mouth, but luckily the question of whether or not they have bigger plates has taken over my mind. How do you eat that when it's piled on top of everything?
First things first - these are not fries, these are chips. Chips are not, as our American friends would have it, wafer thin slivers of potato deep fried (these are known as crisps) and they are sure as hell not fries - fries are what you get with a burger at a franchise burger bar. No, these are chips, as in fish and chips. Chips are chunky cuts of gorgeous potato, fried and piled on your plate like succulent, tanned, hot little packets of perfection.
As for how you eat it all - the batter means you can lift the fish and take a bite out of it as you would a burger, or you can use the chip fork (pictured) to excavate beneath the fish. I, of course, consume the lot in a transport of glutttony that leaves not a scrap and leaves me greasy from fingertip to elbow. Glorious.
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