I associate fish and chips with the impending arrival of the weekend. Back in the day when I was a spring chicken exploring the dark arts of jellied petrol, I also tended to the student bar. Ah the days of minimum wages – £4.80 an hour, I think. We didn’t even have fancy touch screen tills to work with, and we did all the sums in our head, old school. “A pint of snakebite, nine lagers, five gin and tonics, a shandy, four packets of cheese and onion, my chilli peanuts… and yourself?” . £19.50.The student bar was near the Albert Hall and did I make a lot of money serving BBC Proms participants. Happy days. Ravenous and reeking of alcohol at the end of my shift, I would make my way to the common room for haddock and extra mushy peas – reward for the strenuous work I suppose
Fish and chips is a national symbol. The reason I say so is because everybody has their own personal experience of it. If you ask someone where their favourite chippie is, you’ll get this long gaze (like he’s going down memory lane), with a lowered voice, they go ’i know this place…’. You can tell from their facial expressions how much they enjoy it. The story usually ends with a polite nudge to pay a visit and proclamation that you wont be disappointed. Oh the joy of having found that dish. my chippie story I grew up in a really small town on the other side of the world and as far away from england as can be. But you know, I still remember my first brush with the old fish and chip combo. It was in a ‘western restaurant’, as they are call it in asia, that served steaks roast chicken and the like. I ordered a large haddock and chips. The beauty is its simplicity. It can taste so good, when the batter is crispy, the steam gushing out on first cut and silky smooth fresh fish
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