Fish and Chips

Friday evening. The oil is hot, the kitchen windows have fogged over, and something golden is about to come out of the pan. There's a particular satisfaction in making fish and chips at home that has nothing to do with improving on the chip shop. The chip shop is its own institution and I wouldn't touch it. But this is different. This is yours: your kitchen, your batter, your chips cut the way you like them, fish from the fishmonger who told you what came in this morning.

The fish matters more than anything else here. A thick fillet of haddock or cod, properly fresh, with that clean sea smell and firm flesh that holds together in the batter without complaint. If the fish isn't right, no amount of crunch will save you. Go to the fishmonger. Ask what's good. The market decides.

The chips want to be thick and cooked twice: once in cooler oil to soften them through, then again at a proper heat to give them that golden, shattery crust around a fluffy middle. Maris Piper potatoes, if you can find them. They have the right balance of starch and moisture for the job. The batter is just flour, salt, and cold lager, whisked together and used straight away. The beer gives it lift. The cold keeps it light. Don't think about it too hard. We're only making dinner.

I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: Friday. Fish. Good chips. Vinegar. Rain on the window. It hasn't changed, and I see no reason it should.