XIII Oceans

New Potatoes

It was never the intention, following my rescue at the hands of ‘The Pride Of Bridlington’, to commence with a search for good quality fish and chip shops. My tastebuds had been spoiled by the unsuspected seduction I encountered and disillusionment returned as confinement to the Haydock led me to staying away from my local chippies. Of course I’d go occasionally hoping to feel the way I once did during the new potatoes golden era of Blackbrook Supper Bar, only to be reminded that even on top form I was comparing The Kaiser Chiefs with The Stone Roses.

This continuing lack of expectation was allowed to meander beyond crisis as I toured around the surrounding areas for hours trying to find a chip shop that was above average. It’s not that there aren’t good, solid chip shops in the area because I’ve eaten in a couple but like many the consistency isn’t there and often, even at their best, they’re still a good league or two behind.

So I’d more or less given up. I posted a topic on a messageboard and just figured that that was it. If I was in the Bridlington area again I would be able to save this increasingly loveless marriage and until then it would be a resigned copulation once a month at home to maintain the relationship.

Fortunately, time moved on, a new job came up and a colleague mentioned in passing and without provocation that near one of the sites in Leeds there was a great chippy in the local town. Revolution! Was this a fanatic in my midst? Could we be Maquisards together? My conversation that followed, filled with enthusiasm for ‘The Pride Of Bridlington’ betrayed my obsession for that experience and highlighted that I was a few steps beyond sane on this matter. However, the topic kept the chatter going and I decided to see for myself if this chip shop was as good as was being suggested and therein lies the birth of the importance of fish and chips and this blog.

The Bridlington Experience

It was around February and I was working over in the Damascus of East Riding, Bridlington. Bridlington is a lovely little seaside resort with a history going back for several hundred years complete with all the modern foibles of anti-social behaviour orders. Like most towns of its ilk there’s a contradictory mix of decline and regeneration sitting alongside the never-changing visitors and eternal cultural void. A cultural void that condemns the young of Bridlington to either seek a career in the big city, ignoring the hidden beauty of their hometown or empowers them to an existence attached to cider-drips and low-paid, seasonal employment.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been over in Bridlington working but it was the first time that I’d be staying over in a hotel, The Revelstoke. When I arrived at the hotel, the restaurant had already closed for dinner. It was only just past 8.30pm so there was no chance of me tasting steak which wasn’t that big a deal because I was confident that a resort like Bridlington would be full of takeaways selling fish the size of footballer’s wallets. I drove around, it was night time so you would think that even in the midst of a cold February there would be at least one chip shop open. You’re a bigger fool than me fatty. In the end it was try-a-midweek-kebab without a stomach full of beer or Subway and that was it, even McDonald’s was closed so I retired to my room with a copy of the local paper for a night that would change my life forever.

It might have been The Bridlington Free Press that I was reading, it might not have been. Such details are irrelevant because it was the story that my tastebuds had been yearning for, a local award winning chippy had completed some standard of training in their shop.  It wasn’t the training recognition that attracted my attention because we all know that organisations with Investors In People accreditation have faked it, no, it was the “award winning chippy” bit that twinkled like an idea that I’d never had before. An award winning chippy? How have I not heard of such things before? Had my disillusionment with the monopoly situation in Haydock blinded me to the possibility of other chippies being great? Blackbrook Supper Bar was better than anything that I’d tasted locally but I remained a ex-regular there.

So, the next day I made time at the end of the day to sample ‘The Pride Of Bridlington’ and its name is by no means accidental. This was fish and chips like I had never tasted before. A big, battered cod with plenty of batter, chips and fish scraps (something I hadn’t seen in Haydock since The Chair Maker was a lad). Not everyone likes heavily battered fish and I’m relatively easy going about it so the arrival of a fish, that memory serves me to describe it as almost twelve inches (real inches not man inches), encrusted in a dark copper skin hardly registered at the time. The service had been efficient, very friendly and even though you can never escape that American Werewolf In London feeling when you first try a local haunt, it felt like they were pleased to see a new face or alternatively my work suit had them thinking I was a form of mystery shopper. Wrapped in brown paper, this regular portion was immense and perhaps both a bit too big and greasy for pretend fish and chips fans. It was amazing. The fish, despite its overdressed appearance, didn’t burst with grease when my plastic fork severed a thick chunk off it and neither did the fish itself when it was punctured by a man waiting to be impressed.

Usually it’s very difficult to find a chippy that treats fish with care and attention. Prior to finding my Nemo the battered fish that regularly came into view were fortified, half-battered or tough on the outside with sickly uncooked batter swimming around just underneath the surface. You cannot seriously sell fish to people with a coating that snaps or is hiding a slimy second skin and those that do should be embarrassed. Selling fish and chips goes beyond simple consumerism, it a public service, the selling of history, heritage and community.