My first memory regarding fish & chips was in the 8th grade, when the Ogden Middle School "choir" (I put that in quotation marks because we were hardly a choir. In fact, I remember our teacher telling us that it was impossible to find music for us because we had only a five-note range. At best). Wait, now that I think of it, we spent quite a bit of time playing on recorder flutes... maybe we really were that bad at singing!
Back to fish & chips. One of the easy-peasy songs that we sang was a round that cycled:
"One bottle of pop, two bottle of pop, three bottle of pop, four! [...]"
"Don't throw your junk in my backyard, my backyard, my backyard! [...]"
and the crowning verse,
"Fish and chips and vinegar! vinegar! And pop! [...]"
(Incidentally, the song broke through our five-note range to be an octave+1. That's not to say we sang it well, but we had grit.)
The intro is a bit anticlimactic, I know, but I just remember thinking as a kid, "Why would they call fries 'chips', and who'd want vinegar on them? And more importantly, where can I get this fried goodness?"
The answer? Where the leprechauns roam... and the rest of the British Isles.
So when I was getting ready to head over to Ireland, it wasn't too surprising that the only goal my mom gave me was to eat fish & chips. Every other day, if possible. Well, the university keeps us fed pretty well, but I've kept my eye out for fish & chips on the weekend.
Finally the day came when I dined on the fruit of the sea. with spuds.
Back in Kinsale, after dining on my scone, I still felt a little peckish so I roamed around town in the manner that only a solo traveler can: walking a few steps, backing up to check out a cat in a store window, crossing the road to take a artistic photo, getting side tracked by the fragrance of baked goods, pulling out my phone to find a geocache (all in quick succession). Sometimes I think that if I reviewed my course, it'd look like one of those Family Circus cartoons.
Then, about 300 feet across a parking lot on the edge of the pier stood a food cart, my eye caught by the visual promise of a traditional fish & chips experience.
"It will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine."
The chef was sitting in his cart, and so that I didn't freak him out by bee-lining it across the parking lot, I continued on my meandering way over to his location..
"So, um, do y'all carry fish here?"
"Why, yes lad. But ye'll have teh wait a few minutes while teh grease warms up."
I didn't know how many more times I'd have fish & chips in Ireland, so I wanted to make sure this one was a fulfilling experience. Without launching into the intense interrogation (that some Portlandians might), I queried after the fish and if it were local.
"I caught it me very self tis mornin'."
Most excellent. It turned out that he owns a small fishing boat and catches his own cod. AND he was written about in the local newspaper. I was getting my fish & chips from a celebrity chef!
When the oil was finally a-poppin', he pulled out a juicy fish steak and battered it in front of my very eyes before sliding it gently into the churning oil bath.
After a few minutes, he pulled out the fish and stuck a thermometer in it to ensure its doneness (what a professional!) and then handed it to me. Its sizzle greeted me warmly, inviting me to partake.
After squeezing a lemon quarter over it and spattering the dish with some vinegar (vinegar! vinegar!), I sat down and feasted. It was divine.
But then I remembered one stipulation that my mom had given me: the fish & chips had to be served in newspaper. Oh, a slight detail that I overlooked in the heat of the moment! Well, I guess it means that I'll just need to survey the land for fish & chips again!
The hunt continues...
Back to fish & chips. One of the easy-peasy songs that we sang was a round that cycled:
"One bottle of pop, two bottle of pop, three bottle of pop, four! [...]"
"Don't throw your junk in my backyard, my backyard, my backyard! [...]"
and the crowning verse,
"Fish and chips and vinegar! vinegar! And pop! [...]"
(Incidentally, the song broke through our five-note range to be an octave+1. That's not to say we sang it well, but we had grit.)
The intro is a bit anticlimactic, I know, but I just remember thinking as a kid, "Why would they call fries 'chips', and who'd want vinegar on them? And more importantly, where can I get this fried goodness?"
The answer? Where the leprechauns roam... and the rest of the British Isles.
So when I was getting ready to head over to Ireland, it wasn't too surprising that the only goal my mom gave me was to eat fish & chips. Every other day, if possible. Well, the university keeps us fed pretty well, but I've kept my eye out for fish & chips on the weekend.
Finally the day came when I dined on the fruit of the sea. with spuds.
Back in Kinsale, after dining on my scone, I still felt a little peckish so I roamed around town in the manner that only a solo traveler can: walking a few steps, backing up to check out a cat in a store window, crossing the road to take a artistic photo, getting side tracked by the fragrance of baked goods, pulling out my phone to find a geocache (all in quick succession). Sometimes I think that if I reviewed my course, it'd look like one of those Family Circus cartoons.
Then, about 300 feet across a parking lot on the edge of the pier stood a food cart, my eye caught by the visual promise of a traditional fish & chips experience.
"It will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine."
The chef was sitting in his cart, and so that I didn't freak him out by bee-lining it across the parking lot, I continued on my meandering way over to his location..
"So, um, do y'all carry fish here?"
"Why, yes lad. But ye'll have teh wait a few minutes while teh grease warms up."
I didn't know how many more times I'd have fish & chips in Ireland, so I wanted to make sure this one was a fulfilling experience. Without launching into the intense interrogation (that some Portlandians might), I queried after the fish and if it were local.
"I caught it me very self tis mornin'."
Most excellent. It turned out that he owns a small fishing boat and catches his own cod. AND he was written about in the local newspaper. I was getting my fish & chips from a celebrity chef!
When the oil was finally a-poppin', he pulled out a juicy fish steak and battered it in front of my very eyes before sliding it gently into the churning oil bath.
After a few minutes, he pulled out the fish and stuck a thermometer in it to ensure its doneness (what a professional!) and then handed it to me. Its sizzle greeted me warmly, inviting me to partake.
After squeezing a lemon quarter over it and spattering the dish with some vinegar (vinegar! vinegar!), I sat down and feasted. It was divine.
But then I remembered one stipulation that my mom had given me: the fish & chips had to be served in newspaper. Oh, a slight detail that I overlooked in the heat of the moment! Well, I guess it means that I'll just need to survey the land for fish & chips again!
The hunt continues...
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