Are there any other nations that deep-fry their national dish?

Fish plus chips equals Britain. It is, along with a plate of pink roast beef and fluffy Yorkshire pudding, the food which the majority of visitors to the UK want to sample first upon arrival. So let’s explore why. A little theatre of the mind now…

It is a crisp, clear and starry night, with a biting wind trying its best to get into your collar and deaden your fingertips as you exit the cinema. The popcorn/Cornetto combination has made a temporary dent in your hunger, but now it returns with a vengeance as the sharp tang of hot vinegar mingles with the deeply savoury smell of hot oil and potatoes. You approach the brightly lit doorway, the only shop operating at this time of night in the high street, and join the queue. A high counter with a stainless steel and glass hot cupboard display a coterie of crispy, amber coloured treats, from palm-sized fishcakes to cricket bat cod fillets. The delicious and unique smell of this place is in part down to the beef dripping that they use in the fryer, a chip-shop secret since its inception in Victorian times. There are Land Of The Giants-style salt and vinegar shakers (i.e bloody gigantic…), the latter being full of the only vinegar allowed onto fish and chips; the mouth-puckeringly sharp and powerful Sarson’s Malt Vinegar. There are jars of pickled onions and eggs, sometimes even a few jars of cockles and whelks, and the quintessential chipshop drink, the fizzy elixir known as Vimto. Finally, you get your hands on your own warm parcel and head home or simply find a bench or comfy stretch of wall on which to unwrap your supper. As with a perfect sausage sandwich, this dish is at its best when still slightly too hot to eat comfortably. The rich, vinegary savour is released as a puff of steam when the paper wrapper is unfolded, and the first breach of the crisp batter revealing thick, soft flakes of cod is a moment almost unmatched by any other meal in terms of pure satisfaction and comfort.

The mouth-watering promise of that prose is why fish and chips are world famous. Now, my dear visitor, for the sad reality.

It is becoming almost impossible to find an old fashioned and honest chip shop. The simple genius of fine fresh fish battered and accompanied by local potatoes chipped and dropped into a deep vat of rendered beef fat is not enough any more, it seems. Nowadays you should expect to see the slowly rotating elephants leg of a doner kebab grill, or perhaps burgers, some southern fried chicken slowly dessicating in a glass hot cupboard, perhaps? This dilution inevitably leads to less attention to the fish and chip part of the business offering – end result? Decidedly average to poor fish, coated in a powdered batter mix with about as much taste as an envelope, and poorly maintained fryers/laziness resulting in frankly rubbish chips that taste mildly burnt. Yum. Slowly but surely, this British legend is being blended with every other takeaway service on its street. A large contributor to this sea change (pun partially intended) is the shadowy spectre of sustainable codfish stocks. Atlantic cod at one point in recent history faced virtual extinction thanks to merciless and irresponsible over fishing. Things have changed considerably, and top quality sustainable cod is widely available albeit at a significantly higher price than before, but this is the price of respecting the population and breeding habits of edible species. I serve the most beautiful Atlantic cod in my restaurant and it is undoubtedly worth every extra penny, as my customers will agree. But I digress. The simple fact I’m making is that the price of good cod has gone up, so most chip shops have moved into other areas and refused to pay for the good stuff. This is not always due to the meanness of owners, but more likely the wallet-conscious public baulking at the idea of a price hike for the good of their fish supper. It’s a crying shame.

Okay, soapbox away…Hey! You’re not here for a lecture, you’re here to find out what’s so good about British food! Let’s have a little deep-fried journey around the isle…

Like a teenager, the British as a whole have an inbuilt craving for crisp, hot and salty foods submerged in hot oil. Arguably the best fish and chips in England at least come from the south coast, specifically Devon and Cornwall, but all coastal areas are lined with shops “frying tonight”. A general rule of thumb appears to be that the further north you go, the more deep fried things are available. The cities of Middlesborough and Newcastle thought to be the home of the calorific A-bomb known simply as a “Parmo”. Ready? A flattened chicken breast is coated in batter or crumb and fried, THEN topped with a white cheese sauce and a final topping of cheddar cheese, then it’s into a pizza oven, and then a takeaway box along with, naturally, chips. All I can say to my quite possibly shell shocked friends in egg white omelette, wheatgrass drinking California or similar places is…it’s very, VERY cold in the North East, and hot fat, salt and its inherent bursts of quick energy help when the moisture on your eyeballs wants to freeze. The people who make Kendal Mint Cake are in the same business. But I am leaving the best till last.

(Or should that be worst?)

The Scottish love the chippie like no other folk on the planet. Coincidentally, they love dying of heart disease too but we’ll gloss over that. This is a country that my previous diatribe doesn’t apply to, and the idea of a “fish supper”will live forever in the howlingly cold and bitter nights that Scots from Leith Walk to the Highlands experience. This time, the drink of choice is not Vimto, but it’s equally sweet cousin Irn-Bru (made in Scotland from Girrrrr-Derrrrrs, as the advert tells us). Got a food you like? In Scotland? Take it to the local chip shop, and they’ll batter and fry it for you, no questions asked. There is a huge list of successful and not-so successful fried experiments in Scottish chippies, the most famous being the deep-fried Mars Bar, an already sickly and rich concoction of caramel, nougat and chocolate. Battered, it becomes something beyond unhealthy, but the hit of sugar and hot fat is almost unmatchable. Ditto the deep-fried Cadburys Creme Egg, its filling of fondant making it akin to a crispy hard boiled egg filled with treacly cement. The competition was on with other, often poor quality junk foods being dipped in the batter jug and fried as an offering to the gods of cholesterol. An underground smash is the deep fried pizza. Yep, you heard right. A whole cheap supermarket pizza, battered and fried, then smeared with HP Sauce and folded over, like some hellspawn inversion of calzone. The food love that dares not speak its name indeed. All these variations are based on the same point: Scotland needs deep frying. Oh yes, and Freeeeeeedoooooooooom…

So I guess that is about it for a behemoth of a subject like Fish and Chips. I welcome a lot of comment on this one, from both home and abroad, not least because it has taken me so long to post. I can only apologise for my tardiness in updating the blog, and plead mercy for a chef in a very busy little pub that leaves me currently with almost no time for anything else. An in-progress draft of this post has been on my laptop for almost a month, and it is only now that I can finish it for publication. Rest assured that I still absolutely love writing these pieces, and I appreciate all who take a few minutes to read them. They will continue, I promise.

Casey – Here Goes Nothing

PS. I am aware of the existence in the US of the deep fried Twinkie. The only accompaniment I can suggest with this would be insulin. There was also an example of deep fried Coca-Cola, but that makes my teeth itch just thinking about it…

The most striking thing about the whole notion of our national relationship with OXO…is that we really don’t need it at all. Yet 2 MILLION of these salty brown cubes of beef extract and flavouring are bought every day by a public who, it seems, have something to hide meat-wise; I’m guessing that  they are only used to mask what would otherwise be low grade, poorly produced proteins. But as anyone with a little knowledge of cooking will already be aware, a wonderful meal can be attained with a little skill and patience using only a few carrots and a bit of scrag-end. The tragedy in ignoring the crucial component of a piece of roasting meat – namely the slowly dripping juices, the heart and soul of the joint – and smothering it in a glutinous synthetic gravy cannot be understated. So what makes us reach for the little fellas so readily? Well, I’ve thought about it, and once again I believe it is our desire to preserve links to earlier times. OXO enjoyed its greatest popularity after WWII, providing an over-abundence of rich gravy to wallow in, after years of thrift and rationing. Therefore it became a symbol of a happy nation, home once more and sitting around the dinner table. This was adopted into the hugely successful advertising campaign featuring the OXO Family (Youtube it) which went on for many years, fnishing only relatively recently, and even then with some public outcry. Do not underestimate the tactile and visual appeal, too. I am sure it was no accident that the two colours of OXO’s packaging are red and white, the colours of the St. George Cross.  And then there is the cube itself. We Brits, as I have stated previously, like a household item with an element of fun to it. Toilet Duck, Shake n’ Vac, Kit Kat wrappers (well, not now) are all examples of an unnecessary preponderence toward fun to capture the mischievous British imagination. There is a certain undefined delight to be had in carefully peeling away the silver foil neatly binding the cube, then crumbling this cow-flavoured compost into your chosen dish. I must admit to using them in a Bolognese at home, with good results, but gravy? Can’t bring myself to do it. 

One little footnote. I had a friend at primary school who used to eat OXO cubes like sweets. I wonder what state his blood pressure is in now?

Thanks for reading, and please feel free to leave a comment, positive or negative. By which I mean always positive…

Croosh

-Casey (Here Goes Nothing)

There are few things dearer to my heart (or should that be my stomach) than a Mcvities Jaffa Cake. A wonder of food engineering, flavour and texture combination, Jaffas illustrate well the British tendency to enjoy a foodstuff with a hint of playfulness and fun about it. A small disc of firm, dry sponge holding a smaller disc of tangy marmalade coloured jelly, the jelly half finished with an ethereally thin layer of dark chocolate. Chocolate and orange are always a fine combination, and the “smashing orangey bit”(as advertising instructed us was the term for the centre of the Jaffa Cake) is refreshingly sharp and holds up well to the twin attack of  chocolate and slightly stale tasting sponge. I must point out here that a hint of staleness with regards to confectionary is no bad thing for the British. In fact, we have a soft spot for really low quality sweet things, waxy “chocolate” Rainbow Drops being one example that springs to mind from my happy sweetshop memories. No, for some of us, the beauty of the Jaffa Cake lies in the ritual of how you eat them. Heaven forbid that we should actually just bite, then chew. No, no. This is Great Britain! Do you scrape the chocolate away with your front teeth, then separating the jelly from its spongey mooring? Or is it a case of  precision-nibbling away the sponge, to then attack either the orange from below, or to strip it of its choccy covering. The saliva producing quality of Jaffas makes them one of the most horrendously moreish snack cakes that money can buy, and many a large cardboard tube has been finished off at a shamefully fast speed. (Ahem) Indeed, they have long been known as a staple of cash-strapped students eager for sugar to dampen down the munchie attack brought forth via daytime TV/Jazz Cigarettes…

So how long have we been in love with this plucky little fella? Like most things British, it has a long history, first emerging waaaay back in 1927, and remaining popular ever since. A question also remained popular too, namely: Is a Jaffa Cake a cake or is it in fact a biscuit? Now, under UK law, no VAT is paid on biscuits and cakes, with one notable exception. Chocolate covered biscuits incur value added tax. Her Majesty’s Customs And Excise challenged this in 1991 and took McVities to court over the matter, probably due to the fact that Jaffas are about the same size as most biscuits. McVities responded by making a giant Jaffa Cake – the thought of it just makes my knees go – to show that they were essentially just miniature versions of cakes. The court ruled in their favour and subsequently we can say for definite that the Jaffa is indeed a cake. Waste of court time? I think not! Truly a British icon (my Nan told me of a meal in her youth where a solitary Jaffa Cake was given as a dessert), a world without smashing orangey bits is a world I want no part of. Just watch Spaced to see the joy that they elicit. That’s how we feel about ‘em!

Croosh
Casey – Here Goes Nothing

Short and sweet this time around, with sweet being the operative word…

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you a legend of the West Country. The Lardy Cake, as it’s name lets slip, is a dried fruit bread using rendered pork fat and copious amounts of unrefined sugar. Created in Wiltshire, regional versions are found wherever pig farming occurs in high volume, and again it can be directly attributed to frugality, a national pastime. But what a way to use up lard! There can be few things more delightful and agreeable to eat with a growling stomach than this soft, sweet loaf flecked with orange peel and currants, lubricated with an opaque film of crunchy sugar-fat, leaving fingertips and mouth edges glistening with every indulgent mouthful. 

The heart stopping, shock-horror calorific orgy of Lardy Cake is both the best and worst thing about it. In today’s low-fat, guilt laden diet mentality there is no place for such a time traveller, a relic of ages past where fat, sugar and flour were a means of staving off the persistent cold inherent to the British Isles. Now we have central heating (not to mention global warming), and a cake of sugar and pig, turned upside down to cool so that the maximum amount of good stuff soaks back into it is not wanted by many.

That’s many, not all. (cough) 

There’s no doubt about it, Lardy Cake is disappearing. Slowly but surely, even in prime pig country where I sit and type this, it becomes less easily to find it year after year. I eventually expect it to become a quaint oddity, one for arch cookbook writers to throw in as a humourous aside….”Of course, you won’t actually COOK this!?” Personally, I blame the association with the US term “Lardass”. Hard not to think of it with each bite. 

But, my friend, if you are lucky enough to find a baker who makes this wonderful treat, don’t deny yourself. Take a slice home, and eat it in the only way it should be eaten – with a mug of strong tea, and a clear conscience. 

Croosh

Casey – Here Goes Nothing

ROSE GRAY 28 JANUARY 1939 – 28 FEBRUARY 2010

Sunday 28th February saw the sad passing after a prolonged battle with cancer of Rose Gray, a bona fide legend in the world of catering, and indeed modern British cuisine. I won’t treat this article as a formal obituary, but simply a mark of respect and gratitude from a chef aspiring to follow the example of Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers. The pair opened a decidedly ramshackle, unassuming Italian cafe on Thames Wharf in the London borough of Hammersmith, initially as a canteen for the local business community. The striking difference to this canteen however was the emphasis on honest, ingredient-led cooking as experienced by Gray during stints living and working in Tuscany. This sounds like the credo of every London restaurant now, but in 1987 it was a revelation. As Gray said, Italian food at that point was “all Spaghetti Bolognese and Tiramisu”.

The River Cafe changed all that, and more. At that point, London dining establishments were in the grip of Nouvelle Cuisine fever, the epitome of Emperor’s New Clothes 80′s tackiness. Flavour profiles and the showcasing of wonderful ingredients were eschewed in favour of competing to see who was ballsy enough to put the weirdest combinations of car-crash flavours together in miniscule portions, with a horrifying price tag to solidify the soulless “greed is good” trend of the city. As for the rest of the country – you really don’t want to know what the general level of dining was in 1987. Trust me. Thank the Food Gods, then, for Rose and Ruth and the shimmering oasis of the River Cafe. Dishes were served that sometimes only had two or three ingredients. Platings were simple. The ingredient was the king, the lure, the dangling carrot was, well, very often a carrot. The Cafe soon became massively popular, an institution to food lovers. The pair were approached to write a book. They declined, explaining that they were cooks, not writers. Eventually they were won over, and again, I give thanks that they did. Of all chefs who publish cookbooks, and I mean ALL, the biggest testament to the impact of these two ladies I can impart is that the River Cafe Cookbook, not to mention it’s progeny, has been present in every single kitchen I have ever worked in. More than Larousse, Escoffier, even the college-issued “Practical Cookery”, the Ramsay and Oliver ouvre (and more of the latter in a moment) – if the chef had a love for food, you could bet there would be a dog-eared, splattered copy of TRCC somewhere in the dry store. Everything in those books, as long as you followed the recipes, both worked and tasted delicious. And I’ve cooked the first book from cover to cover. Spaghetti with Crab and Chilli, Amarone Risotto, Zuppa di Pesce, Sea Bass with Lemon and Fennel…I learnt a lot about respecting the things you cook from their recipes. Another great point of admiration I have for Gray is the total lack of desire to become famous outside of the kitchen. Make no mistake, there was no celebrity in this chef. She took her pleasure from the undeniable buzz that is to be had from working a stove, running a pass, and in training youngsters. This last aspect is legendary when talking about the River Cafe. In the near two and a half decades of trading, the Cafe produced a good percentage of Britain’s best young chefs, most famously the now for better or worse ubiquitous Jamie Oliver. Look through an Oliver cookbook, then bring up the current menu at the River Cafe to see the difference made by Gray’s teaching. She may not have had a show on the Food Network, a range of signature pans or a raft of annoying TV commercials, but in my world, in the circles I move in, we have lost a true national treasure in the incomparable Rose Gray. The legacy she leaves is the most perfect tribute.

Rose Gray (front) and Ruth Rogers at work in the River Cafe

Casey – (Here Goes Nothing)