BY DAVID CAMPBELL
Growing up in Western Pennsylvania, Friday nights meant a humble trinity: a greasy fried fish sandwich, McDonald’s-style French fries, and coleslaw drowning in vinegary mayo. It was sustenance, not cuisine – a far cry from the revelation that awaited me years later on the windswept pier of Littlehampton.
There, I encountered proper Fish and Chips for the first time—a glorious, golden slab of cod, its batter crisp as autumn leaves, resting atop a heap of thick-cut chips, all doused in malt vinegar and cradled in a paper coffin lined with yesterday’s news. No plate. No pretension. Just pure, unapologetic pleasure.
I watched the locals, masters of this edible alchemy, and quickly abandoned the absurdly tiny fork provided. Instead, I tore into the fish with my fingers, dredging each flaky morsel through a puddle of ketchup at the bottom of the wrapper. It was messy. It was primal. It was perfect.
From that moment, Fish and Chips became my culinary compass across Britain. If it was on the menu, resistance was futile—lunch, dinner, or (when no one was judging) breakfast. My first encounter with its traditional sidekick, mushy peas, was a moment of wary intrigue. That neon-green sludge? A revelation. Smashed garden peas, laced with mint, like some working-class paté. Who knew?
Business trips through England, Scotland, and Wales became gastronomic pilgrimages. “Where’s the best chippy?” became my go-to question, and locals, proud custodians of this deep-fried sacrament, never steered me wrong.
One day, emboldened by repeat visits to my favourite shop, I asked the fryer sage his secret. “How long do you cook the fish?” He fixed me with a look that said bloody tourists and replied, “Until it’s ready.” A perfect answer—because true Fish and Chips isn’t about time. It’s about feeling.
Historic-UK declares it the national dish, and I now understand why. Fish and Chips isn’t just food—it’s democracy on a paper wrapper, a meal that unites dockworkers and duchesses in the same greasy-fingered bliss. And as for the old Pennsylvania fish sandwich? Well, let’s just say some childhood memories are best left in the past.
(Though I still put ketchup on mine. Some habits even the British will never understand.)
David Campbell is an American who spends a lot of time in Littlehampton, West Sussex.