A tale of two chippies: The gammon food critic's fish supper showdown

3rd October 2024

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who knows there wouldn’t be any of this free gift bollocks with someone principled like Nigel in charge.

I LOVE a good chippie tea, me. Been going to Roland’s Happy Plaice around the corner four times a week for years now. Breaks up the pizza deliveries. He’s a Northerner, but I try not to hold that against him. The further towards Scotland you go the better they get at deep-frying shit.

But now there’s a new chippie opened over the road. Downside? They’re Turkish. Or Greek. Same difference, swarthy macho Mediterranean types. Probably slit your throat for disrespecting the honour of their saveloys.

So in the interests of fairness – and nothing to do with their 20 per cent opening week discount – I decided to do a taste test comparison. They won’t be a patch on Roland’s, but I’m an open-minded, objective kind of guy so I’m going into it without prejudice.

It must be said, Roland does banging chips. You might get a few undercooked ones, but on the whole they’re proper British chip shop chips. Massive portions and deliciously soggy with years-old oil. None of that PC nanny state ‘don’t die from a heart attack unnecessarily’ bollocks.

His fish is top drawer too. Batter thicker than a Labour voter, fresh cod straight from the freezer. He’ll even give you free batter bits, if you’re a regular like me. To be honest I’d be happy with a carrier bag of those, and sod the fish and chips.

So as you can see, new boy Stavros or whatever his name is is up against high-class opposition. I just hope they’re not cooking everything in disgusting olive oil and topping it with olives and shit.

The chips, unsurprisingly, are a massive letdown. Too light and crispy. What’s the point of a chippie tea unless you end up with acid reflux and feel like you’ve eaten a whole block of lard?

The fish is OK, for foreigners, but the batter’s thinner than a fag paper. Tightarses if you ask me. It’s like the difference between a see-through nightie and a winter jacket. Give me the warm, thick one, because I’m not planning to shag a fish.

But it’s the sides – or lack of them – that are the real reveal. Pickled eggs? Blank looks. Mushy peas? You’re f**king hoping. I ask for scallops and the thick twat thinks I mean shellfish. No, potato scallops. If there’s cuisine better than battered patties of mash I’ve yet to discover it.

Their kebabs might have been okay if it wasn’t for the shitloads of salad. You don’t get that at Roland’s. Why ruin good lamb with a bunch of lettuce? You may as well fill up the pitta with grass cuttings. Assuming it’s really lamb, of course. Might be worth doing a headcount of the local cats.

Verdict? There’s obviously only one winner, which yet again proves that try as he might, Johnny Foreigner is no match for Great British cooking. I thought Brexit was supposed to spare us from all this. Will I go back? Not bloody likely. Well, except for the next five nights until the opening week discount ends.

'When am I going to be in these f**king diaries?' I ask Big Dog. 'They cut out the hot bits,' he replies

30th September 2024

From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s former First Lady and the Home Counties’ Margot Robbie

I’M leafing through. And leafing through. And looking for the bit of his memoir where the flowers of romance blossom between a roguish politician and his gorge PR.

But instead there’s page after page of Gove, of his brilliant Brexit deal, of him calling Theresa ‘Old Grumpy Knickers’ because HarperCollins advised against the C-word. Where am I?

‘Well it’s a political memoir darling,’ he says, pouring himself a lunchtime Rioja. ‘Not really about us, is it? Anyway there were cuts. And not for length.’

‘For example,’ he continues as I blush winsomely, ‘remember how we met? That story’s not getting near Robert Peston. I can hear his three-part question now, ending with “on the balcony?”’

He has a point. Our attraction was immediate and physical in a way only Boris Becker could really relate to. ‘But once we were together,’ I say, ‘surely there’s room for our love? To get the reader through the dull bits?’

‘Exactly my thinking,’ he says, ‘which is why I laced it with raunch sauce. For every budget meeting a bang. Problematic though. First because of the whole adultery thing, then Partygate, then all the Chequers shags in lockdown. When it’s not pornographic I’m committing perjury.’

‘Mmm,’ I reply, the consummate PR professional, seeing the value of saving the full blooming of our love for when he’s after a safe seat to replace Jenrick. ‘Same reason they cut out old Acuri and a couple of others. Too hot to handle, eh?’ he chuckles.

‘Mmm,’ I reply again, remembering the first thing I did when I got a copy of his book: flicked to the index to search for ‘Owen, Charlotte’, finding not a f**king mention.