The crunch of the well-seasoned batter yields to perfectly molten banana, the richness of the caramel is cut through by the sandy warmth of the cinnamon. Here they arrive like yogurtlu adana in their ovular tray, logs of carefully battered banana, not a trace of grease in sight, cheap whipped cream as yoghurt, cinnamon standing in for chilli flakes and a drizzling of caramel. Oddly, the banana fritters impress the most. Despite being voted #1 on Tripadvisor in the days when this meant slightly more than nothing, the fish and chips themselves are great, if sometimes needing more heavy handed seasoning. The reasons for this are unclear, although it doesn’t take a detective to work out that a group of people, who could batter seafood before they could speak, came over to the UK and quickly saw an easy way to assimilate into the culture The Golden Chippy massively breaks this strong tradition: it is. It’s a small quirk of London that nearly every major chippy - Toff’s, Fish Central, Golden Hind, Brockley’s Rock - is run by Greek-Cypriots. While the fish is merely decorative, the chicken is unexpectedly great - an unholy matrimony of beef and chicken fat, all puffed and crisped up like a confit. It’s possible to get the works for about £7-8 sitting down, less if foregoing mushy peas, which would be a mistake: the mushy peas are an essential reminder that all brief joy can only be put into context next to the unremitting blandless of existence. Even the tallow is questionable: is that a particularly beefy tang or just old oil? The experience is what it’s all about here: the formica, the black and white tiles, the cod in bowler hat mascot, the fact that The Fryer’s Delight is not a chippy, but a caff that happens to serve fish and chips. The batter on the fish always looks slightly like a fossilised rock, and if the chips weren’t fried in beef dripping they would be middling. To nip this in the bud: the fish and chips are alright. Like most of London’s pie and mash shops, The Fryer’s Delight is one of those places that should be treasured for its cultural importance, against the secret wish that it were better than it actually is. It may be childhood nostalgia, it may be the cholesterol, but this is one of the few meals left that still feels like a treat every time. So pile on all the condiments, chuck in some mushy peas, some pickled wallys, bread and butter, a battered saveloy. No more having to eyeball the rack and work out if that haddock really did come out of the fryer two minutes ago. No more waiting on the counter going stale. The pandemic has another unintended, wholly-positive side-effect: the lack of demand for fish and chips means that every single fillet of fish, every single golden chip, is being fried fresh to order. For this, it is imperative that the chippy be within 5-10 minutes of home, within the radius of the one government-mandated walk per day. The existence of great local fish and chips shops acknowledges a truth: The best way to consume fish and chips is ideally lounging horizontally, watching something bad on TV. Whole areas of London - Muswell Hill, Brockwell, Bromley - dine out on one good fish and chip shop that locals can proudly claim as their own. Fish and chips is home food it’s food that feeds a community. But the scarcity of great fish and chip shops in the centre is also proof that no Londoner has ever found themselves there, thinking: “I’d love some fish and chips right now”. That London’s fish and chip scene can’t compete with those in the north of England, Scotland, or the coastal towns where salty chips and saline air provide an experience tethered to geography is obvious. It’s time to have an honest conversation about the London chippy.
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