When we were kids, my grandparents would take the three of us to a fish and chip shop in Whitby called the Magpie.
I can’t remember sitting inside in the cafe, although I know we did. I
remember sitting on a wall looking out to sea, the hot chips warming our
laps through slightly damp paper, the sea air whipping our hair into
our mouths. Grandma would divvy up a large cod between the three of us,
making sure we all got our fair share of fish, batter and an equal
rubble of the crispy bits. Little wooden forks were quickly discarded in
favour of nimble fingers searching for the ideal chip, fat- and
vinegar-soggy at one end and crisp at the other. The portions seemed
enormous back then, a never-ending sea of chips, great white flakes and
shards of golden-brown batter that shattered. Until it did end, which
was always a bit sad, and we would screw the paper into a ball and lick
our salty lips and fingers, then wipe them on our trousers and Grandpa
would frown and say “give over”.
Source: Theguardian
No comments:
Post a Comment