Alexandersmap

    Category: food

    • The Joyful Pursuit of Fish and Chips

      How did I get on this track? Surely I’d have been better off looking for the best kale salad? But I’m in search of the best fried food. I know where it started. I blame Halifax. I’ve had exceptional fish & chips, and I keep chasing it in restaurants around the northern Atlantic Ocean trying to find the best in an evasive, sometimes frustrating mission.

      The very best I’ve ever had was a lunch special at The Five Fishermen Restaurant in Halifax. It was super fresh with a crisp, light batter and chips seasoned just right, all presented beautifully on a modest plating. It was an epiphany, and I haven’t had a better one yet in Canada, New England, New York, London or Scotland. Are there equal or better fish & chips in those places? Probably, but I haven’t found it yet.

      Now to be fair, The Five Fisherman is a fine dining experience with a menu to be savored, and I was the right audience for that dish. Pubs and most restaurants that serve fish & chips aren’t focused on the delivery of a world class dish, they’re simply feeding the masses. So I don’t bash the places that don’t do it well, I just don’t mention them at all. I’ve had truly awful fish and chips only once, in the shadow of the London Eye, at a tourist trap. Soggy, greasy and full of bones. I had one bit and threw away the rest. Shameful waste of food, and a fish that died in vain. I had no business ordering anything in that place so the fault lies squarely with me.

      But as you might expect, that was the exception in London. The city has some excellent fish & chips places in every corner. Pub food bliss with large servings of fish overflowing the dish, mounted on a healthy pile of chips (“next to” is the preferred serving, thank you). The only thing stopping me from ordering it everywhere was a natural desire to eat a bit of everything, but I give a respectful nod to the UK for the consistently great fish & chips. Shame my last experience having it there before leaving was that tourist trap place. Circumstances being what they were it was what it was…

      As I’ve hinted, the best fish & chips offers fresh, flaky white fish (Cod, please) in a light, crispy batter, served with a reasonable pile of crisp fried potatoes sliced just right. A side of fresh coleslaw is welcome. Tartar sauce, lemon and ketchup should be strictly optional, not required to get through your meal. When I see a piece of fish presented with a slice of lemon already sitting on the fish I think “not fresh fish”, and when the fish is thrown on top of the chips I think, “soggy chips”. Yes, it’s a basic, working-class dish, but presentation still matters.

      I’ve written close to 500 words on the modest topic of fish & chips. Candidly, I could go on much longer on the topic. Ultimately, my search continues for a better fish & chips dish. Like any experience, once you’ve had something truly exceptional most things afterwards won’t measure up. But there’s joy in the pursuit.

    • The Blackfriar

      The people flood the sidewalks, drinking pints of ale, talking and laughing in clusters. Inside, the bar is jammed as well, but it’s mostly people having drinks on a Friday night. This is London, after all, and they know how to properly end a work week. But the tables are largely open at 7 PM; our timing was good. They fill soon after.

      It was a good time to take a break. Five miles of cobblestones and stairs weren’t kind to the seniors in our group, and the last mile across the Millennium Bridge to The Blackfriar was especially challenging. Travel let’s you explore the world and your limitations all at once. When you travel alone that’s the story. When you travel with others your story changes with the dynamics of the group. And you either roll with it or you chafe.

      The Blackfriar describes itself as a “traditional pub with Henry Poole’s Art Nouveau reliefs reflecting the friary that once stood there.” Good fish & chips and meat pies, especially after miles of walking. Those reliefs are fascinating to look at, especially with pint of ale or a glass or two of their excellent gin and tonic selection. I could have stayed all night.

    • Lost in an Autumn Playlist

      Autumn. Smell the pumpkin and ripe apples and decaying leaves and wood smoke. Late September through Thanksgiving in New England offer vibrancy with the fourth sense fully engaged in the game of being alive. I could live in many places in the world, but these crisp nine weeks are when I appreciate living in New Hampshire most.

      Autumn. Blue jeans and long sleeves, the heat radiating through a mug warming your hands, wiping dew off the chair before sitting down in the backyard writing chair. Blankets pressing you down into the mattress like you’re a panini. Socks. The days grow shorter and cooler, and the wardrobe changes with the tilt of the earth. We’ve been here before, and we grow reacquainted once again with fabric on our extremities. The dance with Autumn inevitably means literally feeling her on your skin.

      Autumn. Yellow and red waves sweep first over the highlands and wetlands, moving southward and finally capturing the strongest holdouts in between. Northern vistas so stunning you can’t help but stare, and apologize profusely for being so rude. I confess my productivity decreases when I travel to Vermont or northern New Hampshire. Like stained glass in a church, the leaves demand your attention.

      Autumn. Sweetness of apples and the omnipresent pumpkin spice. Last of the harvest turned to cider and preserves. Lighter summer fare giving way to richer dishes that warm you inside out. If you haven’t lost those few extra pounds by now you face an uphill battle as caloric intake holds the advantage. Baked goods take the place of salads, rum gives way to scotch, soups and stews and casseroles tempt and delight. The scale be damned.

      Autumn. The fading crickets song grows sadder while the crows caw grows bolder. Soon the red-winged blackbirds and other transients fill the trees with a cacophony of excited conversation. The hiss and pop of an outdoor fire. And always, a playlist of standards for Autumn. There’s a soundtrack for every season, and Autumn is when my playlists grow reflective.  In the spirit of the senses, I’ll limit myself to five standards that set the tone for Autumn in New Hampshire:

      Philosophers Stone by Van Morrison (King of Autumn music)

      The Long Day is Over by Nora Jones

      I Was Brought to My Senses by Sting

      You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me by Shelby Lynne (sorry Dusty)

      Deacon Blues by Steely Dan

    • Pizza Box Magic

      Pizza is a wonder food for the delight it brings in such a simple formula. A little dough, a little sauce. Top it with a few favorites and you’re on your way to blissful eating. But the most extraordinary, magical thing about pizza is the preservative effect it has on the whole. Think about it, if you left a dish full of cooked meat on the countertop all night you wouldn’t eat it cold the next morning. More often than not you’d throw it away! But not so that same meat on a pizza. You’d eat it without blinking an eye, sometimes cold, and sometimes a second day later. Try that with a piece of bread left on the counter.

      Maybe it’s pizza’s version of the Holy Trinity. Instead of onions, peppers and celery it’s dough, sauce and cheese preserves a pizza indefinitely. But then again maybe it’s something else, hiding right under our noses. I think maybe the box holds the secret. There’s magic in that box; fending of bacteria, staleness and hungry cats alike. A cardboard force field keeping evil at bay. Want to live forever? Move into a pizza box. But please, hold the anchovies.