Aye, ‘appen as mebby.
You can’t beat good old fish and chips.
Well, actually you can. Depending on where you buy them.
I live in sunny Stockport in the County of Cheshire on the western side of the Pennines. (The Pennines are a ridge of hills and moorland than runs pretty much from the Scottish border down the spine of England and ends in the northern tip of the Midlands. So called by the Romans, after their Apennine mountain range that runs down the centre of Italy.)
But, originally, I am from Leeds on the eastern side of the aforementioned ridge of moors. And I reckon that fish and chips east of the border are infinitely better than the ones west.
Whilst leaning against the uncomfortably hot stainless steel counter of one chippy in Pudsey, (Leeds), the proprietor informed me of his secret:
“That’s coz we fry ar fish in’t beef fat,” he grumbled. “Ovver t’border, they use vegtabel oil. Bloody useless. An’, it ‘as to be ‘addock, not cod. Nah then, see thi’, di yer fancy sum scraps on tha chips?”
To be honest, I wouldn’t have tartar sauce anywhere near my fish ‘n’ chips. (That’s just someone trying to make it look posher than it is.) Nor any fruit. Ketchup all the way. And those mushies look a bit dry for my liking. Nowt wrong with a portion of beans if you don’t fancy the peas.