Taken together, fish and chips is a persuasive combination, writes Brent Meersman.
I cannot lament the demise of the great British fish-and-chip shop. The last chippie I ate at was in Soho, London. Some readers will immediately recognise it. I can only theorise: the fish was caught after it committed suicide; was frozen for a year; defrosted in a microwave on the wrong setting; left out overnight; rolled (with its skin still on) in an industrial instant batter mix; plunged into 80-year-old oil that wasn’t yet hot enough; bagged with half-cooked chips; saturated with the worst spirit vinegar; sat on by the owner; and then served to me. For extra measure, the fillet contained several mischievous bones.
Britain’s national street food, fish and chips kept millions alive with cheap, hot meals through two world wars. At one stage, there was a fish-and-chip shop for every 2 000 people in the country.
Although considered traditional, the chippy emerged quite late, after 1860, only slightly predating the burger in the United States. The idea was pinched from the Jews of England, who habitually fried fish.
Initially, the shops were rather disgusting places in back alleys thanks to the stink of the cottonseed oil used for frying and the stench of fish guts. Over time, the industry cleaned up with improved oils. The customary newspaper wrapping was replaced with the ineffective brown bag, oozing grease, turning chips and batter soggy, ruining couches and car seats everywhere.
Good shops used fresh fish, usually cod and skate in London, and in Lancashire, the other capital of the fish-and-chip shop, hake. The batter was made with beer, and the chips were crisped in lard and doused with malt vinegar only.
Taken together, fish and chips is a persuasive combination. Often in even the smartest restaurants, once my jaded eyes have glazed over the ballotine, fondant, buisson and timbale, I hear myself say: “The battered fish and chips, please.
Initially fish-and-chip shops in South Africa were the province of industrious Portuguese immigrants. These independents are now mostly replaced by chains, such as Snoekies, originally established in Hout Bay in 1951, and now with about 20 branches in the Western Cape; Texies, which has been going since 1972 and has eight outlets in Cape Town; the Old Fashioned Fish and Chip Takeaway with 345 stores nationwide; the Fish & Chip Co — they of the Zuma advert — with 300 stores and the slogan “traditional English-style food” and a Union Jack in its logo.
Possibly the oldest surviving independent is Kalky’s, owned by Elisabeth Rosslind for the past 15 years, although the place dates back to the 1950s.
The best way to visit Kalky’s from Cape Town is by train, a comfortable ride of less than an hour. A return ticket costs an unbeatable R22. If you’re older than 60, you can travel free on Tuesdays. Sit on the left-hand side — the strip from Muizenberg to Kalk Bay right on the edge of the ocean must be one of the most spectacular train rides in the world.
Located inside the picturesque fishing harbour, Kalky’s is a short walk from the station across the railway line and past the little chapel where the fishermen pray before going out to sea.
Essentially an expanded wooden shack, you are greeted with a banner, “Love Milk, Love Fruit, Love Chocolate, Love Kalky’s”, and signs, “No loitering” and “ATM inside”.
The ceiling is dressed overall with lines of pendant flags of the world. The woodwork is colourful, reminding one of the colours of the local fishing boats, and the tables are covered in red PVC cloths branded by Coca-Cola.
You order and pay at the counter, where you will most likely encounter Allison, Rosslind’s daughter, and the genial manager George Mandalios, who also runs traditional hand-line fishing trips.
Kalky’s is almost always bustling, and at peak times on peak days the queues stretch.
Kalky’s, Kalk Bay Harbour. Tel: 021 788 1726. Open 10am to 8pm, seven days a week
Full Story Mail & Guardian.
