greasies

The only ethnic takeaway in the 50s is Chinese. Perhaps Italian reffoes eat pizza at home but none opens a parlour yet. Fish’n’chips have never been ethnic, but plenty of Greeks run fish-and-chipperies in the 50s. And they make hamburgers—authentic meat slabs grilled in front of your eyes with eggs, bacon and tomato.

The epidemic of obesity coincides with the availability of McDonalds, Hungry Jacks, pizza chains, KFC, Red Rooster, Subway, Fasta Pasta, Noodle Boxes, ribs on the run—what are they?—and every other fat food outlet imaginable.

Enterprising immigrants run restaurants in every suburb. We have Thai, Indian and Vietnamese cuisine. Why no Pakistani, Lao or Afghani restaurants? French restaurants seem to represent all of Europe. Where are the Norwegian restaurants, the German, the Slovenian?

Well, to me it matters not. If I’m sitting down to eat, it’s a green curry or samosas and malai kofta every time. But takeaway means fish’n’chips. They’re the mandatory takeaway anywhere near the sea or a beach or seagulls.

Newsprint is a key ingredient of good fish’n’chips, but no one wraps greasies in broadsheet these days. They come in pre-assembled cardboard boxes or slightly glossy butcher’s paper. And for heaven’s sake don’t be thinking that ‘fries’ in ‘buckets’ are chips. A good chip has substance, consists identifiably of potato.

A particular smell comes out of Subway; pizza places too. But there’s nothing like the smell of rancid boiling fat from a good fish’n’chippery.

Salt is what it’s all about. Fish’n’chips without salt? Forget it. Tomato sauce on the chips? Bring it on.