Talking Shit.

This morning, I had the displeasure of having to go to work in the tube [because I was pissed last night, and woke up late]. Morning Tube trips means I get to read the METRO, a freebie newspaper.

According to the METRO, behold, a new phenomenon, Fish & Chips!

Just outside Ramsgate is one of the best fish and chip shops in Britain, the Newington Fish Bar. It dishes up firm-fleshed, pearly fish that falls into fat flakes at the touch of a fork, encased in startlingly good batter that’s crisp and light, like British tempura. Fat is kept at just the right temperature so that fish steams to perfection inside its batter sarcophagus, while the exterior is all glorious crunch.
Chips are magnificent. Doused in vinegar and dunked into an improbably green swamp of mushy peas, they are an artery-hardening joy. Inside, the place is a mishmash of ugly seaside-alia, big metal counters and hefty chaps in mesh hats; outside, the streets are, frankly, hideous. But none of it matters: the food is the thing.
Yep, I love good fish and chips. So when it’s a Michelin-starred chef in charge of the chippie, I’m in a state of high excitement. If the Newington Fish Bar can do it, surely Tom Aikens can take the humble repast and turn it into a supper fit for the gods. Am I in for a disappointment? You bet.
Despite its cutesy Chelsea Village setting, I don’t like the look of the place. Portholes and fishy mosaics and striated metal add up to a sharp-edged, shouty atmosphere not softened by bottles of Sarson’s vinegar (hurrah) on the it-looks-like-Formica-but-it’s-recycled-plastic tables. There’s an LED board with prices and choices (no different to the paper menu) which should make a City boy clientele feel at home. Above the tables dangle attractive Perspex lampshades, which staff and customers alike bang heads into with rhythmic regularity.
Every decent fish’n’chipperie should have a telly in the corner. Here, we get a lovely big screen showing not ’Enders or Corrie but a loop of Mr Aikens himself, talking about fish. At least we assume he is: the sound is turned off. Mercifully.
The admirable bottom line here is sustainability and eco-consciousness. So our fish is line-caught not trawled, and instead of plaice and haddock we get megrim, pollock and gurnard. Cod is Pacific, Marine Stewardship Council-approved, which we’re allowed to eat without guilt. There are photos flanking All at sea: The eco ethic of Tom Aikens’s Chelsea Village fish’n’chipperie is commendable. Sadly, the fish and chips are not so praiseworthy the TV of fish heroes, weather-beaten chaps from Newlyn or Hastings or Plymouth who go out in all weathers to bring back the morally sound booty.
Which would be all genuinely fine were the food fabulous. But it’s not. Crucially, frying doesn’t appear to be a major skill: batter is clunky, solid and disappointing, the use of beer and fizzy water doing little to lighten the fatty density. Onion rings are leaden coils of greasy starch. Grey gurnard – an honourable fish – languishes limply inside its stodgy armour.
Less conventional choices work far better: fresh, full-flavoured mackerel grilled and served with excellent sweet-sour beetroot and a herbed potato salad; or bouillabaisse with big chunks of monkfish and mullet (but, sadly, no bread or toast).
I love the vivid, flavour-packed mushy peas. As I always do, I shower ’em in vinegar before using the stout, beef-dripping-fried Maris Piper chips to scoop the violently green mulch into my face. This is by far my favourite part of the meal. But the willowy creatures at the next table, nibbling at their pan-fried, line-caught sea bass, watch me with unalloyed horror.
The wine list is almost 100 per cent English, which verges on the contrary. Best of the bunch is a rosé. ‘Yih, that’s a good one,’ says our splendid Aussie waitress. ‘You’d never know it was English.’

Well, have you ever read such a load of shite written about fish & Chips? I get the impression that the prick who wrote this [Mariana O'Loughlin] either gets paid by the word or has never been in the place she's writing about.
Fish & chips [Haddock] sold wrapped in newspaper, taken home and eaten with a combination of salt, vinegar, brown sauce / ketchup and the plate washed up afterwards. What more can you say. Anything else is utter twaddle, as was the review by this bumptious, silly bitch.