Stop Frying Fish and Chips the Takeaway Way — Try These Old British Chip-Shop Tricks

You are lifting a piece of fish out of the pan and only some of the batter comes with it. One side is golden, the other hangs off in a pale wet sheet and the fish underneath is grey and steaming. The kitchen smells of hot oil and something catching. Five minutes on kitchen paper and the chips have gone limp as a wet flannel, the paper under them soaked right through. After tonight, the kitchen roll stays on its holder at tea time. It was never your frying, love. You were copying the takeaway, the warm parcel you carry home under your arm. By the time it reaches your table, it has sat 20 minutes, steaming in its own box. You learned fish and chips from what arrived at the door, never from what happened at the fryer. In my father's village, the beef dripping he rendered at the back of the butcher's shop went two doors down to the chippy, the chip shop, and on a Friday, the queue ran out past our window. Batter, you could hear crack from the counter. Chips that stood up on the fork. I never saw a single paper come back with batter left on it. Here is what is coming. The crispest chip you will ever fry spends its first bath in fat so gentle it barely bubbles. The water you pour down the sink matters more than any seasoning. Your batter is at its best while it still looks lumpy and wrong. And the worst thing that can happen to a perfect piece of fish happens after it leaves the pan. Then there is the rule nearly all of us were raised on. Fish is not cooked until it falls apart. At number one, I am going to show you why that gets it exactly backwards and what you are allowed to do instead. I'm Arthur Pemberton, 40 years behind a British pub kitchen and fish every Friday without fail. Friday was the night the fryer earned its keep and none of this came from me, it came from my father who kept his dripping pot by the stove and sold the rest to the chippy on one rule. Never sell what you wouldn't take home for your own tea. He never wrote a word down, so I wrote it all down. Six things stand between you and that plate, in the order you will do them. Now, let us begin at number six. Number six is the shop. You pick up whatever potatoes are on offer, or the neat little waxy ones. Anyone would. But a waxy potato fries, leathery outside and gluey in the middle, and never turns fluffy. Chips want a floury potato. Maris Piper or King Edward in Britain, a russet in America. Cut one in half and wipe the blade with your thumb. A floury one leaves a milky film. A waxy one looks wet and glassy. Keep them in a cool, dark cupboard, never the fridge, or they fry dark and bitter before the inside is cooked. Then the fish, cod or haddock, the Yorkshire way. A thick fillet about two and a half centimetres, an inch, skinned. Frozen at sea is no shame. Plenty of good chippies fry nothing else. Buy well though and the knife and the tap can still send you home with floppy chips. Number five happens at the board and the sink. Most people cut them thin like the ones in the bag and fry them straight from the board. Thin chips are all crust and no potato and go soft the moment they cool. Cut yours a finger thick, about one and a half centimeters, just over half an inch. Now, the water I promised. Drop the chips into cold water and swish them about. Look at it. Cloudy. That loose starch glues chips together in the pan and browns them before the middle is soft. Rinse until the water runs nearly clear, soak 20 minutes, then dry every one on a tea towel. Wet potato in hot fat spits, cools the fat, and steams instead of frying. Rinsed and dry, though, a chip still has two jobs to do, and if you ask it to do both at once, it fails at both. Number four is the first fry, the part of the chip shop the takeaway never shows you. At home, you fry chips once, hot, until they look done. The outside colours while the inside is still hard, so you leave them longer, and now they are too dark outside and barely cooked within. A chip needs cooking, then crisping, in two separate fries. This is the gentle bath I promised. Fat at 130 degrees, 265 Fahrenheit, 6 to 8 minutes, no colour at all. You want them soft enough to crush between your fingers. Lift them onto a rack and let them cool, 20 minutes at least, an hour if you can, while the outside dries into a thin skin ready to crisp. And the fat is beef dripping, the way the northern chippies always fried. Save the dripping. Oil tastes of nothing. A deep, heavy pan, never more than a third full, and never walk away from it. Soft and cooled, though, a chip is only halfway, and the next fry is where people lose their nerve. Number three is the second fry, hot and quick. You set the dial where it was last time, because that is where it was. Turn it up. Instead. 190 degrees, 375 Fahrenheit. A handful at a time. Crowd the pan and the fat drops and the chips drink it. Two or three minutes and listen. The heavy wet fizz turns to a light, dry crackle and the chips knock together like wooden pegs when you shake the basket. Tap one on the bowl. It should click, not flop, out onto a rack, not paper. A chip lying on paper sits in its own steam. Salt them while the fat still holds it and keep them on that rack in a low oven, 120 degrees, 250 Fahrenheit, door ajar. Crisp chips, though, are the easy half. The fish is where most home kitchens come unstuck, halfway. If this is helping, a like would be kind. On a good Friday in the pub, the bar went quiet when the plates landed, and a like is the nearest I get to that quiet now. Tell me, what goes on the side where you live? Mushy peas, curry sauce or gravy? Every trick so far answers to one of two things. And when the fish comes out of the fat, I will name them both. Now, back to it. Number two is the batter and the fish going in. The usual way is to whisk the batter silky smooth and leave it on the side while you get on. Every recipe starts there, but a smooth, warm batter goes on like a blanket, comes off like a wet one and fries heavy with fat. So here is the lumpy batter I promised. Right. Do it like this. Make it cold and make it last. 150 grams of plain flour, a heaped cup. A teaspoon of baking powder, a pinch of salt, about 200 milliliters, just under a cup, of ice-cold beer or sparkling water. Stir with a fork only until it comes together, lumps and all, as thick as double cream. Pat the fish dry, salt it, and turn it in flour first. Batter will not hold on to wet fish. That was your pale sheet sliding off. Dip, let it drip, then hold it by one end and lay it into fat at 180 degrees, 355 Fahrenheit, away from you, drawing it gently forward before you let go. The chip shop men call it swimming it in. The batter sets underneath as it moves so the fish floats instead of welding itself to the bottom. Swim it in right though and there is still a voice in your kitchen ready to overcook it. Number one is the moment you lift it. The batter is deep gold and crackling. The fish has had five or six minutes and a voice behind you says leave it a few more minutes, fish isn't done until it falls apart. That rule had a reason once. Our grandmothers cooked fish without a thermometer, and cooking it until it collapsed was how they made sure. But inside a jacket of batter, fish is not frying. It is steaming gently in its own juice. Extra minutes don't make it safer. They push the juice out through the batter, and the coat goes soft from inside. The guidance for fish is 63 degrees, 145 Fahrenheit, in the thickest part, and your own country's rules come first. Anyone pregnant, very young, elderly or unwell, cook it right through, no exceptions. For the rest of you, you are allowed, love, to lift the fish out the moment the thickest part turns from glassy to white. It should fall apart on the plate, not in the pan. Slide a thin knife into the thickest part. White right through, pearly, coming away in big, moist flakes with barely a push. Then break the last takeaway habit. Stand the fish on its edge on the rack for a minute, so the steam can leave. Never flat on paper. Never shut in a box. Salt, a splash of malt vinegar, and straight to the table. The loose crumbs of batter in the fat are scraps. Scoop them out and scatter them over the chips, the way the northern chippies always gave them away. No dripping, lard or plain ground nut oil. No cod or haddock, hake or pollock fry beautifully. I told you every trick answers to one of two things. The first is dry going in. Chips rinsed and dried, fish patted and floured, cold batter that sets before it can soak. Hot fat hates water. The second is steam going out, the rack instead of paper, the chips cooled uncovered between fries, the fish stood on its edge and never boxed, you don't add crispness, you stop taking it away, dry in, steam out, that is the whole chippy, fry for four and something always comes back. Saturday, the spare chips go into a very hot oven, then between buttered bread for a chip butty with brown sauce, and no, I will not be apologising. Sunday, the strained dripping goes back in the pot for the roast potatoes. Monday, the last of the fish is flaked into mash for fish cakes. Here is your experiment. Next Friday, cut one potato, fry half of it once, the takeaway way, give the other half the gentle fry, the rest, and the hot fry. Two bowls, no labels. My money is on the second bowl being empty first. Try it, and tell me if I was wrong. Tell me which country you are cooking in, and who taught you that fish isn't cooked until it falls apart. I want to see how far that rule travelled. In the next one, and yes, I have promised it twice, the pork pie, crimped round the side, and why the jelly goes in after the oven. This time I mean it. Stand it on its edge, and let the steam go. Mind how you go, and save the dripping.