Scottish fish suppers were always a source of disappointment. I'm sorry to disparage a nation, but it's true. In the entire history of humanity to date there's never been such a look of horror pasted on a person's face as my mothers when they salt-n-sossed her chips. As to my dad, he summed it up simply as 'the fuck.' They drove all the way to Edinburgh and turned round because they didn't like the fish and chips and 'it was cold' and my mother hadn't taken a coat. My parents don't travel well.
Battered sausage is still my favourite (much better than fish which is just too much greasy batter in the end). You should be able to bite it in half and watch fat ooze out. It makes my heart flutter. Admittedly, flutter as in a dying butterfly with one wing yanked off, but flutter all the same. And mushy peas. Come on, mushy peas. It makes me happy – it makes me want – just writing the words mushy peas. I love mushy peas and I'm not afraid to admit it.
Of course, there was the curry sauce, rice, and chips with a fritter on the top which was possibly the cheapest way to get an entire day's recommended calorific input in one go.
Our Liverpool friday tradition was fish chips and curry sauce from one of the chippies down in Chinatown that used to be open sometime after bedtime-o'clock.
