Fish and Chips

I climb the wooden steps. A sign has been taped to the banister
advertising fish and chips. It may have been the banister that was
taped to the sign. I mount with caution. Safely on the concrete of the
second floor of the parade of shops I risk a quick scan of the area. On
my right, the main beach, to my left a Dutch restaurant full of
benetton people looking smugly multiracial. This part of Spain seems to
have everything but Spanish food. The next unit along is my goal,
Scottish bar cum fish and chip restaurant. A television hangs limply
from the wall apathetically showing pop videos from the eighties. A
family sits at one of the tables. A harassed looking blonde woman,
rough tattoos scratch faded blue across her upper arm, a mark of lower
rank. The rest of the family seems to constitute entirely children
under eight around the plastic table. I find a menu.
"Jumbo cod, chips and a sausage" I tell the woman in the stained white
coat who has appeared before me with the look of an Accident and
Emergency nurse. A slight smile appears on her thin lips, as if to say
"Thanks for being not trying to engage me in conversation." I sit to
wait at an empty table. The arms of the plastic chair close around me
as I sit. I decide to wait on a bar stool instead. Beside me is a group
of six or seven people in their early twenties. Their bar stools form a
circle, in which laughter rebounds. I try to tune into their
conversation, but I only seem to catch radio Luxembourg because I can't
understand a word. After straining further I start to pick up the odd
words in gluttural Scottish accents. I learn that three of them are
actually Norwegian and they have a very good joke involving a glacier,
a polar bear and a herring. I am still waiting for the punchline some
five minutes later when my meal arrives. The casualty nurse brings a
white plastic bag, tied at the top. I can see newspaper print through
the plastic. I ponder upon the irony that this traditional British
packaging is only found outside the country. I pay the lady and exit
fast, I want to eat hot fish. Soon I am at home, perched before
television, with a small array of condiments and sauces, in case the
original flavour is too unpalatable. My optimism level is not high as
the moment of the grand unveiling arrives. The first package is a
sausage and chips. The sausage is evenly dark brown and shiny,
aesthetically perfect. I pick it up with my fingers and take a bite. It
is reassuringly standard fish shop fare: Underseasoned, only a hint of
actual meat. It patriotically defies the European definition of a
sausage. The chips, too, seem authentic. They are randomly sized and
shaped, doused in vinegar and salt. Unfortunately, they are chips from
the bottom of the batch, predominantly small and ranging from crunchy
to impossibly hard. The few fat chips have stubbornly adhered
themselves to the greaseproof paper lining. They are a little cold, so
I am disappointed by my chip experience. The fish is another matter. It
is indeed jumbo, measuring at least eighteen inches. The batter is a
perfect golden colour and is light and crispy. The fish itself is well
cooked, and I am so impressed that I decide to waive the chip debacle.
My sauces are thankfully redundant, and I happily munch my way through,
while reading some greased article from the tabloid wrapper. ?Armed
Robbery in Norway.? Apparently a Scottish gang escaped via Norway with
over a million pounds. I wonder what I would be doing now with a
million.