In praise of slap chips

Slap chips go with anything – fish and chips, chicken and chips, pie and chips, on their own, inside a soft hotdog roll… Abigail George can’t get enough.

- NICOLENE LOUW

All through my childhood, fish and chips was eaten a few times a month in our house. My family’s go-to place in Port Elizabeth was Seaflight Fisheries. We would stand in front of the counter and watch the ladies, with what looked like posh shower caps covering their hair, fry hake or calamari soaked in batter. The chips would be fried in hot oil until both fish and chips were mouth-wateringly golden and deliciously crisp.

For us, in our community, fish and chips was a miracle food. It was divine. A sacred food for the angels.

We also made our own chips. Chefs will tell you you have to use certain potatoes for the chips to come out crisp, but we never bothered with that. A potato was mos a potato. My mother would cut her chips into wedges like Nando’s did when we still had a Nando’s in our area. Those were the days.

The smell of chips is so tantalising; it still conjures many childhood memories. I think of the hopefulness, the expectation and the happiness that went with a simple visit to the local takeaway place.

The women at Seaflight were experts. They knew what to deliver to their customers. They did this day in and day out. I marvelled at the way they seemed to lift the steaming chips out of the fryer so effortlessly. They did it elegantly, with what looked like love. The effect was magical.

Whether it came wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper, or in a greasy brown paper bag, that package was the beginning, middle and end of any hunger pang or craving. Heaven on a plate! A jukebox full of flavour tunes in your mouth.