Annual fish & chips

There was a hand-written sign on the Bloor street sidewalk that read "the best fish and chips in town". I would've just kept on walking had my foody friend not said "I've heard this place has the best fish and chips in town!" She, being a connesiuer of the finer foods in life, and having lived in England (a country whose national food is fish and chips), was someone I trusted so we settled on Chippy's Fish and Chips for dinner.

The place was simply furnished; the menu was limited and scrawled in chalk on the wall. It was the kind of decor that made you think that this place was fish-and-chips straight-up. Nothing fancy... so it had to be good. We ordered two orders of fish and chips, an order of tartar sauce and a side of mushy peas. We sat on side-by-side stools looking out the storefront window. Realizing that we were "on display", we practiced our smiles and satisfied expressions. When the food arrive, it looked window display worthy and we eagarly chowed down.

The cod fish was fried to a perfect golden yellow, slightly browned on the tips. The white fish was moist on the outside and flaked lightly as I cut into it. The mound of chips underneath were made from fresh cut potatoes, skin-on, widely cut, exactly to the size that I like. They were crispy on the outside, steaming of soft potato goodness on the inside. Anyone who knows me know how potatoes are my stomach's weakness... and though there must've been a pound of potatoes, I nearly finished them all off.

The actual eating process was quite enjoyable at the time, but now a couple of hours later, I regret that act of disgusting gluttony... After finishing off the meal, and seeing my paper plate soaked in the grease from the lard-fried protein, I felt my arteries begin to harden. I walked out of the hole-in-the-wall smelling of deep fryer, a stench that followed me home, settled into my clothes. My stomach is gurgling from the grease and my throat dry from too much salt and my body winding into sluggishness from too much starch. I probably had enough fat grams in me to last a year.

The moral of the story is? Even if the sign says it's good, and your friend says it's good, and your eyes see it's good, just don't do it--the after effects just aren't worth it. It's going to be salads and "light" food for me, for the rest of the week... or at least until this greaseball moves out of my system.