Fry to resist: The greasy joy of chips
Nothing beats a bag of chips.
It’s good to know the spark is still there. Even after ten years of marriage and the exhaustions of two small children. That lovely moment where we look at each other with a mischievous glint in our eyes and both of us are thinking the exact same thing. The children are in bed. The house is semi-to-moderately tidy. There is nothing stopping us. In a second we are pawing at … our phones, ordering takeaway.
Tonight it’s the chipper. There is no other brown paper bag on earth quite like the brown paper bag of chips. The bag commands respect. Proper chip establishments will provide one which is lined with a white inner bag known in Latin as the chipidermis. This is designed to soak up oil but still allow pleasing damp warmth to seep through to the outside. From the moment that the man in the takeaway puts an extra shovel into the bag that you didn’t even ask for, right to the time the last piece of shrapnel is crunched, it’s hard to find a more satisfying experience than eating chips from a bag.
It takes extreme willpower to transport the chips home without pilferage. You won’t tackle the burger while in the car – it’s too complicated and messy, and anyway, She’s going to notice. But it is tempting to reach over with the left hand to take one or two chips. Not too many, just a few from the extra shovel. No one will miss them. Now the steering wheel and gear stick taste of chip. You’ll be back to lick them at a later stage.
At this stage, you might be tempted to “get some plates for the chips”. Don’t. Resist this veneer of civilisation.
As soon as the chips are placed on the pristine white plate, something is lost. It’s like the switching on of the lights at the nightclub (whenever that happens again). What had looked mysterious and sultry is now just fake tan. No, the chips stay on the brown paper. As the scrabbling gets closer to the finish, some of the last mouthfuls may be up to 30% brown paper. It doesn’t matter – it’s vinegary.
Soon the party is in full swing. You forget what ‘this’ is, picking up a small bag. Oh it’s the battered sausage! (You ordered a battered sausage because your lizard brain was panicking that you would never eat again.)
Where’s the curry sauce?! There should be curry sauce! We ordered curry sauce! You are persuaded not to call the police as the curry sauce is found in one of the bags of chips. Happiness is restored. The brown gloop – it’s ingredients include curry and sauce – trembles slightly as it awaits its first dip.
There’s all sorts of licentious behaviour going on. Battered sausages are inside in burgers. Onion rings are being dipped in garlic mayonnaise, a chip is floating in the curry. It’s like pre-war Berlin and the last days of Rome rolled into one.
Next morning, you feel dirty, unsatisfied. The brain stuck to the inside of your skull with dehydration from the salt you told them to gwanawayshur into the bags of chips. Yes you had a good time but it feels hollow. “Don’t look at me like that”, you tell the porridge. “It’s you I love. Last night meant nothing. It was just a fling. It’s over I swear.”
But you know you’re weak. Before long, you’ll go be back knocking at the takeaway door. Looking for fast love.
