Fish and chips are a worthy subject of historical and economic enquiry

I’ve never given much thought to where my fish, as in the battered variety served across the UK’s some 10,500 fish and chip shops, comes from. Provenance... that mot-du jour and determinant of many a consumer choice barely registers when indulging what is one of life’s great culinary pleasures.

This week I discovered that it’s most likely to be Russia, a country responsible for 45 per cent of the global supply. The invasion of Ukraine has reverberated through many global supply chains, highlighting the scope of perhaps lesser-known Russian imports, including white fish, 48,000 tonnes of which were sold to the UK in 2020. Furthermore, much of it will be fried in sunflower oil made in Ukraine – responsible for up to 46 per cent of sunflower-seed and safflower oil production. Then there’s the wheat used for the flour to make the batter, with both countries behind almost a third of the world’s exports, meaning eastern Europe is all over this very British staple.

Troubled times, therefore, for the trade as war rages. Fryers face both heavy disruption to ingredient supplies while having to absorb the extra costs induced by the 35 per cent hike in tariff on Russian imports as part of the economic sanctions. Trade organisations fearing up to half of the UK’s chip shops could close for good are calling on the Treasury for more support and not hearing much back. I fear it could be one of those pivotal moments for an industry on the cusp of what would be an all too predictably bleak trajectory; insufficient interventions when it mattered followed by the usual lament and regrets when family-run, generation-spanning institutions have shut up shop with the communities they served left a little poorer for it.

I rediscovered the value of the local fish and chip shop as a cheap and tasty on-the-go lunch during lockdown restrictions and the enforced switch from the usual routine and haunts. And for a sector entwined with British tradition its uncertain future inevitably sparks nostalgia and a reminder that its simple formula has anchored many familial rituals over the years. Growing up, it was always the undisputed final destination on the way back from any day at the coast, a Saturday teatime treat in Blackpool and lunch of choice at Tingley Bar Fish restaurant in Morley, West Yorkshire, when visiting relatives. Here, the almost sweet hit of the beer batter was one of the best tastes on Earth, enhanced only by a serving of silver skin pickled onions and a couple of slices of Blackpool milk roll (a soft, round type of bread made with milk instead of water for those south of Watford).

More recently, I found another good chip shop in West Sussex which sadly closed last year when the owner retired and struggled to find a successor. As an experienced fryer, he was very much a master of his craft and charged little for its fish that flaked perfectly in the very lightest batter. While his business did a passable takeaway trade with a core group of regulars, the cafe area – perhaps generously described as “tired” – was never going to lure the fedora hat-wearing second homeowners away from their natural habitat of more fashionable restaurants. They were missing out because this was a rare and coveted example of substance over style, bypassed, of course, by those preferring to pay double for inferior versions on offer at the latest incarnation of the local gastro pub or the equivalent price for a cake and coffee in a heaving tearoom.

I recall the National Federation of Fish Friers president, Andrew Crook, saying that the over-70s preference to stay at home during the pandemic had meant a big hit to the trade, with less of the core customer base dining in fish and chip restaurants. Indeed, there’s probably an argument for many of the chip shops you see sandwiched between bookies and newsagents on an unloved provincial shopping parade to invest more substantially in their interiors and modernise a little to try to broaden their appeal.

Ultimately, though, they are what they are and, in some ways, their old-fashioned nature can be a refreshing antidote to some of the slicker pretensions of certain coffee shops drawing the crowds of a weekend. In fact, the irony isn’t lost that the humble fish and chip offering is only ever really deemed fashionable when pointlessly and pretentiously “elevated” by a chef swopping tartar sauce for caviar and caper-infused crème fraiche, and triple cooking the chips so they can triple the price. It’s all so far removed from the simplicity and authenticity of the dish’s working-class roots.

The running theme in a rare homage and appraisal of the industry, Fish and Chips and the British Working Class, 1870-1940, by JK Walton, is of a substantial economic contribution that has never been properly recognised. Walton highlights how the sector enjoyed one of the fastest growth rates among retail trades, of some 177 per cent between 1901 to 1931, as well as being an early pioneer of the fast food concept. Notably, it is a fast food devoid of the homogenised brands, small businesses that retain an often hyper-regionalised identity, their ubiquity on the UK’s streets wrapped up as tightly in British tradition and identity as the chips are in paper. As such, this unique offering should be better protected and probably more appreciated.

As Walton says: “It’s difficult to persuade people to take (the fish and chip trade) seriously as a subject of historical enquiry partly because it’s presumed to be timeless and ‘it’s always been there’.”

But for how much longer?