Food and culture are intertwined.
When we think of Italy, we think of pizza and pasta. With Japan, it’s sushi. India is curry. Germany, bratwurst sausage and beer. France, their fine wines and culinary “treats” like truffles and escargot. China, Thailand, Mexico … all have a rich culinary heritage that’s tied to their culture.
In New Zealand, we have fish and chips.
It’s not in exactly the same league. Our Australian and British friends would point out we don’t even say “fish and chips”, that we say “fush and chups”. We laugh and console ourselves that they say “feesh and cheeps” or “fash and chaps”.
But either way, fish and chips is a part of our heritage.
The meal comes in many forms. Fancy restaurants offer pan-fried fish of the day served with thick cut chips cooked in duck fat (let’s face facts: chips taste best when cooked in some kind of fat, and duck fat is currently the foodie fat of choice. It can’t be less healthy than canola oil). And the fish will be fresh line-caught snapper or tarakiki or hapuku, or one of the beautiful deep sea fishes found in New Zealand’s territorial waters—John Dory, perhaps.
Mid-range restaurants offer tempura-battered fish. They might serve the deep-fried chips in a one-portion metal basket, an echo of the large baskets used in the deep fryer. Family restaurants will have beer-battered fish and chips, and the fish will probably be hoki—the fish McDonald’s New Zealand use in their Filet-O-Fish burger. No farmed code or tilapia here, thank you.
New Zealand is an island nation.
Many people own small boats which they use for fishing in the local harbour, or in the shallow waters off the coast. Their fish and chips could be snapper or any of the huge range of species found in our coastal waters. Then there is the messy job of scaling, heading, gutting and filleting the fish so it can be fried or barbecued.
But for most of us, fish and chips are bought from the local takeaway shop, a Friday night treat. When I was a kid, our options were limited: battered fish, a hot dog*, a range of hamburgers, or a toasted sandwich. Some offered potato fritters or battered oysters. All served with chips, which could be ordered by the scoop or by the dollar.
The burgers and toasted sandwiches were cooked on the hot plate, but everything else was deep-fried in lard. Yes, a cardiologist’s nightmare. The fish and chips were dumped out of the fry basket onto a sheet of butcher paper, and the steaming mass wrapped in last week’s newspapers. We’d open the packets, add tomato sauce, and dig in with our fingers—a great indoor or outdoor meal. Most Kiwis will have memories of eating piping hot fish and chips on the beach, watching the children play in the shallows.
But New Zealand has moved with the times (!).
Our fish and chips are now cooked in canola oil and served in pristine white butcher paper. But the taste is pretty much the same, especially once we’ve added enough salt to preserve a pig, and doused it all with tomato sauce. Always called tomato sauce; never ketchup. (Unless you’re at McDonald’s.) Some people drizzle lemon juice over their fish, others drown the chips in malt vinegar. It’s a matter of taste.
And I love it.
* In case you were wondering, a Kiwi hot dog isn’t a frankfurter in a long bun. No, it’s a sausage on a stick, covered in batter and deep-fried. I think it’s similar to what Americans call a corn dog … although there’s no corn in the batter. And Australians have the Dagwood dog, which looks the same, but I have no idea where the name comes from!
