THE FOODIST / THE TRUE ORIGIN OF FISH & CHIPS

These fish & chips were prepared and served in Paris

Long before gastropubs plated it with truffle aioli and Himalayan salt, before seaside kiosks wrapped it in yesterday’s headlines, there was simply the sizzle. A fillet of humble white fish, dipped in batter and kissed by hot oil, meeting a pile of golden potato batons—crisped at the edges, soft as a Sunday confession inside. 

Fish and chips, as elemental as saltwater and good fortune, seems as though it has always existed. Yet this eminently British treasure is a tapestry woven from wandering cultures, borrowed techniques, and—like all great culinary romances—timing.  

The story begins not along some English pier, but in the sun-lit kitchens of Sephardic Jews fleeing Portugal and Spain in the 16th and 17th centuries. They brought with them pescado frito—fish dredged in flour and fried in olive oil, traditionally prepared on Fridays to be eaten cold on the next day on the Jewish Sabbath. 

When these families settled in London’s East End, their recipe flexed to its new climate and pantry. Olive oil became cheaper fats, Mediterranean fish were swapped for cod and haddock pulled from chilly northern waters, and a Londoner’s palate—never shy of comfort—took note.  

Meanwhile, across the Channel, another revolution simmered in bubbling fat. In Belgium and France, cooks were turning potatoes—once eyed with suspicion in Britain as livestock feed—into crisp, fried strips. 

Legend tells of a Belgian winter so severe the river froze solid, leaving villagers without fish; in their craving they sliced potatoes into the shape of minnows and fried them instead. Whether myth or memory, by the mid-19th century Britain, too, had fallen for fried potatoes, affectionately naming them “chips.”  

Then came the alchemy. London claims the honor with the East End’s Joseph Malin, a Jewish entrepreneur who, sometime around 1860, married fried fish to chips in a tiny shop in Bow. 

Up north, Lancashire counters with John Lees of Mossley, who served the same golden duet from a wooden stall around 1863. Food historians debate, civic pride swells—and the rest of us happily concede that genius can spark twice.  

Clegg’s Fish & Chip Shop, circa 1890s, Northern England An early English chippy—Clegg’s Fish & Chip Restaurant—serves as both workplace and family stage. Starched aprons, proud owners, and wide-eyed children greet the camera in a scene from the dawn of Britain’s most democratic meal. Fresh tripe, trotters, and hand-cut potatoes in the window tell the story of a hearty industrial-era diet, before neon signs and takeaway counters became the norm.

Industrialization acted as midwife. Trains sped fresh fish from coastal ports to inland towns. Coal ranges allowed frying at scale. And suddenly Britain, on-the-move and factory-bound, found solace in a meal that was quick, substantial, and democratic. 

Fish and chips were sustenance for dockworkers, fuel for mill girls, a Friday night treat for families in smoky brick terraces. Even Parliament understood its power: during both world wars, rationing spared the dish. A nation under strain needed comfort. It needed familiarity. It needed vinegar soaked into crisp batter and the steam rising when you tore open the paper.  

Sir Winston Churchill, with typical economy of wit, called fish and chips “the good companions.” He might as well have called them indispensable.  

Today, the dish has ascended and circled back. Michelin-starred chefs reinterpret it with line-caught fish, artisanal batter, and triple-cooked potatoes, presenting what working-class ingenuity wrought with white-gloved reverence. At the same time, true devotees swear allegiance to the humble chippy: fluorescent lights, malt vinegar in cloudy bottles, fingers still warm from the fryer’s hiss. Both are correct. This is a dish that belongs everywhere, to everyone.  

Fish and chips is not a recipe; it is a journey. A migration of taste, a marriage of necessity and delight, a testament to the delicious truth that the world’s most beloved foods rarely begin in palaces but in neighborhoods where people work hard and eat gratefully. It is the immigrant’s resilience, the industrialist’s efficiency, and the islander’s love of the sea—all wrapped in paper and passed across a counter.  

And so you bite in. The crackle, the softness, the vinegar’s bright sting, the whisper of the ocean beneath it all. History dissolves into hunger. Tradition becomes pleasure. And you know, in that instant, that this most British of meals is also universal—proof that simple things, done with care, endure. 

Mick’s Fish Bar, 1960s London. A group of young Londoners gather outside Mick’s Fish Bar in the swinging-sixties capital, where a late-night paper-wrapped portion of fried cod and chips was the unofficial fuel of British youth. Leather jackets, slick haircuts, and working-class swagger marked a generation finding its voice between post-war austerity and the new cultural beat of modern Britain.

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Jumbo sized order of fish & chips served at Studio Diner in San Diego CA.