Battered and Fried

“You’ve got Maris Pipers.” I beamed at the potato lady, my new hero. “I’ve been looking for these everywhere.”

“Yes,” she responded brightly, “we have them year round.”

I was at the U-district farmers market on a promising Saturday morning. The sun was lazily making its way out of bed, shrugging off a morning mist and gathering strength for the day’s work ahead. The market had just opened its gates and I was there—unusually bright and brisk for the hour—with the farmers, the dedicated locavores, the foodies, and those unfortunates who had been woken at dawn by bouncing bundles of youthful energy. “One day,” I imagined parents saying soothingly to each other, “one day they will become civilized and require a decent amount of caffeine before erupting into wakefulness. Until then, honey, we’ll just have to muster patience and fortitude.” Having already had my caffeine I was in excellent spirits, made even brighter by the discovery of Heston’s lauded Maris Piper potatoes at the Olsen Farm stand.

Deciding that perhaps H. Blumenthal Esq. wasn’t the only expert whose advice was worth noting, I asked the potato lady which variety she would use for frying. “Bintje,” she answered without hesitation, pointing to a pile of spuds that were in shape, texture, and color very similar to Maris Pipers. “They’re starchy enough to fluff up well but they still get nice and crispy on the outside.” So I bought a couple pound for good measure.

There wasn’t much in the way of fish at the market so I opted for Whole Foods. What would the fish guy recommend? Halibut and rock cod. Since the latter was half the price, I bought 1 1/2 pounds of it and a mere 1/2 pound of halibut, just to test the difference. Potatoes, check; fish, check. A couple hours and a particularly exasperating ferry line later I was back in the kitchen.

The process of frying fish and chips is great fun, but I found the most gleeful part of making this meal was the preparation of the batter, a matter I attended to with child-like delight. It involved concocting a mixture of plain flour, rice flour, baking powder, honey, beer, and—surprise surprise—vodka. So boozy, I knew it would be a winner. The beer is added last, and immediately afterward the batter is poured into a whip-it canister and injected with a cartridge of CO2. The canister is then chilled until you are ready to fry the fish, at which point you simply fire the contents into a bowl, coat the fish, and then fry immediately. The batter is wonderfully aerated and once fried it transforms into a delectably light, bubbly, crispy coating for the melting softness of fish.

And the final verdict on the fish? The rock cod won by a landslide over the halibut. The flakes were larger and more ethereal and the chunks cooked through without drying out. Plunge the battered fish into hot oil, let sizzle for a minute, gently turn over and continue frying until golden brown, about another minute or two. The fish may not be totally cooked but the residual heat from its sizzled envelop of batter with finish it off before it reaches the table.

The Second Batch

“I don’t vant any nasty soggy chips. I vant mine crisp und light brown.”
(Captured German soldier, in the BBC’s Dad’s Army)

Having consigned Cook’s Illustrated and it’s mediocre French fry recipe to the trash, I turned again to Blumenthal’s instructions. These called first for the use of Arran Victory or Maris Piper potatoes—two varieties I’ve never heard of and could not find at the local shop. So I compromised and opted for the only high starch spuds available: the ubiquitous Russet Burbank.

The first step to Heston’s chips (See note) was to peel potatoes, cut into ½ - ¾ inch sticks, and rinse under cold running water for a few minutes in order to remove excess starch from theirs surfaces. Next he called for a gentle simmer in salted water until potatoes are just cooked through but not falling apart. Then they are laid on a wire rack and left to chill and dry off in the fridge. When cold, a pan of peanut oil is heated to 250 Fahrenheit and the sticks are simmered until just beginning to color, after which they are removed and chilled again. Finally the oil is heated to 375 degrees and the chips are finished at this high sizzle for about 5 – 10 minutes until crisp and golden brown.

It worked like a dream. A near-paradisaical chip: thin, fiercely crisp exteriors and fluffy, feather-light interiors suggestive of edible cumulus clouds. So now my ambition is increasing and I intend to experiment with a variety of high starch potatoes to find the pinnacle of chipped perfection.

Note: Obviously here I am speaking of “chip” in the English sense and using the words chip and fry interchangeably, although there is a difference. A true fish and chip chip must more substantial, plumper, and generally earthy. No doubt there is a place for the thin, elegant fry but in my opinion these should not be seen nestling up to a pile of battered fish.

The First Batch

Deciding to save Heston and his pursuit of perfection for tomorrow, I attempted a much simpler method of frying potatoes this evening.  It came from a spattered old issue of Cooks Illustrated, and I had made a mental note long ago to give it whirl.  The author proposes two unlikely components: low starch, Yukon Gold potatoes and cold oil. I blinked. Of the little I had read about frites, two of the most oft preached principles were the use of high starch potatoes and sizzling hot oil. And yet he seemed tremendously scientific about process, so much so that I put misgivings aside and bustled to the store for a bag of Yukons.

Following his instructions precisely, I washed, scrubbed, and dried the potatoes, squared them off and sliced them into ¼ inch sticks. Dutifully I dropped them into the cold oil, turned on a high flame, and waited for a rolling boil. I let them cook until the outsides were beginning to harden. I stirred them and watched with mounting excitement as they turned from creamy white to pale gold and then to warm caramel brown. Then I whipped the finished fries out of the oil and onto a bed of paper towels.

At first the batons appeared perfectly crisp and burnished brown. Almost hysterical with excitement now I flung a bit of sea salt onto the pile, extracted a particularly alluring specimen, and popped it in my mouth. It was very good indeed. But then I eyed the potatoes with growing panic: here I was with a mound of chips and no one to eat them. I tested another and frowned: were they getting soggy? Already?

Desperate for my imperfect yet decidedly edible fries to be shared, I whipped together a Belgium style dipping sauce in the space of thirty seconds, grabbed the plate of fries, and ran out the door. Sprinting across the road I charged though the neighbor’s yard, across to the next street, and down to my friends’ house.

In the course of my obsession, there are times at which I find myself behaving in an utterly bizarre manner.  This was one of those times. The door was open and taking this as an invitation I flew straight into the sitting room. Glenn was on the sofa, one hand tapping at a lap top and the other clasping a phone to his ear. Failing to notice these things I shoved my fries under his nose. “Eat,” I commanded. He looked up, politely bewildered, and reached for a fry. “No!” I hissed. “The little ones, the thin ones are crispier. Quick, eat.”  Perceiving that I was borderline delusional, Glenn motioned upstairs. “Molly’s up there.”

I galloped up the stairs, banged on Molly’s door, and let myself unceremoniously in. “Try these.” I thrust the dish determinedly towards her. It would have taken a brave soul with courage—and possibly body armor—to refuse these fries with the cook in such a state of blind hysteria. She smiled diplomatically and ate one, then another. Then we trooped down stairs.

Now that I had shared my fries, sanity returned to my muddled mind, only to be replaced by acute embarrassment. I found myself sitting in Glen and Molly’s sitting room, a plate of fries on my lap, wrapped in my tattered, grease stained polka dot apron, attempting to make ordinary conversation. Only it’s not that easy when you’ve just burst into someone’s house and forced fries on them. Returning to the only topic occupying my consciousness at that moment I looked down at the plate: “They’re soggy,” I commented despondently. “I’ll have to try again.”

Lo Que Corta el Bacalao

This time I’m going deep. Instead of a smorgasbord of food, a tapas party, or roast with battalion of trimmings I am in search of something different for my next feast. I’m in the mood for serious research and the mastering of technique—I want to feast on flawless fish and chips.

As usual with a new idea, it was an odd confluence of happenings that led to the budding of this desire. Firstly, I was given a book that I have long wanted to read: Cod, by Mark Kurlansky. In this beautifully written work, Kulansky follows the journey of this fish as it comes into contact with and later is shaped by human history. It is a fascinating story, surprising in its significance and inspiring in the kitchen. I am still happily swimming in the text, currently drifting by the cod as they unwittingly fuel the fire of 18th century American revolutionaries.  But I’m also salivating at the thought of really good battered and fried fish. Secondly, I remain committed to my spring resolution to explore the world of aquatic cookery. On this point, I have been shamefully lazy of late. Furthermore, an old class mate was making fish and chips the other day. “Do you have any tips?” he asked. I had none, having never attempted this wonderful classic, this cornerstone of my culinary heritage. In fact I am woefully ignorant on the subject.

Thankfully ignorance can be remedied, especially now that I’ve got a couple vital tools to aid comprehension: a cast iron fry pot and Heston Blumenthal’s meticulously authoritative cookbook, In search of Perfection, both lent to me by Boss Man, who also generously volunteered to taste test any of my experiments. So, the exploration begins. As the matter of choosing and sourcing the ideal fish is going to be quite a process, I’ve decided in the meantime to start with the chips.

I’ve got a pan, a thermometer, two varieties of potato, and two strikingly dissimilar methods to try. Tonight, let the frying begin! Whatever it takes I am determined to master this meal. The Spanish have an apt idiom for describing who is in charge in a given relationship or situation. It is the one who cuts the salt cod—la que corta el bacalao! That’ll be me, baby.