The Rockfish! Nothing Fishy About These Fish and Chips

The Rockfish.  A perfect place for fish and chips in the little, historic seaport town of Dartmouth.

It’s downtown, facing the Dart River, and about a stone’s throw away.  The blue front, with large white letters looks small, but opens up when you step through the door.  White and bright, like cresting waves on a blue sea.

http://www.therockfish.co.uk

The craving for fish and chips is second only to the deep and abiding need for beer and bouncing breasts.  I mean for some people, not you and me, of course.  To satisfy the need for F & C, we asked the locals.  Everyone pointed in the same direction.

We popped into The Rockfish.  Cheery place, with nautical décor.  Beer and wine line the walls, along with other, less interesting things.  The cod and chips were wonderful.  Crisp, flavorful.  And, the service was top of the line.

It’s one of those places you come to eat, but stay for another beer or two.  Comfortable and conversational. The waitresses glow with efficiency and charm.  I like it that the kitchen is open.  Being a curious cook myself, I wandered back and watched the process. 

What makes The Rockfish fish and chips different from anyone else’s?  Dip the fish in batter, fry ‘em!  If only it were that simple.  First, the fish must be FRESH.  The Rockfish’s motto is spot on!

Which begs the question:  How can you tell if the fish are fresh?  Your nose.  When you walk into a fish restaurant and smell a bit of brine, but nothing ‘fishy,’ you’ve come to the right spot.  If the smell blasts you like a right jab from Mike Tyson, turn around and quick-step out.

Next, the batter.  It should cover the fish and become one with the fish, but not replace the fish.  Sounds straight forward.  I like the batter as a thin, crispy addition, with a crunch that adds to the joy of biting into moist, white fish.  The Rockfish did not let me down.  Their fried fish is exactly as it should be. Crunchy on the outside, moist within. Tasty. Cheers!  Bravo! 

Next the chips, or fries, as we call them in the Colonies.  Not thin.  Not thick.  As crisp as the fish.  There’s a secret, which I’m certain you already know.  Chips must be fried twice.  The first dip into hot grease brings the moisture to the surface, the second frying adds the crispness. Quite nicely done, Rockfish!

Now, do you add some catsup?  Oh, lads and lassies, ye have immense gaps in your culinary knowledge.  Vinegar.  Adds a bit of bite.  Cuts the grease.  Permits your taste buds to relax and smile with joy and settles your stomach.

But, not just any kind of vinegar!  My favorite (and the English standard) is malt vinegar. Rockfish also gives you an unexpected choice of lemon vinegar.  Superb!

What is malt vinegar anyway?  Well, anything that ferments can be taken a little too far and you end up with vinegar, right?  You’re got red and white wine vinegars, apple vinegar, and dozens of others.  Malt vinegar is made by malting barley.  Ok, clever man, what-the-fruitcake is malting???  You take fresh barley grain, soak it in water, allow it to sprout, and dry it with hot air.  From there, you make ale and let time turn the ale to vinegar.

In England, at the fish and chips take-aways, they used to serve fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, the chips sticking up in stalks of golden splendor.  Millions of people ate their fish and chips with no ill effects.

Long past.  The government, like all governments, found a solution to a non-existent problem.  Bureaucrats with time on their hands and a steady flow of the silver coin decided that newspaper print is toxic.  Now-a-days paper used to wrap the fish at fish and chips stands is approved for use in a sterilized lab room for infectious diseases.  Ok, I added that last part.

There are also ‘fish labeling’ laws to contend with.  Restaurants can no longer simply state ‘fish and chips’ on the menu, but have to name the type of fish, cod, plaice, etc.  So far, the bureau-dolts have not required first names and birth certificates.

But, at The Rockfish, no worries.  No newspaper wrapping.  Order cod or plaice, or whatever (by name).   Sit back and sip a cool, local ale, or a nice glass of wine.  It’s going to take a bit of time.  Nothing they serve is pre-battered, or frozen, or pre-cooked.  It’s fish and chips as they should be.  Perfect! 

Finished eating? I think we have time for one more beer and perhaps some dessert.

Lemon Cheesecake!  Sweet and tart!  Super!!!

Write the name down:  Rockfish!

The Queens Arms: Quintessential Gastro Pub

A Jewel of a Gastro Pub!

You’re asking yourself, what the hell is a Gastro Pub?  In the last ten years or so, a good number of London pubs added lively menus to their already excellent selection of beers.  Why bother?  You don’t come to a pub for the coq au vin!

As Lee Corso says, not so fast my friend.  The scene changes in front of our eyes.  We know that yesterday is not today, but we’re slow to grasp the subtleties.

There was a time, not so long ago, when pubs catered mostly to locals or special groups.  A pub in every neighborhood, in every district.  A working man’s pub, or a footballer’s pub, or an after work spot for the coat and tie crowd. They still exist, but they’re becoming more rare.  

Wanta know the ‘why’ of change?  Follow the money.  Take a gander at the London real estate market!

Now picture the pub owner who caters to a handful of regulars.  A new mall is planned, or the gentry upscale the area and the pub owner’s offered a couple of kegs of gold for his property.  Maybe, the pub keeper just gets too old to pull a hundred pints a day.  Too often, the pub just closes.

How do you tell a traditional, or local pub?  When you walk in, conversation stops and a couple of dozen eyeballs look you over like you’re a man who’s just come out of the ladies’ room. The menu seldom varies.  Sausages and mash. Shepard’s pie.  Steak and kidney pudding. Fish and chips.  Not bad, but predictable.

A younger crew takes over, less bound to tradition, more attuned to the Food Network.  Dreams soar!  Meat pies and chips (fries) get a facelift. Sauces, herbs, and other exotic flavors rule the kitchen.  Simple mash becomes buttery, garlic potatoes. Wine lists decorate every table.  A full selection of potables echoes from the mirror at the bar.

Better be good enough to compete with the restaurants.  Better be some place to take a wife or a date, and hip enough for the younger generation.  Some place bright and cheery, but still with that traditional pub feel and a fine selection of gravity ales.

Enter the ‘gastro pub.’  Brighter colors on the outside. Flowers outside and in.  More like a French bistro, yet still pubish.  Lots of dark wooden tables and bistro chairs. Brighter, indirect lighting, with a nod to atmosphere.

The food?  Definitely worth a second or third trip.  The Queens Arms did it for me.  Went there a couple of years ago and had a splendid assortment of finger food, along with some tasty ales.  Soon as I was in the area again, the QA sprang to mind.

Don't neglect the hard ciders.  Apple flavor without the sweetness.

It’s a tough place to find, tucked neatly away on a little street called Queens Gate Mews.  The complication comes in the name.  Nearby run Queens Gate Terrace and Queens Gate itself. Wait a sec, there are also TWO Queens Gate Mews!

It was raining.  Hard.  We ambled lost and forlorn.  With the hood on my rain jacket pulled up, my field of vision was a railway tunnel with blinders on.

In the rain streaked gloaming, I stopped in front of a big picture window, back from the street and about half a story off the ground.  I waved both my arms and got a young woman’s attention.  “Queens Gate Mews,” I mouthed.  She pointed to the right, then the left, then held up a finger for me to wait while she conferred with a colleague.   The two women pulled out a map.  Consulted a computer.  The rain poured.  They discussed the situation, again pointing left and right.  Back to the computer.

The woman pointed toward the door and motioned for me to meet her.  I was with my wife.  Opportunity lost.  I joined her under the front porch roof for an exchange of  finger pointing lessons on the map.  Success!  Cross Queens Gate Street, turn onto Queens Gate Terrace, walk on in the dark and stormy night, and turn into Queens Gate Mews.  There you will find The Queens Arms.

What is a Mews?  Simply put, a side street of former stables, now morphed into  classy apartments that only Bill Gates’ immediate family can afford. Mews comes from the roost for hunting falcons. When mews became stables, the name stayed.

This time, I needed something more substantial than tasty little morsels. I got it!  Chorizo and minced pork burger, laden with dark caramelized onions.  Light, herbed crab cakes.  The traditional fish and chips.  Also, one of the best selection of beers in the city.

Pork and chorizo burger. Dazzling! 

Feather light crab cakes with oven roasted, garlic potatoes.

Light, flaky pastry covers a chicken pot pie! 

This is not a place you want to dash into and dash back out.  Especially if it’s raining.  The QA is a freehouse, meaning they don’t belong to a brewery and can serve any ale they want.  There’s a photo of the ‘pulls’ on offer when I was there, but the ale menu changes often. The barman told me they had another dozen new kegs in the cellar. 

Make no mistake, the QA means eating and drinking on a semi-lavish scale, with a nod to both tradition and economy.

Enough blather.  Time to order another pint.  The night’s young.  The ales are perfect.

Down Tha Local – a tasty British institution

The Salisbury - a Victorian Pub

The Nut Tree - smallest pub in England  

fish and chips

Pubs are still the great equalizer in Britain.  Working blokes and financiers, who fancy a pint, rub shoulders in what has always been a sharpened axe to the English barriers of class, the Pub.

The first time I drank Brit beer, in decades past, I’d been warned with the standard poppycock.  “They drink their beer flat and warm.  Terrible stuff!”

Yeah, it’s terrible to sit your bottom down in an historic and infinitely comfortable place, warm yourself at a fire while sipping a bit of liquid history and chatting with the locals.

Expecting something akin to warm spit?  Got news for ye.  First, let’s get some things straight.  Brit beer is not served warm. They keep their kegs in the cellar, with a temperature of around 50ºF (10ºC).   That’s not going to get frost on your fingernails, but it’s not exactly bikini warm.  Secondly, Brit beer is brewed with top acting yeast, rather than American and European bottom feeding yeast.  What’s up with that?  Less natural carbonation remains in the beer.  I’m not going to go into malts and hops and how many monks can dance on the head of a barrel.  You can read about it yourself, well into the night.

When I say historic, what do I mean? I’ll give you a quick glimpse. The Mayflower Pub sits next to the dock where tradition has it that ‘the’ Mayflower sailed for Southampton and on to the new world.

Then there’s The Grenadier, a club for the Duke of Wellington (of Waterloo fame) and his regiment. 

Ye Olde Cheshire Cheesehas direct ties to Dr. Samuel Johnson, Dickens, Wilde, and Yeats, among others.

Blackfriar Pub, dating to 1905 and built on the site of a Dominican friary.  This architecture is simply outstanding.  All marble, inside and out.

Back to beer.  But, let’s stop calling Brit beer, ‘beer’, and call it what it is, ale.  Playing with linguists?  I don’t think so.  Ale has a different, heavier flavor and generally a darker color.  Even Bass Pale Ale has a deep amber glow.  In fact, to my well-trained taste buds, ale is a different beverage all together.  Comparing Brit ale and American beer is like comparing coffee and tea.  Both are warm beverages served in cups, but after that…

Time to cut the idle chatter and race into a pub.  Pub is short for Public House, meaning anyone 18 or older, with British Pounds and pennies, can walk in and order up.  I do urge one word of caution, order only traditional ales.  The rest are fizzy crap. Traditional ales are the ones the cute bar maid pumps when she pulls on one of the array of long wooden handles.  Check the bottom of the pull and you’ll see the name of the ale and the percentage of alcohol.  For my money, the lower the alcohol content, the smoother the brew.

When I first caught on that English pubs were God’s way of rewarding lechery and sloth, way back in the 1970s, I purchased a thin book called CAMRA’s Guide to Real Ale.  It had a sparse list of pubs around England that offered traditional ales.  CAMRA, the Campaign for Real Ale, arose in the 1970s as a response to so many big brewers doing things the easy way and adding large squirts of carbon dioxide, to weaker and weaker cousins of what used to be.  A hue and cry (both of them at once, apparently) rose up from the throats of those in every Middlesex village and farm.  “Save our ale!”

The happy result is that traditional ale is now available in nearly every pub and the CAMRA Guide to Real Ale has expanded to the thickness of the London Telephone Directory.  But, alas, every sunny day has a lingering black cloud.  British pubs are disappearing at the rate of some 50 per day.  Why might that be?  Prices.  The cost of a pint has doubled in the past decade, mostly due to rising taxes on alcohol.  Without being political, there does seem to be a direct relationship between people having less money to spend and people spending less money.  It’s not just the tax on beer, but also the taxes on the pub businesses.  The ban on smoking has also taken its toll.

Still, there are some 57,000 pubs left, serving 2500 varieties of brew from about 500 brewers.  Here are some general styles you can find, all of them richly flavored:

Bitter – lighter amber colored.  Light head.  Usual alcohol content is about 4.6%.

Mild – definitely darker.  Creamy head.  Alcohol closer to 4.0% or a tad below.

Stout – Guinness is the most popular brand.  Darker body, with a thick, creamy head.  It’s said you can write your name in the foam and it’ll be on the bottom of the glass when you finish your stout.

Those are very general terms and brews vary widely.  Do what I do.  Forget all those tales of what other people think Brit ale is.  The detractors are flat wrong and not even warm.  Experiment.  Try a half pint of this or that.  You won’t be sorry.  If you’re lucky you may even find a pub that brews it’s own.  Now, that’ a place worth spending some time.

"If you took a guy from the 10th Century and brought him forward in time, the only things he would recognize in the world today are churches and pubs," said Peter Brown, the author of "Man Walks Into a Pub," a history of pubs and beer.

 

Inside Blackfriar Pub 

Entry to the Bunch of Grapes