The capital excels at every cuisine except the national dish. Why can’t London get fish and chips right, asks Ben McCormack
London, the epicentre of culinary innovation, has long prided itself on leading the gastronomic charge — whether it’s Michelin-starred tasting menus in Mayfair, sourdough pizzas in Soho or ramen in Dalston. The capital’s sandwich game is elite. Sushi? So good, it draws visitors from Tokyo. But when it comes to Britain’s most iconic dish — fish and chips — London is, frankly, a let-down.
I speak from experience. As the writer of the Evening Standard’s best fish and chips guide, I’ve scoured the city from Camden to Croydon, salt shaker in hand, hoping for something approaching the golden standard. And while I’ve found some solid contenders — I even compiled a “best of” list — I’d never dream of saying London’s offerings are the best in Britain. That would feel like being slapped across the chops with a soggy fillet.
Need more proof? This year’s National Fish and Chip Awards featured just one London shop in its finals: Stones Fish and Chips in Acton. It walked away empty-handed. Instead, Yarm Road Fish and Chips in Darlington won best takeaway, while Bells Fish & Chips in Durham claimed best eat-in spot — a clear victory for the North.
So what’s gone wrong in the capital, when we seem to nail every other global cuisine? Oddly enough, fish and chips as we know them were born right here in London — the UK’s first chippie opened in Bow around 1860. But over time, that legacy has withered under the weight of reinvention and gentrification. Like many British traditions, our national dish has become collateral in the capital’s constant race to ‘elevate’ everything.
For tourists, fish and chips is still the one British dish they’re desperate to try. And they can — it’s available everywhere from Wetherspoons to Harrods. But it’s rarely the real thing. What should be a simple, hearty meal has too often been dressed up and stripped of its essence.
And yes, I admit to a Northern bias. I grew up in Lancashire, where a proper chippy tea includes mushy peas, scraps, buttered bread, and maybe a dab of gravy for the adventurous. All of it piping hot, served in paper, for a tenner. It’s comfort food, through and through.
But in London, fish and chips has been poshed up. Cod, a blander alternative to flavour-rich haddock, is the default. You’ll find deep-fried lobster and Dover sole alongside it, served on slate boards with artisanal tartare sauce. Some charge £25 for the privilege.
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Even when using the best produce — and let’s not forget, London is home to the revered Billingsgate Fish Market — something is lost in the fryer. Some experts say it’s the outdated frying equipment, where oil temperatures plunge the moment anything hits the pan, resulting in pallid chips and limp batter.
Economic factors can’t be ignored either. Skyrocketing prices for fresh fish and cooking oil, plus London’s extortionate rent, have made it nearly impossible to serve quality fish and chips at traditional prices. But the core of the dish was never about luxury. It was Britain’s original street food — quick, affordable, satisfying. Ideally eaten on the pier, breeze in your hair, vinegar stinging your nose.
When you’re eating it with silverware in a Mayfair dining room, you’ve missed the point.
Still, it could be worse. On a recent trip to New York, I passed Gordon Ramsay’s Fish and Chips in Times Square: a sad-looking tourist trap flogging £20 cod to homesick Brits and curious Yanks. If London’s fish and chips scene is a bit battered, at least we’ve not sunk that low. Yet.
