A Fish n' Chipiphany

It was while sat on bench in Westward Ho! that I had one of those moments where you you question all of your life choices to date. Where ground in which just a few moments ago you stood, sure-footed, has become uncertain, shifting quicksand.

I realised that I was bored of fish and chips.

Not these particular ones, even if they were by no means the finest exemplar of the genre (I shan't name the chippy in question, but if you do find yourself in EX38, it's the posh one). The fish was decent, the chips sub-par to my way of thinking, bit too small, and definitely too pale, but not offensive as such, and, having just come out from an extensive swim in the sea, I was ravenous, and primed for quite literally all the carbs.

Half-way through I realised I was bored out of my skull.

Chips, chips and more chips. It became a chore.

This was a slightly disturbing realisation for me, in my professional life I've got a pretty decent rep for my fish and chips, to suddenly realise that I'm not all that arsed about one of the cornerstones of my repertoire. I'm also temperamentally inclined to favour a meal over picky bits, or at least, I thought I was.

Have I been captured by the small plates revolution? I fear I may have been.

I've got my issues with small plates, as I've detailed here in the past, but that's more to do with restaurants whose kitchens lack the ability to bring everything up to the pass at the same time. I do, I realised, prefer a few bits. A forkful of this, a dab of that, a few of those.

I have already bowed to this societal change at work, rebranding the starters as smaller plates and expanding the range while introducing a three-plate price. It's proven nauseatingly popular. To the extent that I suspect a lot of folk are moving away from the traditional Big Dinner.

We still sell more mains than anything else, it's true, but increasingly checks are coming on with six smaller plates on. A bit of this, a bit of that, a couple of sides to bulk it out. However, we do bring it all out at the same time, for two reasons: one, I'm really good at my job, two, it's just nicer that way.

There's a famous scene in Gavin and Stacey where Smithy rails at various curries and sides being bought for the table, he's ordered what he wants and that's his and his alone. I laughed when I first saw it, and had a degree of sympathy with his position, but as time moves on I'm less dogmatic.

I remember when I was a kid, family takeaway meals would consist of a variety of dishes, lids iff, in the middle of the table, and we'd all help ourselves to a bit of each. When Mum and Dad broke up, nothing made me feel more like we weren't in Kansas any more than her new boyfriend ridiculing me for suggesting we do something similar. He wanted his sweet and sour pork all to himself.

As time moved in I became more Smithian (or Mum's-boyfriendian) in my whats-mine-is-mine approach. There's undoubtedly a reason for this, and I'll get round to therapy at some point, but in the meantime, this will have to do.

With my own family we take a midway point between his culinary isolationism and the free-for-alls of my youth. Sides are shared, mains are individual but a great deal of mutual trying is fine, you'll probably end up eating about two thirds of what you ordered (unless someone's ordered something everyone else finds egregious, my local chinese does a banging salt and pepper aubergine which I can be fairly confident no one else will ask for a bit of). It makes for a convivial, and occasionally raucous meal, and I I never feel more at home.

Once I'd had my fish n' chipiphany, I realised it was spreading. Two nights later I was eating a perfectly acceptable mushroom and black truffle pizza (look, I was on holiday, all right?) and yep, halfway through I was, well, not bored, it was pretty good, but I needed a break. I was envious of my sons, who'd ordered two different ones and gone half and half  No one would swap a slice either, on account of the truffle, sometimes the salt and pepper aubergine strategy can backfire on you.

The way I'm currently seeing it, life is short, and there's lots of things to try. If this sounds like some sort of culinary mid-life crisis, maybe it is. But I know I'm better as a chef when I keep trying new things, and I'm not sure ploughing through a sea of chips is necessarily the best use of my time.