Summer read: For a New Zealander in NYC, real fish and chips are nothing but a deep-fried memory.

First published November 30, 2022

There are few greater pleasures in life than digging into a bundle of sand-speckled fish and chips on a windy overcast beach. Whether it’s a classic two snappers and one scoop of chips, or adding a little razzle-dazzle via a deep-fried Moro bar or corn fritter, the whole culinary affair is meant to be soaked up in yesterday’s headlines. 

It was a headline that alerted me to a change in the fish and chip world. Last year, a Yorkshire man supposedly needed therapy after paying £54 for fish and chips in London. I texted the story to my friend who lives in New York, as I do. “This is honestly me every time I try and get fish and chips in New York,” she replied. “That place Dame charges $29!!!”. When you do the self-defeating conversion, that price ratchets up to NZ$49. To be fair, Dame is extreme; fish and chips in New York generally range from $7 to $18.

But in New Zealand, aside from gastropubs or The Chippery in Wellington, the meal is classically a loose change affair, a few bucks, pocket money. It’s something you pick up after a swim at the beach, in between grocery shops when there’s only a can of baked beans in the pantry, or pooling together with friends when you leave the school grounds to get lunch. You’ll be greeted by that classic New Zealand fish poster, a young child at the counter and some random L&P and Golden Pash cans and Wattie’s tomato sauce sachets. At least, that is what I grew up believing in Hamilton.

But I ventured out in under 10-degree weather one New York night to try out Dame, this restaurant which also allows you to gain priority access if you buy a NFT for $1000. This was more of a task than I had anticipated, mainly because I had not bought an NFT. Dame is a hot place and is regularly booked up three weeks in advance. After two weeks I snagged a last-minute outdoor table for one. Texts from the reservation platform reminded me that they did not have outdoor heating and to dress accordingly.

As I was seated by a lovely waiter I felt like Anton Ego, the grumpy critic from Ratatouille. I was all wrapped in black and ready to sample a goddamn childhood takeaway, reinvented! When the plate was brought out I shamefully asked for a knife and fork, which felt very cringe but the waitress pointed to a napkin where the cutlery was already tucked in. It was the West Village, after all, not Raglan. 

The chef at Dame steers far away from classic fish batter, adding vodka to the mix. “He finished the dish with a few mists of vinegar from a spray bottle, which adds that signature tangy flavor without causing the crispy fish to get soggy”, reads one Eater article. But honestly it could stand to be soggy. While the fish itself, which I believe to be hake, was melt-in-your-mouth light and flaky, the batter, which has built up a cult following, kind of reminded me of cornflakes. That said, I grew up on the soft push-pull of a classic fish batter —crispy on the outside but kind of floury and wet on the inside. Maybe it’s unfair to judge what is apparently brilliant technique against unbrilliant nostalgia. 

One of my favourite things about the chips of fish and chip fame is the variety of textures. Some are really tight and almost feel undercooked but then you get one that is super soft, like a duvet inner that has been lumped into one corner of the blanket. They complement each other, because an under-appreciated part of the fish and chip experience is variety. At Dame, there were nine chips in my meal. I double-counted to be sure, which I’m sure appeared normal behaviour. The chips were again missing that push-pull of texture, they were too standardised but not in an overwhelmingly amazing way. Again, I’ve been spoiled in New Zealand, where cooking chips is an art, and we are frequently given the option of kūmara fries. I love dipping chips in tartare sauce, but Dame’s sauce, while nice, wasn’t tangy enough — it truly tasted like aioli, even though it was meant to be tartare. 

We’ve all had special moments where fish and chips were there for us. I moved to New York in 2019 and recently, after battling the hellfire that was the MIQ lottery, when I was finally able to visit New Zealand I experienced three such occasions. The first was in the Novotel Christchurch managed isolation facility – two pieces of fish and chips and, although the criminal addition of peas provided a very English feel, it felt like I was home. The second was a replica of fish and chips at the Wellington City museum, celebrating the food as something Wellingtonians had enjoyed since the early 20th century. Alongside this display of modern art was a sign that noted “the fish tend to be blue warehou, red cod, elephant fish or shark species — usually sold generically as ‘fish’ on the menu”. The third was just before I went back to New York. I was staying at my friend Ben’s house in Auckland and had had a stressful week — the afternoon I waited hours to get my visa stamped, I flew to Whanganui for my grandmother’s funeral. That night we had chips with tartare sauce, and I tried my first deep-fried mussel.

Fish and chips lore in New Zealand could arguably verge on propaganda. In primary school we would sing the fish and chip song in assemblies (“makes me want to lick my lips”). But aside from the taste, part of the appeal is what is happening in the background. While Dame was perfectly fine, the overarching memory is that I paid $49NZD for fish and nine chips. In the words of Ratatouille’s Anton Ego, “in many ways, the work of a critic is easy” but for me, fish and chips should be easier.