The Inn Plaice, Silver Street

3 March 2007

I don’t recall my worst ever Saturday. Sure, there’s been a couple of times when Jose Cuervo’s Friday partying has kicked the following days into touch, but away from the sauce, nothing sticks in mind. That’s not to say that this Saturday was the worst on record, but it was a contender.

A six-day working week sucks. That much is undisputed. But when the first five days have been 12-hour shifts, so that working a mere five hours on Saturday seems blessedly light, you know something’s gone to cock. However, I’ve got it easy. Mrs wifey adds another day on the front of that, tailing it off by finishing a seven-hour Saturday at 2130. And then she’s thinking about making dinner.

A truly modern man would have used his two-hour lead time to prepare some fancy chow to present his better half as she crossed the finish line. Not this man though. My kitchen expertise extends to a full English (no beans), sandwiches, and washing up. I excel at washing up. My dish-washing game is up. My technique is fully academic shaolin temple black belt ninja Tokyo-stomping Godzilla Krypton Factor good. But you can’t eat it.

But you *can* eat chips.

I think this through. (1) She will appreciate not having to cook, but (2) she will be perfectly within her rights to dismiss a Saturday night chip supper as a disappointing, unhealthy, peasant-like manner of capping off a generally dismal day. Even if we eat off crockery.

The addition of champagne, however, changes that equation. Suddenly the whole package is tied together with enough profane decadence to stick two fingers up at the day.

This is partly because champagne is so grossly overpriced that it would be cheaper to wash down the chips with a pint of Bells; but also because the fizzy dryness cuts through the grease so much better than you could reasonably expect.

And what is it about chip butties that makes them hit the spot so well? You don’t put pasta on toast. You don’t put rice in your pitta. But ‘Fries? In a sandwich?!’, as I’m told John Cusack greeted his first chip butty – you’re on to a winner.

Grinning like gravy-sated Bisto kids, we pat our swollen bellies and pass out from exhaustion.

Keywords: decadent trash
Eat here: when you know you shouldn’t but you’re hella gonna