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The battered fish in the staple dish of “fish and chips” arrived in England via Sephardic Jewish communities fleeing the Spanish Inquisition in the 16th century. This wasn’t culinary ambition – it was religious necessity. Observant families would batter and fry fish on Friday before sundown, preserving it for the Sabbath, when cooking was forbidden. The batter and oil kept the fish edible when eaten cold the next day, preventing spoilage.
The chips? We can thank Belgium for that innovation. Villagers in the Meuse Valley fried small river fish as a staple, but when harsh winters froze the water and made fishing impossible, they cut potatoes into fish shapes and fried those instead. Pragmatism, not innovation.
Ice Fishing Shacks
The two ingredients coexisted in England for centuries without meeting. Then, in the 1860s, Joseph Malin – an Eastern European Jewish immigrant – opened the first combined fish and chip shop in London. Two separate traditions from two separate corners of Europe became a single meal on the streets of industrial England.
Fish and chips became a working-class staple thanks to the boom in North Sea trawl fishing and the railways connecting ports to cities. By 1910, there were over 25,000 fish and chip shops across the UK. That number swelled to 35,000 by the 1930s.
By World War II, the dish was so essential that Winston Churchill exempted fish and chips from rationing, reportedly calling them “good companions” and fearing the discontent that would follow if they disappeared. The British government safeguarded supplies of fish and potatoes throughout both world wars, making them among the few foods not subject to restriction. During the D-Day landings, British soldiers used “fish” and “chips” as a recognition password – one would call out “fish,” and the correct response was “chips.”
For decades, the meal was wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper – cheap, abundant, and perfect for insulating working-class takeaway. The practice ended in the 1980s when health regulations banned the toxic ink, though some shops still use faux-newspaper printed paper as a nostalgic nod. Mushy peas didn’t become a standard side until the 1970s, but now, particularly in Northern England, they’re practically sacrilege to skip. A wedge of lemon, a splash of malt vinegar, a pint if you’re feeling it, and you’re sorted.
Britain’s national dish is an immigrant success story, told in grease and salt, and defended in wartime as a matter of morale. Order up!
