Tartare sauce, lemon and a parsley garnish? Fancy! Photo / 123rf
I recently saw an article about the hunt for New Zealand’s best cheese scone.
A noble pursuit, no doubt.
The cheese scone is a national treasure, revered in the Edmonds Cookbook and loved by generations for its buttery simplicity.
But let’s be honest, the question that really keeps Kiwis awake at night is not “Where is the best scone?” but “Where do you find the best fish and chips?”
Finding the perfect fish and chip shop is less like following a recipe and more like deciphering the Da Vinci Code.
There are many moving parts, hidden clues and the occasional secret handshake.
You cannot simply walk in and expect to be handed perfection.
The ideal shop is a combination of ingredients, atmosphere and quirks that only exist in the hearts and minds of the locals.
First, let’s talk about the essentials.
Fresh fish is non-negotiable, and nothing signals it better than the iconic “Fresh Fish” poster proudly displayed on the wall.
Created by the Fishing Industry Board in 1977, it has become a Kiwi institution, promising quality and quietly daring you to prove your credentials.
The poster is more than decoration; it is a test.
Every Kiwi immediately starts running through the fish in their head.
Have I caught at least half of these in my lifetime? Snapper, tarakihi, kahawai, blue cod.
Pride is at stake, and it also sparks that classic Kiwi competitiveness, where you might exaggerate your fishing tales just enough to impress the person next in line.
Entertainment is another pillar of a proper fish and chip shop.
This is not just a place to purchase the meal you couldn’t hunt; it is a place to pause, reflect and be mildly distracted while you wait for your paper cocoon of food.
The magazines are never current. They are relics of another era.
Charles and Diana are still dating, and the Berlin Wall is still up, keeping us safe from communism.
Flipping through these pages is part of the experience and part of a history lesson.
Wall games are another Kiwi specialty. Coin golf is the crown jewel. Simple in concept, nearly impossible in execution.
The rules are straightforward: flick a coin across a tiny wooden course, trying to land it in the holes scattered across the board.
Even Tiger Woods at the height of his career could not be expected to win. The catch? If you do manage to master this game, you only get the coin you put in.
The odds are always against you, and the return on investment is zero.
Perhaps this is where the phrase “the house always wins” was invented.
Then there are the practical considerations: the seating and the menu board.
The seats are usually vinyl-covered and smell faintly of decades past.
They are not designed for comfort; they are designed for perseverance.
And the menu board is a masterpiece of organised chaos.
Whiteboard, chalkboard, or even laminated sheets taped to the wall, with prices and items rewritten on top of old menus.
One day, an archaeologist will remove the layers and discover the original menu: five loaves of bread and two small fish.
Ordering is part intuition, part luck and part reading between the lines.
But the true magic of a Kiwi fish and chip shop lies in its celebration of the past.
There is a certain pride in a faded sign boasting, “Voted Best Fish and Chips 1987″.
Sure, things may have gone downhill since then. Perhaps the oil isn’t as golden as it once was, or the fish sizes have shrunk slightly, but the glory of that win remains.
It is a reminder that perfection once existed, and it may still flicker for a brief, glorious moment when you bite into a perfectly battered hoki.
The staff are also part of the theatre.
There is always someone working the fryers with the calm precision of a sushi chef, dipping fish and chips into thousand-degree oil without even looking.
They are multitasking wizards, taking orders, serving regulars by name, and occasionally rolling their eyes at the person who ordered five battered nuggets, only to come back asking for six or even 15.
Often overlooked and maybe forgotten are the blue neon tubes that attract flies and ZAP them with surprising efficiency.
I have no idea of the science behind this little killing machine, but the rhythmic zap sound is oddly soothing.
It has a strangely hypnotic quality and could probably put a baby to sleep, or at least distract a fidgety toddler long enough to enjoy a portion of chips.
It is quietly brilliant, part pest control, and part background soundtrack.
And finally, there is the social aspect.
Fish and chip shops are where the community comes together.
Locals pop in for a quick lunch, families make it an outing, and strangers inevitably start chatting over the counter about the price of fish, the weather, or whether the tartare sauce is just right.
It is democracy in action, Kiwi-style.
With the death of the local video shop, this has become the Friday night ritual, the place where stories are shared, plans are made and everyone knows someone who knows someone.
So, the next time you read an article about the best cheese scone, smile, nod and remember that the real mystery, the true pursuit of happiness, lies in finding a fish and chip shop that gets all the moving parts just right: fresh fish, slightly broken wall games, dated magazines, well-loved chairs, and a celebration of victories past.
That is where the soul of a Kiwi summer lives, wrapped in paper and served with a wedge of lemon, if the owner happens to have a lemon tree, because nothing in this economy is free.