4 JANUARY 1957, Page 28

Consuming Interest . . .

. . . By Leslie Adrian

FRYING TONIGHT

I. WAS listening to an argument the other evening, not for the first time, about bread. Somebody had complained that you cannot get crusty loaves, French-style, in England; somebody else had replied, as usual, that French-style loaves do not suit English habits; they grow stale too quickly. But surely—it was asked—there should be room for one baker, in London, concentrating on French-style bread? A craftsman, dedicated to his duty of producing a crusty loaf? A baker who would seek to entice not the ordinary shopper, questing sliced and wrapped loaves that will do to make toast for the next few days, but the con- noisseur, the epicure, the gourmet?

And not necessarily just the connoisseur, the epicure, and the gourmet, at that. All of us, even if we agreed on nothing else, were ready to lament the passing of the crusty loaf. But the only man of affairs amongst us, though he agreed the idea was a good one, was sceptical of its prospects. A bakery of this kind, he said, would be a meek desiime; it would be patronised for a time by a few faddists, and by the writers of culinary columns and of cookery books (who would expect their loaves free), but it would not attract custom sufficient to keep itself in business. Reluctantly, we had to agree.

Yet is there really such a lack of interest? There was a story going the rounds a few months ago, and I understand it .is true, which suggests the interest is there; it is only waiting to be tapped. The writer of a column in a Sunday newspaper— at a loss, doubtless, as columnists often are, for a paragraph—included a story about a man some- where in England who kippered herrings in the old way, without ersatzcry of any kind. Promptly that columnist was inundated with letters. In tens, in hundreds, and then in thousands, people wrote in begging to know where these respectable 1, inners could he bought.

, The obvious inference, - is that there are thousands, perhaps tens. of thousands, of people who arc anxious to buy good kippers, Presumably they would also like to know where to buy finnan haddies that are properly smoked, and not dyed; and bread which tastes like bread, rather than like baked cotton-wool. By extension, they would like to know where they can get quality goods of all kinds: clothes, fabrics, furniture—everything. The difficulty lies not in any slackening of demand for these things, but in a failing of communica- tion. In the old days people decided what brand of goods they wanted, and bought it. Now, we are se bludgeoned by mass advertising that we tend to accept what is put into the shopping bag—not realising that the girl behind the counter is paid a rake-off to put it there.

This is what I propose to try to remedy here. I would like, as far as possible, to be the channel of communication. Far obvious reasons, I shall be dealing mainly with London : but if ideas come ir, from time to time from the country, excellent. I do not propose to set myself up as a judge of commodities (there are many worthy organisa- tions doing that already) so much ,as a weather- cock; to show what way the consumer winds are blowing.

The difficulty, naturally, is to know where to begin : and I propose to do so by introducing the Geale family, of Notting Hill Gate, for their contribution to British cooking : for having built up the reputation for serving fish and chips better than anywhere else in London.

Tarty Years Back The business was started forty years ago by Mrs. Louise Geale to serve fish suppers over the counter wrapped in the traditional newspaper. Today, .though the counter is still there, the restaurant has shaded lights and checked table- cloths--an innovation by the present head of the firm, Mr. Peter Geale, to meet changing condi- tions. In his grandmother's day, fish and chips were exclusively working-class fare, fried fish suppers beiiig a necessity in areas where women went out to work. But a few years ago, a property company began to buy ufs the small, artisan houses next door to the shop. They smartened them up with yellow and pink front doors and resold them at prices around £6,000. Mr. Geale foresaw a sharp decline in his cash-and-carry trade and decided to woo his new neighbours by making the shop's sitting accommodation more attractive. He succeeded. .

Once his new customers had tried the restaurant —where you can still get fish, chips, tea and bread and butter for Is. 5d.—the pink:front:door people forgot their scruples about newspaper-wrapped fish suppers. They discovered that, in this servant- less world, a hot meal and fish and chips could be attractive.

Mr. Peter Geale is a precise man of thirty-seven with a' beard like a Mayfair hairdresser and a whife coat like an atom chief. The secret of his success, he says, lies in the quality of ,the frying fat he uses. Many friers today use vegetable oils. He prefers old-fashioned beef dripping. The fat must be heated to enormously high temperatures: much greater than anything you dare risk at home with ordinary equipment. This is the reason why one never gets home-made fish and chips to taste as good as the shop variety. 'l know. I've often tried to cook fish and chips at home for supper and they've never been successful. The fat here is nearly 100 degrees above boiling point by the time the fish is fried. You just can't do that at home.'

Does the fish and chips served on a plate, and eaten with a knife and fork in the restaurant, taste any better than the newspaper variety? The dedicated fish-and-chip eater maintains it tastes better in the packet and that the newspaper gives it a special, subtle flavour. Mr. Geale, however, denies there is any mystique about newsprint. It is merely a convenient insulating material. Now, in any case, there is a plain inner wrapping so that it does not come in contact with the food. When the steam condenses, wrapped fish and chips become soggy. There is a fortune, says Mr. Geale, for the man who can invent a wrapping which will keep grease and heat in and let the steam out.

I should like to hear of more places like this; Where simple national dishes are well served. And this, surely, is an undeveloped field for our gastronomic guide book writers. In 1957, instead of 'Ask for Luigi' let it be 'Ask for Alf.'

Crackers Jt is, 1 suppose, too late now: but I would like to sound a warning, while I remember, about crackers. Time was when one could buy a box of crackers each containing a paper hat, a fire- work; a motto (or riddle), and perhaps even some other trinket, for . . . no:. recollection is. too painful; for next-to-nothing. Before Christmas I made the mistake, which Iam not likely tomake again, of buying a box of crackers of unkinown origin at 4s. 6d., or fourpence.halfpenny each. They contained mottoes, certainly: the same mottoes, I was delighted to see, as the crackers of old ('what does a starving man eat in the desert? Sandwiches and chops--the pyramid of Cheops'). And they contained paper hats. The hats came in three colours: pale pink; pale green; and pale, period. They were all the same shape : nondescript. The only trouble was that they had not been gummed together at the ends; that is to say, in each packet there were two strips of pale, paper, dissociated. It was not worth trying to paste the ends together, we quickly found, because the hats would have fitted on a head no ' bigger than an eight-year-old child's. If there arc any firms now making ineNpensise crackers with good paper hats (never mind about the mottoes: it is the hats we arc interested in) I should like to know of them.