Fry society

Stopping for sustenance in Park Slope (a rather posh Brooklyn neighbourhood) today, comfort food was high on our weary, vestigially hungover agenda. When we looked across the road and saw Chipshop, it was like a sign from above. Chipshop does British-style food. Read: everything is fried, everything comes with chips. And real chips – the sturdier, stodgier cousin of the usual anorexic french fries you get here. The fish and chips has been voted among New York’s best, and you can even round off your meal with a deep-fried chocolate bar of your choice.

Eschewing the various butties and fish-finger creations, my companions went for the pie and chips, drenched in gravy. The pie was phenomenal – melt-in-your-mouth steak and juicy mushrooms. I resisted the siren song of the deep fried dark chocolate Bounty, and decided to be adventurous and taste the fried macaroni cheese. BEHOLD:

And inside its crispy battered suit? Extremely creamy mac n cheese. It was the size of a softball and 50 times more likely to kill. About halfway through I had to stop and just focus on breathing… felt like I was moving in slow motion from all the cholesterol idling through my arteries. As a stultifyingly unhealthy and fabulously naughty snack, fried mac and cheese does everything you’d expect. It’s just a bit too much, even for me…

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