When I was asked this question in London some years ago, I was stumped. And a bit cross at the questioner. Normally, no one asks me random questions clearly meant to startle and embarrass. But being a representative fish-eater myself, the lady had cornered me and suddenly turned me into an abetter of some sort of nifty Indian restaurateurs. I am sure she was picked carefully by certain parties to ask me that question, since she was a White, Protestant-sounding fish and chips shop-owner in Clapham herself.
But to give myself my due, I replied by going on for a while about the Indian fish-eater’s love for, well, fish. Fish in its various, multitudinal forms, celebrated from the western coasts of Maharashtra, Kerala and Goa – I may have added ‘Punjab’s coastline’ by mistake – to the eastern coastlines of Odisha, West Bengal and the other nibbly bits.
‘And, of course, there are our river fish like the hilsa and bhetki…’ I went on about the incredible number of preparations long enough that, to my mind, everyone in the room had forgotten the irritating woman’s question.
Or, so I thought.
Thankfully, the media back home caught on to what the lady was trying to insinuate – that restaurants across the length and breadth of India, reputable ones too, were passing off fish fries as (English) fish and chips on their menus. So, it was only a matter of time that the world’s largest population – 15th on the top fish-consuming countries per capita list, according to the UN Food and Agriculture Organisation – reacted to this onerous charge that we have been conducting a long-term, mass chicanery at the cost of our erstwhile colonial haddocks and halibuts. Social media erupted, reminding the lib-leftover legions in the West who were backing the silly lady’s charge, that Indian fish and chips is far superior to its English ‘variation’. It became clear yet again that entrenched ‘racism against non-Western dishes’ could not bear the fact that India, and other countries of ‘Global South India‘ (like Sri Lanka), have a rich tradition of preparing, serving and consuming fish, with chips, too. That the West, especially Britain, have horribly appropriated our kitchens – saying ‘chicken tikka masala’ is still tough on the tongue, innit? – was quickly and firmly pointed out by every right-thinking Indian. Even vegetarians stepped out of their non-crab shells to defend what actually never needed defending. Many on social media raged about how India treats its fish – breaded, battered, curried, marinated, grilled, steamed or with dignity and respect – is its business. That large parts of India regularly, and voluminously, consume fish, with no acts of violence against people ‘suspected’ of carrying or transporting fish, or even fishing, was reminded, as was attempts to besmirch our peaceful, pisci-culture.
Those charges against Indian fish and chips were levelled a while ago, and have thankfully died down. But with India now a veritable superpower, I can say in – and with – confidence: I am yet to get myself a proper (read: flour and water-battered) fish and chips meal in any of the restaurants in all the Indian cities I keep popping my head into. The menus all do say ‘fish and chips’, and invariably what comes on my plate are usually a pair of breadcrumbs-covered fried fish and a helping of French fries. Not the gorgeous crisp-moves-swiftly-to-soggy wrinkled coat covering white fish meat, with French fries that ‘they’ confusingly call chips (which, they even more confusingly call crisps).
For that, I’ll have to go to a chippy ‘over there,’ all hush-hush and vinegar.
