They do a curry sauce that’s dark, rich, and almost fruity. It’s not the fluorescent yellow sludge from your local—this is a proper gravy with a kick. And the bread and butter? It’s sourdough, thick-cut, with salted butter. Who does that? Tom Kerridge does that. He also serves a battered sausage that’s as long as your forearm. It’s called a “Pukka Pi**ed-Off Porker,” and I love the name alone.
The seating area is small, but that’s okay. You’ll probably end up standing at a high table, balancing your tray like a hummingbird while trying to keep vinegar off your new jumper. It’s part of the charm.
The Verdict? Don’t Overthink It
Look, I’m not a food critic. I’m a person who loves a good chip. And this is a great chip. Tom Kerridge has done the impossible: he’s made fish and chips feel special without making it feel silly. You can still eat it with your hands. You can still dunk it in sauce. You just do it while surrounded by the faint hum of wealth and the smell of expensive perfume.
If you’re in London and craving that Friday-night feeling, skip the pub. Go to Harrods. Stand in line. Order the cod. And when you take that first bite, just smile. You’ve earned it. And your nan would be proud.
