You probably think you know the deal. A rainy London street, a newspaper-wrapped bundle of grease, and a tradition as British as the King himself. But honestly, fish and chips history is a bit of a mess. It’s a messy, immigrant-led, industrial-revolution-fueled accident that most people get completely wrong. It isn't just "British food." It's a culinary collision that saved lives during wars and literally helped define the modern working class.
The dish didn't spring fully formed from a Victorian kitchen. Far from it.
The Jewish roots of the "British" fish
Let’s be real: the British didn’t "invent" fried fish. We can thank the Sephardic Jews fleeing the Spanish and Portuguese Inquisitions in the 16th century for that. They brought a technique called pescado frito. Basically, they’d coat fish in flour and fry it in oil to preserve it for the Sabbath, since you aren't supposed to cook on the holy day. Eating it cold the next day kept the batter crisp and the fish moist.
It was street food. Cheap. Portable.
By the time Charles Dickens was writing Oliver Twist in 1838, he was already mentioning "fried fish warehouses." He wasn't talking about fancy dining; he was talking about the smell of the slums.
But what about the chips?
This is where it gets contentious. The French and the Belgians have been fighting over the "fry" for centuries. Most historians, like those at the National Federation of Fish Friers, point toward the 17th-century Meuse Valley in what is now Belgium. Legend says that when the rivers froze and the locals couldn't catch small fish to fry, they sliced up potatoes into fish shapes and fried those instead.
Sorta clever, right?
But the marriage—the big "I do" between the fish and the potato—happened in the North of England or London. It depends on who you ask and how much of a grudge they hold.
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The 1860 showdown: Malin vs. Lees
The history of the first actual shop is a total toss-up. In the blue corner, you have Joseph Malin, a Jewish immigrant who supposedly opened a shop in Cleveland Street, London, around 1860. In the red corner, there’s John Lees, who reportedly sold fish and chips from a wooden hut in Mossley market, near Oldham, Lancashire, around 1863.
We don't have a receipt. We don't have a photo.
What we do have is the realization that the Industrial Revolution made this possible. The steam trawler was invented, meaning fish could be caught in the North Sea and rushed to cities by the new-fangled railways before they rotted. Before this, if you lived in the Midlands, your "fresh" fish was probably more like "biohazard" fish.
The chip was the perfect partner. Potatoes were cheap, filling, and grew like weeds in the damp British soil.
Why it became a national obsession
It wasn't just taste. It was survival. During World War I, the government made a conscious choice: don't ration fish and chips. They knew that if the working class couldn't get their "hot takeaway," morale would crumble. It was the "Good Companions," as Winston Churchill later called them.
In World War II, it was the same story. While almost everything else—butter, eggs, sugar—was strictly rationed, the fish and chip shop stayed open. It was the one luxury people had left.
Did you know that during the D-Day landings, British soldiers used "Fish" and "Chips" as a secret code? If a soldier called out "Fish," the response had to be "Chips" to prove they weren't the enemy. If you got it wrong, well, things ended badly.
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The reality of the "Newspaper" wrap
Everyone gets nostalgic about eating out of old newspapers. It feels authentic. It feels "old school." In reality, it was just cheap. Shop owners would buy up stacks of old dailies for pennies.
It was actually banned in the 1980s for health reasons. Turns out, licking lead-based ink off your cod isn't great for your long-term health. Nowadays, if you see "newspaper" wrapping, it's usually food-grade greaseproof paper printed to look like a 1920s Gazette. It's a vibe, not a health hazard.
Regional wars: Salt, vinegar, or... gravy?
If you want to start a fight in a British pub, ask what goes on fish and chips.
- In London and the South: It’s salt and malt vinegar. Keep it simple.
- In Edinburgh: It’s "Salt and Sauce." The sauce is a weird, watery mix of brown sauce and vinegar. It’s polarizing.
- In the North (Yorkshire/Lancashire): You better be using beef dripping. If you fry in vegetable oil, they’ll know. And you need "scraps"—the little bits of crunchy batter that fall off the fish.
- The Mushy Pea Divide: You either love them or you think they look like something from a swamp. But scientifically, that hit of protein and fiber turned a greasy snack into a somewhat balanced meal for a Victorian factory worker.
The economics of the Modern Chippy
It’s getting harder to run a shop. Overfishing has made Atlantic cod and haddock expensive. Climate change is pushing the fish further north into colder waters. Then you have the "Potato Gap"—bad harvests in the UK often lead to price spikes that force shops to close.
Many shops are now pivoting to "sustainable" options like Hake or Coley. It’s still fish. It still fries. But the fish and chips history of the future might look a lot more like Pollack than Cod.
What you should actually look for (The Expert's Take)
If you're looking for the real deal, skip the tourist traps in central London with the Union Jacks in the window.
- Check the fat. Ask if they fry in beef dripping. It has a higher smoke point and a savory depth that vegetable oil just can't touch.
- The skin-on debate. Traditional Northern shops often leave the skin on the fish. It keeps the fillet together and adds flavor. Southern shops tend to skin it.
- The "Fizz." A great batter should be light and aerated. Some use beer, some use soda water. The carbon dioxide creates tiny bubbles that expand in the heat, making it crunchy instead of bready.
- The Potato. You want a floury potato like a Maris Piper or a King Edward. If they use waxy potatoes, your chips will be limp and sad.
Actionable insights for your next meal
Don't just walk into a shop and order "fish." You have choices.
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Choose Haddock over Cod if you want a slightly sweeter flavor and a finer flake. Most Northerners swear by Haddock. Cod is firmer and "meatier," which is why it's the standard in the South.
Ask for your chips "open." If they wrap them up tight in paper and you have a 20-minute drive home, the steam will turn your crispy batter into a soggy sponge. If you leave the top open, the steam escapes. It stays crunchy.
Timing matters. Go at "opening" for lunch or dinner. That’s when the oil is cleanest. If you go at 9:30 PM on a Friday, you’re eating the "end of the day" oil, which can be heavy and a bit bitter.
Try the "Saveloy" once. It's a bright red, seasoned sausage that’s unique to British chip shops. It's weird. It's salty. It's a rite of passage.
Understand that when you're standing in that queue, you aren't just waiting for dinner. You're part of a 160-year-old industrial chain that involves Spanish refugees, Belgian farmers, and the invention of the steam engine. That’s a lot of weight for a piece of cod to carry.
Go find a shop that still peels their own potatoes. You'll know it by the sacks piled up in the corner. Order a "large," ask for plenty of vinegar, and eat them outside while they’re still hot enough to burn your tongue. That's the only way the history actually makes sense.