"Everyone at the bus stop pretended not to want some of Sandra's chips"
OK, I have no idea who this young woman is, or if everyone else there was as distracted as me by the fragrant aromas from that cardboard box, but I'd be surprised if they weren't. She clearly couldn't wait around to get home, or for the bus to come. That fish supper was there, on her lap, begging to be eaten. And so she did, with obvious enjoyment. Good for her.
To be fair they were from The Fishmarket. I wrote about the attractions Newhaven Harbour held for me a few years ago in this post, and the most recent arrival in that long, low red building has added another one. Part seafood restaurant, part traditional chippie takeaway, one of the joint owners is the excellent Welch Fishmongers next door, so the quality of the source product is in no doubt. Having only opened in Spring of this year it quickly gained a good reputation locally, leading to a significant appearance on national TV. It became a rarity to walk past without there being a long line of people having to queue outside for their boxes of deep fried haddock and potato.
But that passed quickly through my mind, elbowed out by a more distant memory in another part of the city. Back in the seventies Hogmanay wasn't the super organised (super commercialised) event it's become. Back then it was a night for the locals, and the place to be was the Tron Kirk. Or rather filling up the pavements and adjoining streets around the kirk. Depending on the climatic conditions there'd be twenty or thirty thousand 'merry' Scots assembled, waiting on the sound of the bells, ready to put their arms around total strangers for the sake of auld lang syne, the year departed and that to come. And getting pished together.
It was nearing eleven thirty and a crowd of us were in a pub down in the Grassmarket, thinking it was about time to make a move up the hill and join the masses. Small problem though. I, and a couple of the others, felt in desperate need of sustenance. Probably to soak up all the alcohol sloshing about inside, and contained in the various bottles about our persons. And there, on West Port, was our wee life saver. A chippie, long since disappeared, with a not too-long queue forming. Heaven. A white pudding supper for me, salt and sauce liberally applied, and we were on our way.
I remember that pudding supper better than most others I've eaten over the decades. It certainly wasn't the best quality I've ever had. But it fitted the moment better than any other. The relish of alfresco dining, the steaming hot chips and the bitterly cold wind, the need to eat quick before it got cold, all the time joining a growing congregation of worshippers walking up every film director's favourite thoroughfare, Victoria Street, en route to the kirk. The sense of warmth and comfort and friendship and anticipation of what was to come, the mystery of what the next few hours would throw up (hopefully not the pudding supper...).
All these memories from somebody else's box of fried food. The mind is a strange and unpredictable thing. I hope she enjoyed it as much as we all wanted to.
PS It's not that great a photo, but I feel the version of it I posted on Instagram is an improvement on the original.
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