It was with great expectations that we embarked upon this, the first of our trips-for-chips. Spirits high, we climbed the stairs of the No. 10 bus, heading northward. At O’Connell Street’s end come, too, it seems, the end of property rights. In their stead arrive squatters’ rights. I trust this inclination because, for all its proletarian charm, nobody could possibly bring themselves to actually pay for a place near the chip shop the No. 10 prowled in search of. As we descended the No. 10’s stairs, sprits lowered as well. Matasa did not at all resemble the finished article my colleage had previously described. We crossed the road fearful. It was Matasa Time.
Chip shops are strange places. Rarely have I entered one and felt totally at ease. Their radio silences are broken – nay, singed – only by the sizzle of the deep-fat fryer. (I call it ‘chip-shop silence’ – I hope it catches on.) Though noble indeed, the people staring out from behind the counter never, ever offer small-talk. They haven’t left the chip-shop in 15 years. They have nothing to say, nothing to opine, nothing even to repeat beyond the outraged, yet never outrageous headlines of that evening’s Herald. Builder sent 500 euro check to candidates. They don’t add the definite or indefinite articles, because by now, they’re not all that sure which goes were. They have nothing to live for – and, worst of all, they know it. Their eyes stare out, dead to the world.
And we, the loyal customer, we’re left looking for somewhere – anywhere! – out of their vision. Time stands still in a chipper. Peaked caps, chocolate digestives and green-ink biros are still staples of the affordably exotic in the chip shops of this country. Only 6% of chipmen and chipwomen own mobile phones. And be sure of this: nobody from that 6% works in Matasa.Once I awoke from the blackout chip-shop-silence inevitably visits upon me, I threw a quick glance to the menu. I knew what I wanted. I always do. Smoked-cod and chips. They had it. They always do. Our orders pierced the silence, but the totalitarian sizzle of the awkward was soon upon us once more. We looked at things, but never at any length. We tried to exchange words with each other, but it’s hard not to whisper in silence. And it’s hard not to think whispering forbidden. The door blew open behind us then, to our great relief. The wind? Not a chance.What followed, I’m pretty sure, is the cause of all winds. A very large, rather angry, just-about female mammal stared up at chipwoman and, to our surprise, the chipwoman acknowledged the mammal’s presence. Nothing was said. No orders were made. The chipwoman simply bent down behind the till and returned above counter-level with a big brown bag (presumably full of food, but who knows?) and a bottle of coke. The mammal attempted what, we can only guess, was supposed to be a smile, raised her right hand and gave to the chipwoman a packet of (yes, you guessed it) Lidl chocolate digestives.That enormous woman just payed for her chips with a packet of biscuits, we collectively snorted, for, yes, she had indeed swapped her biscuits for her chips.
Chips arrived, I asked for loads of vinegar, bills were cleared up (we had nothing to offer but money, sadly) and, because Matasa has no seating area, we left the shop to eat our food as we walked, we hoped, in the direction of home. Two minutes later, my bag had disintegrated. The vinegar had seeped through. I had been working my way through the smoked cod. I hadn’t yet had a good taste of the chips. But this, this disaster, did not bode well for the chips. They were clearly failing to absorb the load of vinegar I’d demanded. Sure enough, once I’d considered the chips, it was plain to me and all that the omen had been realised. Oh, those chips were hard, dry, saltless and, worst of all, vinegarless. Chippers are special places. Nowhere else can you get the delicious vinegar they use. It’s their number one asset, in my opinion. To fail to capitalise on that asset is the greatest sin a chipper can commit. Matasa’s chips didn’t even try. Disgraceful.The smoked cod was nice. The batter boasted a wonderful consistency and the fish was often tasty – at times, even, it was delicious. Yours truly failed to on the drinks front. Nothing beats a cold can of coke. But I, unlike my colleagues, failed to consider our eating conditions. We were walking with full hands, so drinks were relegated to coat pockets. And because I had a can, I had to wait until I’d eaten my food to open my can. I blame the chips, Matasa would blame my thirst, but my meal was only enjoyable for a time.We got to O’Connell Street, where property rights once more began. But I didn’t no longer wanted what was mine. I finished my smoked-cod, threw and handfull of chips into my mouth and threw the rest of them into the first bin on O’Connell Street. I wasn’t even full. I went to Spar and bought two Maxi Twists, then I went to McDonald’s and bought a Caramel Sunday. A woman was fighting with a security man in McDonald’s. She threatened, quite audibly, to cut his head off. She was angry – angry and frustrated with the world which, despite its pied beauty, just doesn’t seem to try anymore. We all are.
Digital Swordfish and Chips 