Candy teeth and toothbrushes in the same convenient package!

Last week in the Kingdom of Fife we rejoiced in four consecutive days of fine weather. I took my sunglasses out of storage so I wouldn't be blinded by bare midriffs on the high street. But judging from the long queues at the Tan Stand, they'll all be orange soon.

Sunshine lends a wholesome air to the toun. I saw a girl walking to the park with a frisbee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Then I saw a peacock stop to pick up an abandonded chip. He fanned out his tail and tilted his head back, chip clenched in his tiny beak. I fumbled for my camera but the posing bastard gulped it down before I could focus.

Speaking of chips, we went out to Anstruther the other night. Nothing says summer like hot grease by the sea! I also wanted photographic evidence of a chip butty for my Dietgirl blog. I'd mentioned recently that Gareth was a devotee and some people were baffled and/or intrigued by the idea of carb on carb action.

Five years ago I would have been horrified, but now I see poetry in the bland, fluffy white roll, lubed up with butter and stuffed with flaccid fries.

Ask for a chip butty at the Anstruther chippie and your butty shall runneth over:

Gareth likes to eat the overflow first, building anticipation for the main event.

I went for the fish supper as usual. I had brought along my special Australianising Kit: chicken salt and a lemon. Back home you get lemon with fish by default, but over here you have to ask for it and they think you're a freak. The chicken salt, which doesn't contain actual chickens, was purchased for a ludicrous sum at the Australia Shop in Covent Garden a few years ago. I could take it or leave the stuff when I actually lived in Oz, but now flavoured sodium is a tasty, pathetic way of clinging to my roots.

Yesterday I finally tried a deep-fried Mars Bar, that notorious Scottish snack that no actual Scots seem to eat.

Friends have sung their artery-clogging praises and I've read their history on Wikipedia, yet they've always looked too turd-ish for my liking. But yesterday we met up with Jillian and Greg, our lovely friends from San Francisco, and they were keen to give them a whirl.

Although tempted by the Easter offering, we decided to share the original. Just 80p and we were on our way to deep-fried heaven.

Now you may think this looks bogging, but compared to the murky pictures on Wikipedia, this is Michelin material. Perhaps it was because we were in St Andrews and it's all bit posh up there, but our specimen was neat and handsome, cooked in clean oil with no black clumps of last weeks chips. The batter was light and crackly like the finest tempura. The Mars Bar was frozen, so its dip in the fryer made the innards hot and gooey while still retaining its shape.

The kind chippie man chopped it into four pieces and we dove in.

"Very nice!" said Greg.

"Very nice, but faintly fishy!" said Gareth.

"Very nice, but I couldn't eat a whole one!" said Jillian.

"Very nice, but I could do with a whole one. With a big scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side," said fatty-fatty fat guts Shauna.

FRIDAY LAST, 12:10 AM:  We were trudging home from the train station after seeing Demetri Martin at the Fringe. As is the usual fashion for a night out in this town, someone intoxicated clod had bought a box of hot chips then chucked them away after a few bites. These babies had been abandoned outside a hair salon. As an experiment, I took a picture of said chips with my wee cameraphone with intention of following up on their fate in the morning.

FRIDAY LAST, 7:00 AM:  This time I was going to the train station. But definitely still trudging, since I was off to work. Unsurprisingly, the chips were gone! If you peer closely you can see the outlines of their greasy corpses on the footpath.

So who scranned them all? The answer was in the chip box, which now lay in the middle of the road.

SEAGULLS! Check out those beak holes. Don't ever try to come between a bird and its fried potatoes.

I really need to move on from all this deep-fried stuff. I still have to do Wedding Part III from seven months ago, and there's a post from Lithuania 2004 to finish. But it's this bloody Mobile Chip Van! It keeps coming back every Saturday night and further endearing itself to me. Like instead of playing Greensleeves like Mr Whippy, this dude just drives up and down the streets honking the horn over and over until the customers come forth. At the first toot last night, Gareth and I ran to the window to observe. "Ohhh yes," he sighed as they opened up the serving hatch. "Go and get us a single fish?" "You're not really wanting a single fish?" "No. Not really." "Why do you call it a single fish, anyway? Why don't you just say, Can I have a piece of fish?" "Because it's a Single Fish. That's just how it is." There is still much to learn about the way of the world here. You don't ask for "fish and chips" either. Fish and chips is called a Fish Supper. Deep-fried black pudding and chips is a Black Pudding Supper. If you asked for a Sausage Supper And A Tin Of Juice Thanks Pal, you'd get a deep-fried battered sausage of questionable origin, chips and a can of Irn-Bru. "So is it only fish that comes in a single format?" "Oh no. You can get a single sausage or a single pudding. Don't think you get a single pie though. You'd just ask for a pie." "And if I wanted two bits of fish, I'd say Double Fish?" Gareth snorted. "Don't be preposterous! There's no such thing as a Double Fish!" "Why not?" "Because there isn't! You'd ask for two Single Fish!" "That makes no sense at all." "It makes sense if you're Scottish." "I don't see why all these bloody fish have to be Single. Don't get they lonely?" "Some hook up with the chips. That's your Fish Supper!"

Just so you know, the last entry was intended as a Harmless Bit of Fun. It was not a malicious attack on Scotland and/or the Scottish way of life, as my anonymous correspondents seem to believe. Crikey, people! Nowhere do I suggest that this is the only food available in Scottish supermarkets. Nor am I saying Scotland has the Worst Food In The World. Every country has its share of crap food, it's just that Scotland's crap food is the most endearingly entertaining I've ever encountered. Let me reassure any would-be tourists, we actually have plenty of tasty things for you to eat. I have sung the praises of Scottish cuisine in previous entries. There's an abundance of brilliant tucker in this country. Where to begin? The haggis, the oatcakes, the Cream o Galloway Ice Cream, the fish, the cheese, the Tea Cakes, the liquid goodies from Demijohn, the summer berries, phwoaaaaaaaar! However this is not a food blog and people don't come here for gourmet news. They want deep-fried gristle, guts and gore! Here's one comment:

"I think your opening sentence is misleading, it suggests that all Scottish supermarkets sell the poor excuse for food that you've listed which simply isn't true. If you insist on shopping in Asda then of course you're going to find low quality food, they cater for low quality people and low quality taste."

I could edit the first sentence to say, "Today we explore some of the dazzling delights on offer in the vast majority of Scottish supermarkets", but that sounds a bit clunky. Besides, pies in tins and Heinz Filler are not exclusive to Asda. I've seen 'em in Sainsburys, Tesco, Morrisons, Somerfield and even the wee Co-Op down the street. The only place you won't find them would perhaps be Waitrose or Marks & Spencer, the domain of more discerning High Quality People with High Quality Taste. (For the record, we buy our groceries online at Tesco, then top up at Somerfield or M&S. I guess that makes us a bewildering mix of High-Medium-Low.)

Today we explore some of the dazzling delights on offer in Scottish supermarkets… Continue reading →

Just when I thought I'd discovered all the delightful things there was to discover about Scottish cuisine, this purple chariot appeared in our driveway on Saturday night.

"Is this some sort of Mr Whippy van?" I asked Gareth, peering out the window in confusion. "Aye! Except everything's deep fried!" They weren't playing Greensleeves, but the pungent scent of shrivelled chunks of potato was enough to lure the neighbours out onto the street clutching fivers, their mouths shiny with Pavlovian drool. Gareth was all misty-eyed and nostalgic as we watched the spectacle. He hadn't seen a chip van in years. Back in the day, before he turned vegetarian, he would buy a cheeseburger. Not your fancy McDonalds ones with the dainty onions and smoothy, shiny buns, but a hardcore Scottish cheeseburger – a lump of mysterious manufactured flesh and gristle with the highly processed cheese already inside! "Like a chicken Kiev!" he explained, "Except shite!" As soon as the hoardes were served they closed the shutters. This little delinquent came running down the street as they pulled away, throwing himself onto the back of the van. He whooped and cheered as they sped off into the sunset. Some people will do anything for a bag of chips.