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.