Fish-and-chippy

There is still no fishmonger, although there is a fish-and-chippy.

The trattoria was becoming popular and was edging out the ‘greasy spoon’ and even the fish-and-chippy.

In 1993–94, I lived in the picturesque southern English town of Canterbury, Kent, in a very small apartment above a health-food shop and a “fish-and-chippy.”

‘That will happen wherever I go, because most of the chefs around here couldn’t tell the difference between a brûlée and a blowfly.’ / ‘But you won’t be working anywhere else. You’ll be on garden leave. Unless you fancy opening a fish-and-chippy in Ulladulla?’ Jim offers.

Spouting hot oil, and with the fish-and-chippy odour characteristic of internal combustion when it goes external with a bang, the blue E.R.A. drew over and nuzzled in close to the hedge, yielding precedence to the works three-speeder, which thereafter had the race in the basket, going on to win at a decimal under 91 m.p.h. from the four-cylinder Maseratis of Bianco and Sofietti.

Everything’s so stale and orange-peely and fish-and-chippy!

[…] 25 minutes went by before the cruelly overheated engine was clearly visible through the fish-and-chippy miasma rising off it.

As he packed, the hearty fish-and-chippy smell of Swansea was coming on the evening wind over the sea, and the sound of the Mumbles train loudening coming back to the Pierhead.

I was sure the Brits had their share of murderers. It was just a matter of finding the right one. Or, if I was lucky, one that tasted good. Without the fish-and-chippy smell. Sorry, that was a stereotype.

I quickly tuck in to some chips, then try a crispy ring. It’s good. It’s very good. Sort of half chickeny and half fish-and-chippy.