There are certain words, names and phrases which can instantly have an entirely different meaning depending on the circle of conversation. If I heard the name Kennedy, what would immediately spring to mind is the Curse.
The ‘Kennedy Curse’ is somewhat of a myth and a completely unfounded case of misfortune and series of premature deaths, accidents, and most famously, assassinations (President John F. Kennedy and his brother Senator Robert Kennedy) which plagued the Kennedy family for generations, even until this day. So forgive me, as my mind went straight down the rabbit hole before I’d even stepped foot in Tooting High Street’s fish bar of the same name. Thankfully, no relation.
Inspired by a 150-year-old delicatessen butcher’s renowned for their sausages (not the battered kind), Kennedy’s of London served its food with a nostalgic quality, as well as a taste of summer I’m so desperately trying to cling on to. Fish and chips may be best eaten near blustery harbours and pebbled beaches, but the dish transcends the times and seasons, so getting it from a London chippie wasn’t out of place.
One thing I wished would’ve stayed from the 1800s were its prices. Nearly every time I walk into a chippie I wince at the sight of our humble delicacy costing nearer and nearer to fifteen quid. Yes, it might be London, but the cosmopolitan price tag I can do without.
Fish and seafood of all sorts were listed next to ‘Kennedy’s Pies’ and ‘Chip Shop Pies’ on the plentiful and novelty-designed menu. The former were the most expensive items on the menu, with the handheld pies costing a maximum of £3.95, and battered sausages and saveloys just £2.
A continuous gripe I have with nearly all chippies, no matter the location, is the fact they sold fish and chips as two separate items. I remember my days as a child and teen where you’d pay a total price for both as one, not individually.
My cod and chips came to a total of £10, a sought after price for London, but not wallet-friendly enough to make me leap for joy. I appreciated Kennedy’s attempt to cling on to its vintage roots, displaying shabby-chic wooden signs with purposely muted paint.
An adorable decoration was the vintage miniature London bus sat on the chippie’s counter, emblazoned with ‘KENNEDYS’ written on the side. Apart from the minimal spots of various shades of navy blue, the chippie was pristine if not verging on clinical. They had an ample amount of tables for solo, duo and group diners should they choose to enjoy their grub in house.
Most of the time chippies operate purely as takeaways, so it was surprising to see seats for everyone, even if it was mainly used as a waiting area. One by one people took home their bag of goodies. Pies, battered fish and fishcakes alike.
The smell of bubbling oil was intoxicating and comforting, almost seductive. Molten, bubbling oil was so satisfying to listen to, even if I did get Vietnam flashbacks to working in a kitchen. It was a love-heart kind of thing.
Ten whole minutes of waiting for ten whole pounds worth of fish and chips, slapped in a newspaper-designed box. Salt and vinegar? I’ll take the works!
Ferrying the goods home, by the time I’d unwrapped the fish and chips so they were naked, the vinegar seeped through the box. But thankfully, the chips weren’t too soggy.
For a “regular” sized portion, there was nothing regular about it. I daren’t see how massive the ‘Large’ portion was.
Each chip was mismatched, misshapen, chunky, odd-ones-out if you will. I was just grateful not to have frozen chips fried straight from the bag. The hunks of potato were a little dense and not as fluffy, crying out for a bit more frying.
And for the salt and vinegar? Despite witnessing the dousing, the box seemed to have swallowed up any of the flavour the chips were begging for. Not that they were bad, they weren’t devoid of any flavour, but just weren’t singing like a gospel choir.
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The fish flaked away beautifully, but the batter needed to retain a bit more crisp. Its colour was wonderfully caramel, but during the short car journey home, it’d fallen victim to the chippie box sweat.
Even though I could appreciate the kitsch, vintage accents placed strategically around the chippie, most of its decorations were swallowed up by the white tiled canvas. It felt too pristine, almost clinical. But hey, in a chippie, you can't complain about it being too clean - so that's just up to taste.
It's safe to say the chippie didn't succumb to the 'Kennedy Curse'. Kennedy’s was certainly a cut above a handful of chippies I’ve eaten from over the years, but it fell just short close to the finish line. It was a pleasant enough experience, but ultimately, pleasant for a tenner isn’t enough for me.
Is there a story you think we should be covering? If so, please email whatson@mylondon.news or at ellen.jenne@reachplc.com
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