We had a real English fish and chip shop near my house while I was growing up, run by an actual English family: Rhodes Fish and Chips. The English part amazed me, and I preferred the food from this shop over, say, the H. Salt, Esquire down the road in the other direction, run by locals, not immigrants from England. (I was an early Anglophile in books and fish.)
We often wondered how the Rhodes family ended up in our small town alongside San Francisco Bay. While I was growing up, San Pablo was only known for its murder rate and its proximity to Richmond, with the refinery and formerly the shipyards. I was too polite to ask about the family background, but now I wonder if they didn't come from a small town on the edge of urban and suburban sprawl back in England. I had a friend who moved out to sunny California from Detroit, and he ended up feeling at home in industrial Oakland. I recall my first trip to Portland, Oregon, and feeling at home because it was a scruffy working town/city and it had Powell's Books.
Throughout my childhood, my family often ordered take-out from this fish and chip shop, and as an adult I was saddened when the family gave up the business and the building was bulldozed to make way for an auto parts emporium. (On the other hand, that family must have operated that shop over 20 or 25 years, so I get that the day was done.)
Now, if I want good fish and chips, I head to Bodega and the Boat House Cafe.
Tonight, I baked the cod in wine with garlic and thyme, which proved quite tasty, but the fish market guy's words have awakened a craving: a greasy, salty craving.
I'm planning to hit Rodeo Beach in Marin for some surf action and photography tomorrow, but maybe I should aim a bit further north.