In terms of comfort food, is there anything finer than the chip, I wonder? Admittedly, they lack the pliability of their siblings in a more mashed state (more on that in the future, I'm sure), but in terms of greasy indulgence, in terms of sheer portability and "goes with anything" chutzpah, the chip is it. Admittedly, they may not give gazpacho that especial zing, but for my money, there's nothing finer.

In A Fish Called Wanda, Kevin Kline's Otto memorably gives chips the dubious honour of being the English contribution to world cuisine. And so it's with this in mind I wonder why I was never able to get a good chip in London. The search for perfection took on a mythical status, almost. I never could understand why - coming from the land of just-in-time chip cooking (ie: at the same time as your fish, to provide a golden, slightly firm (but not crunchy) treat) - it was common practice in the UK for chippies to cook up a batch and keep them in some kind of gastronomically Machiavellian file drawer until some hapless punter wanted them. I’ve not forgotten my disappointment at seeing the steam rise out of that drawer and a scoopful of moon-pale pieces, like planks from a shipwreck, slime its way onto paper turned instantly transparent.

(Of course, I'm probably being unkind. Another contributor insists that the further north of London one gets, the more the stuff improves. This was something I'd not had a chance to test, enmeshed in the black-snotted capital as I was.)

And it's funny how a previous lack of quality will be negated when the chip-frenzy’s on: I knew that that Greek place on the corner of Oxford Street and Charing Cross Road would result in disappointingly oily mush, and the Stoke Newington high-street chippy the same but worse, but when the mood struck I couldn’t be drawn from either, knowing as I handed over my two quid and picked up my wooden fork that I was bound for desolation and at least half my poor snack was bound for the bin. Like a sickness.

I remember that when I was young and chips were bought from the local takeaway - a rare treat - they used to come in paper cups. Big paper cups with faux-newsprint stories on the outside about how much better chips tasted when served in paper. I remember reading the stories, wanting to know what lay beyond the cut-off point, what more there could be to say about chips, not yet comprehending that it was marketing, not truth. Once the chips and readings were gone, I'd drink the crunchy pieces and escapee salt like some kind of bouldered cup of cheer.

I still think of this when I order, and still am impressed when one of those cups makes its way into my hands. Somehow, chips occasionally still taste of childhood.

Unsurprisingly, I'm eating some now as a result of a rather draining morning. And like any comfort food worth its salt (oh, ho-ho!) I know they're bad. I know they're what stop the washboard abs and bring that feeling of fullness, or tiredness. I know that in order to get going, I'll have to eventually give them up. Which will be difficult, in the same way that any attempt to disengage yourself from something you’ve invested emotion is. It's simple: they're bad, just stop... though hearing it and doing it are items worlds apart.

But who said taste ever had anything to do with what was good for you?