#FryHard

Yippee-Fry-Aye.

Shoreditch - April 2015

Lent. Traditional time of penitence and abstinence, before we all hail the chocolate rabbit god laying eggs from whence the baby Jesus hatched  (I think I have that right). Basically, no badness is the general rule for many. Clearly Messhead (aka Chef Jim Tomlinson and Miss Cakehead) didn’t get the memo.

Last seen trying to recreate the taste of human flesh in a burger, this Easter holiday weekend they’ve been down at Boxpark in Shoreditch armed with a couple of deep-fat fryers and “a load of things you can just buy down the shops” (to quote the chef). The premise is simple: deep fry the shit out of stuff.

Abstemious this is not. Take that, Lent.

It’s hardly haute cuisine, but it takes a certain type of mad genius to think ‘what’s missing from a crème egg? Batter.’ And given they’d all sold out of those when we rocked down late on the first day, clearly the masses agree.

In fact, after a three & a half hour lunchtime rush, about half of the 100 options on the coronary-inducing menu were gone. No pancakes, no sausage rolls, no donuts (I totally love the idea of deep frying a deep-fried snack). 

But from the selection of what’s left, the best proved to be foodstuffs with a low melting point; cheese-strings and babybels become gooey treats and a rocky road is pure filth - now a squidgy warm cake filled with oozing melted mallow.

I don’t think frying improves a shop-bought scotch egg (but a fresh made one, with a warm runny yolk could be amazing). And in the case of jaffa cakes, the orange jelly melts away too much – leaving a mere disappointment of sticky orange essence.

It’s Willy Wonka meets Chip Shop. A fondue party in the age of austerity. And props to them for trying to answer a classic pub debate – what else would you, and what else could you deep-fry? Now, roll me to the cardiac ward.