The adventure started with a love-hate affair with KYC (Kentucky Fried Chicken). I so loved getting a giant bucket of the greasy deep fried chicken made with southern love, the fries with peppery gravy that had an unidentifiable foreign taste to it; and the selection of plastic macaroni salad & bright (too bright if you know what I mean) green coleslaw.  

This obsession went beyond the ordinary. I would crave it. Dream about it. I had the mis-fortune to pass by a KYC in my daily travels and I would be driven to virtual insanity. With desire. I was convinced that they had intentionally engineered the place so the scent of chicken would waft onto the street – such an addictive and delicious smell to tease and tantalize all the passers-by.

And once – once in a very long while – I would succumb. Hours later with an empty bucket of chicken and an unrecognizable mixture of salad remnants and congealed gravy in my wake, I would moan and belch for hours.

“Oh – I feel so…..so…..greasy! Why did I do that? Why couldn’t I control myself? I always feel terrible afterwards! Never. Never will I do that again,” I would vow to myself over and over again while rolling around in bloated agony.

Any yet, months or (if I’m lucky) years later, I would repeat the same act of foolishness all over again. Crave. Smell. Succumb. Moan. Belch. Vow. Rinse and Repeat as Necessary.

I have a similar eat-hate relationship with fish & chips.

Now, I love food. I really do. And when I travel I’m the first person to embrace a culture and experience the best culinary offerings of any particular locale. I generally have an iron constitution and appetite for odd foods too, so bring on the fried scorpions, unknown fruits, and other strange delicacies. It’s all part of the culture, and if people in other parts of the world eat it, so can I.

So somehow on my trip along the west coast of Canada I knew I would end up on a food band-wagon at some point. I knew it wasn’t going to be anything terribly foreign or unidentifiable since it was Canada, so I didn’t give it much credence. When I arrived in Prince Rupert, British Columbia – the self-proclaimed Halibut Capital Of The World – I understood my new mission on this coastal adventure was to find the best fish & chips.

However, I also recalled a recent vow never to have them again after a particularly greasy Moaning & Belching & Vowing experience with “the best fish & chips” closer to home. So, weary of taking on the mission, I merely threatened to go out for the prized dish. I visited numerous pubs and restaurants in search of the place that LOOKED to have the best fish & chips from the outside and perused the menus in the window to check prices.

And hiding behind the feign of trying to travel on a budget, I would ultimately stick my nose up, walk away and return to my accommodations for a healthy home-cooked meal.

But I’ll tell you without a shadow of a doubt: There was a grungy looking, fluorescent lit, tiny restaurant on the corner just off the beaten path which boasted a plain hand-written sign in the window: “Fish & Chips”. This place most certainly had the best fish & chips in Prince Rupert. I just didn’t try them.

Once on Vancouver Island though, I couldn’t contain myself any longer. More and more fish & chips venues presented themselves to me. They seemed to be multiplying….or maybe it was just my eyes playing tricks on me. I became consumed. Soon enough all I could see were fish & chips places – no grocery stores, no Italian restaurants, no laundromats. Just fish & chips, everywhere I looked. I even smelled fish & chips in my sleep. That heavenly aroma of grease that has been in the deep fryer a bit too long, accompanied by saliva-inducing malt vinegar and blessed sea salt. I simply couldn’t stand it any longer.

So, off I went on a local’s recommendation to a pub for what were supposed to be some of the best fish & chips in town. Against my better judgment, I walked right by the other pub I had already researched and pinned for having the best: all the tables in the small establishment sported both malt & white vinegar alongside salt & pepper as condiments, and they only had 3 items on the menu….how can you go wrong?! But instead I marched on trusting the local’s advice.

My first clue that this wasn’t going to be a life-changing fish & chips experience was that the pub I was directed to had a 6 page menu. Any restaurant that thinks they can make a little of everything usually makes it all, but poorly at that. Next, I had to ask for the vinegar. Oh the abomination.

I’ll give the pub credit though; admittedly, it wasn’t bad. The fries weren’t as I imagine the quintessential fries to compliment the perfect fish & chips should be, but the fish was plentiful and expectedly greasy.

After the feast, I rolled out of the pub, already Belching and Moaning. I still maintain that the other pub had better fish & chips, but I just vowed never to eat fish & chips again, so I guess I’ll never know.

By: Nora Dunn, http://www.freedom30.blogspot.com/
Nora Dunn is a Travel Writer and Professional Hobo originally from Toronto, Canada. She sold all her worldly possessions to travel, discover, inspire, and educate. She currently has no fixed address.

Nora is searching for Travel adventures beyond the ordinary.