Where I grew up, (Montserrat), fried food has a day of appreciation. That's Fridays. Lunch or dinner, it's chicken fry, fish fry, potato fry. You catch where I'm going. But never battered. For that reason, no one battered an eye when our grandparents (Montserratians, too) offered us fish and chips on our first weekend with them here in the UK. Except when grandad returned with the oily saturated newspaper, covering malt vinegared chips and what should have been deep-fried ba

It is the way No 131 Terrace always called out to me and once there, how I only wanted to stay. And after I left, I only want to return.

If my weekends had become about hopscotching around Asian restaurants, I feel certain I had mastered the game. Except after the last meal...