You don’t just walk into Harrods and grab a cone. There’s a queue. But it’s the best kind of queue—the kind where everyone is grinning and sniffing the air like cartoon dogs. You’re surrounded by tourists in gold-rimmed sunglasses and locals who’ve clearly abandoned a meeting for this. One guy near me was on the phone saying, “I’ll call you back, I’m about to commit to a piece of cod.” Priorities.
The counter is all gleaming tiles and retro signage. It feels like a seaside chippy that fell asleep in 1952 and woke up inside a Ferrari showroom. The staff are chirpy and efficient, which is rare for London. They don’t judge you for ordering the large portion.
The Batter: A Religious Experience
Here’s the thing about Kerridge’s batter: it’s beer-battered with St. Austell Brewery ale. It’s not just a coating; it’s a crustacean crystal palace. It shatters when you bite it. It’s so light and crispy that you wonder if it’s made of fairy wings and golden air. I dropped a piece on my napkin, and it didn’t go soggy. That’s a miracle worthy of canonisation.
The cod itself is fluffy and white, like a cloud that decided to become delicious. It flakes apart with the gentlest nudge of your fork. You don’t need tartare sauce, though they give you a nice one. The fish is so fresh it practically winks at you.
Tom Kerridge's luxury fish and chips at Harrods leaves food critic
