The best fish and chips in the Laurentians? Here's our case.

Someone asked us at the bar the other night where to find the best fish and chips in the Laurentians.

We try to be modest about this.

We don't always manage.

Let's start with what we won't tell you. The batter.

There's a secret in our beer batter, and it stays in the kitchen. The secret is ours, the pleasure is yours.

The fish we can talk about. Haddock, not cod. Flaky inside, crisp outside, cooked in its crust the way it should be.

But the fish is only part of it.

Let's talk about the rest of the plate, because that's usually where it's won.

The fries

When we opened MacTaverne, Mike and I tested more than fifteen versions of the perfect fry.

Thin, thick, thicker. Different potatoes, different cuts, different cooks. We ate far too many fries for a while.

We eventually landed on the one we still serve today. Wide, thick and generously salted.

We're not going to tell you it's a Belgian fry. To be fair, we're not even sure exactly what that would mean.

But Mike and I lived in Belgium for a few years when we were very young, and something from that time stuck with us.

Not much. We were really young.

But the smell of a frite shop, yes.

We remember that.

Hot oil, potatoes, salt. The paper cone in your hands. A beer somewhere nearby, at least in our memory.

These fries take us straight back, about as far as a potato can carry you into your childhood.

Do they actually taste like the fries we ate in Belgium? No idea. A child's memory probably isn't the best technical reference for a fry.

But they taste like what we remember them tasting like.

That's good enough for us.

Starchy, fried, salted. Built to eat with a beer. It's no accident they tend to disappear before the fish does.

No andalouse though. We know, not very Belgian of us.

We think our tartar is better.

And since a good fry inevitably ends up in it anyway, let's talk about that.

The tartar sauce

Tiny French cornichons, marinated shallots, capers and lemon. Chopped fine and mixed the way they should be.

Tangy, salty, just rich enough. Exactly what you want next to something hot, fried and crisp.

Its job is to cut through the fish and send you back for the next bite.

It does.

And yes, we dip the fries in it too.

The mushy peas

Don't get us started on the mushy peas.

They started with our Scottish granny, who said there was no dessert unless we ate our vegetables.

That was reason enough to put them on the plate.

Mike still puts enough butter and salt in them that they taste a little less like a British obligation and a little more like a French indulgence.

Granny would probably have something to say about that.

Too late.

The best in the Laurentians?

People ask us if it's good.

We try to stay modest.

Between us, we mostly think nobody should touch the recipe. This plate might put the kids through university someday.

What we wanted, really, was a fish and chips that reminded us of the counter of a proper chip shop somewhere by the sea in Britain.

Except around here, the seaside is the Rivière du Nord across the street.

And Le P'tit Train du Nord running past the front door.

We work with what we've got.

The best time to eat it is at the end of a long day, with a cold pint or a glass of wine picked specifically to go with it.

Better yet, come with someone you like and let us take the wheel.

You make enough difficult decisions all day. We can handle the rest for an evening.

So, is it the best fish and chips in the Laurentians?

We'll keep trying to be modest about it.

But let's just say the competition isn't fierce on this side of the Atlantic.

Even less so in the Laurentians.

Fish and chips.

Chips is British for fries.

We call them best friends for life.