At least once a month and always on a Friday night, dad would come home with fish and chips for our supper. He picked them up on his way home from work at Seagrill Fish & Chips at Queen and Leuty. Wrapped in newspaper to absorb the oil, they always arrived warm and crispy, with flaky white fish cooked to perfection. With each bite, a trace of oil would run down our chin.

       We would dip the fish in tartar sauce and sprinkle salt and malt vinegar on the fries. Such a delight, sticky and oily fingers remained when the feast ended. Those days are long gone and the shop is no longer the mom-and-pop venture — a franchise to replace it. The experience remains strong in my memory, as does my Dad. In later years, I always wondered what Mom ate; she hated fish.