Whitby jettison

IT’S a heresy punishable by being fed to the seagulls – and some of those fat fellers look like they could eat a poor columnist at a single sitting – that I don’t much care for Whitby. The town’s all right, understand, it’s just all the folk that throng there.

There were too many people (though the Chamber of Trade would be unlikely to agree) even on a blustery Friday in late March. Some of them, high collared and hooded, formed a familiar queue outside the celebrated Magpie Cafe.

Goodness knows there are plenty of other fish in the Whitby sea, and most of them appear to be award winners.

Either they’ve won something or been shortlisted for it. There are shortlists, not least in national journalism awards, which stretch from here to absurdity.

Mr Chips fish shop and restaurant, about which we had heard enthusiastic reports, lists its awards on several boards outside. The most impressive may be that it’s been voted the locals’ favourite.

Green’s, not cabbage looking in the least, has its awards in the window – so many that it must be like a partial eclipse in there. Radford’s, next door on the town’s east side, boasts awardwinning steak pie; Trenchers fish restaurant, says the tourism guide, has award-winning loos.

The Boss likens this awards-for-all approach to the elder bairn’s school skiing trip, when everyone came home with a medal. His was for the most spectacular A over T. He still has the crutches somewhere; the gong disappeared long ago.

Even the Dracula Experience – “See Dracula rise from the grave and hear his dreadful wailing” – is award winning.

It says so, almost inevitably, on a board outside.

Only the Humble Pie and Mash Shop appeared not to have been among the accolades, but that may simply have been a sign of the self-effacement implicit in its title.

Mr Chips was full. We’d had them, or not as the case may have been.

Rather than form a disorderly queue, we headed back across the swing bridge to the Quayside, run since 1999 by Stuart Fusco whose family also has Royal Fisheries, up the town.

From the quay itself, a brave party was putting out on the Skylark. “The sea is bright, breezy and bumpy,” another blackboard warned.

Stuart had fried for his father since he was 13, left university with a degree in geography and environmental sciences, was named Young Fish Fryer of the Year in 2004 and Les Routiers’ Cafe of the Year the following year. Raymond, his brother, took the Young Fish Fryer title this year.

In 2007, Stuart had even been interviewed in The Guardian. “The important things for us are understanding the psychology and needs of our demographic,” he said. They probably talk of little else in the National Federation of Fish Fryers; it’s what comes of getting wrapped up in The Guardian.

Other awards preen outside. Inside are more citations than you could shake a crabstick at. Best fundraiser, best garden, best shop front. The Fusco group are nothing if not community conscious.

The Quayside promotes its Yorkshire special, £13.45 – fish and chips “deep fried the Yorkshire way”, bread and sorbet sourced locally, a pot of Yorkshire Tea.

What it doesn’t say is that the fish is from Yorkshire – and not their fault, of course, if none is available.

Its contents bill proclaiming “Gloomy forecast for fishing fleet”, that day’s Whitby Gazette reported that the outgoing harbourmaster had told of plummeting landings, a pessimistic outlook and the likelihood of boats being decommissioned. Recent landings had fallen “massively”.

The Gazette also reported that Stuart Fusco is to star in a Visit Britain promotional film as part of British Tourism Week. The man’s clearly a star.

The Boss had haddock, I cod – £8.45 apiece with no suggestion of tea, bread and butter nor even a few scrappins.

She thought the haddock excellent – firm, fresh, lightly and crisply battered. The cod was more from the perfectly okay school. There’s been better.

Harmoniously, we agreed that the chips were poor. They’re crinkle-cut – “they crisp better because their surface is exposed,” Stuart had told The Guardian, something else he may have learned at an environmental science seminar – but these were lukewarm, feeble and flaccid. Hers remained on the side of the plate, a picture of misery, not a crinkle cut above at all.

Afterwards we headed back across the bridge for a beer in the Black Horse – Regional Winner, Drinks Experience, Punch Taverns Shine Awards – where they were advertising Carlin Sunday in an attempt to raise funds for the Runswick Bay rescue boat.

The connection wasn’t immediately obvious, but possibly to put wind in its sails.

A pint of Adnam’s Bitter (3.7 abv) was £2.90, a pint of Rhatas (3.6 abv) from the Black Dog Brewery, formerly Whitby based, was £3.10. Nice, old fashioned pub; ridiculous prices.

Rhatas is an interesting name for a pint, almost falling down beer.

There’s a reason, something to do with the owner’s name, but I’ve forgotten it.

By 4pm they’d finally stopped waiting outside the Magpie, an establishment that’s won so many awards that there may not be enough blackboards within the entire North Yorkshire education department on which to list them.

None is publicly proclaimed, but above the building we noticed a flag flying. Impossible in the wind to discern exactly what it said, but it appeared to be “We have queues half way to Sandsend, you don’t, so yah boo sucks”.

Deciding against a Whitby Gothic ice cream from Trillo’s (liquorice and blackcurrant, £1.50) we again headed homewards. As for lunch, it had been difficult to see what all the Fusco is about.

OTHER than the obvious distinction that one is a great deal easier to spell, the difference between a “connoisseur” and a “gourmet” is that a gourmet knows his food and wine and a connoisseur may range across the arts, but not generally be into baguettes. Fitzgerald’s in Newcastle sells “connoisseur” hot baguettes.

The pub’s just down from the Theatre Royal, in Grey Street. Someone had recommended it, partly because they played the Springfields. Part of an extensive menu, the connoisseur baguettes include fish finger, beans and mozzarella melt, chicken, stuffing and gravy and chicken goujons with garlic mayonnaise. I had the chicken, bacon and mozzarella, accompanied by a pint of the excellent Bitter and Twisted from Harviestoun.

The filling was lukewarm and claggy, the roll pallid and pappy. Pretty horrible. If this were a connoisseur trick, there should be a law against it.

A “GENUINE first” for Bishop Auckland, it says on the invitation, a “champagne and cocktail bar” opens in the Market Place this week. The preview party’s tomorrow, dress code described as “smart and sassy”.

Though a sassaby is said to be “the bastard hartebeast” – cue Flanders and Swann – the dictionaries don’t include sassy. It doesn’t quite sound my style, nonetheless.

IT’S National Cask Ale Week, April 6-13. The beer could also be the reason that we had hitherto omitted to promote a splendid initiative by Bedale businessman John Dunwell, who last weekend persuaded all eight pubs in the North Yorkshire town to take part in a real ale trail.

“The licensed trade is going through a hard time. Though all Bedale’s pubs are still in business I wanted to encourage people back into them,” said John. “It’s much better than drinking supermarket beer from tins at home.”

The column would be unlikely to disagree. Apologies for failing to mention it earlier.

CLEAR warning of this one, Darlington Snooker Club – corner of Northgate and Corporation Road, up the stairs – holds another beer festival from April 16-19. All welcome, the pies and peas are also recommended.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what’s yellow and white and travels at 125mph. An engine driver’s egg sandwich, of course.