Chip Butty

When I first told my colleagues about the chip butty, nobody believed me. British chips…sandwiched between two slices of buttered, untoasted white bread? Hey, don’t knock it until you try it. The chip butty is a working-class staple sold at chippies—fish and chip shops— across the United Kingdom, and the delightful, comforting snack I sought out as a university student in Scotland many years ago. There was a lot of rain and not a lot of shine, and I, like many other students, drowned my sorrows in fried food. As journalist Tony Naylor wrote in The Guardian, “Hard liquor and soft drugs aside, the chip butty is the most reliable way we human beings have to mentally shut out this harsh world and, momentarily, transport ourselves to a happier, more innocent place.”

According to journalist Sam Hancock, the chip butty’s origins can be traced to Britain’s “second-ever fish and chip shop” called Mr Lees [sic], which opened in 1863 in Lancashire, a county in the north of England. Mr Lees “quickly became known for its generously sized ‘chip barms,’ though the term “chip barm” itself didn’t start appearing in dictionaries, books, or even newspapers until well into the 20th century,” when more chip shops started popping up across the country. (A barm cake is a soft roll leavened with barm, a by-product of beer or wine fermentation.) 

Whether the sandwich is referred to as a chip barm or chip butty is purely a regional and cultural thing; some even refer to it as a chip sarnie or chip roll. Regardless of what it’s called, the chip sandwich is a mainstay at chippies across the country, and though it’s traditionally a blue-collar meal, some have pointed out that the new middle-class in Britain have tried to distinguish themselves by “improving” on traditional working class foods like the chip butty. (See: Gordon Ramsay making a chip butty.)

It’s a simple sandwich, but that makes it even more important to get its few components right. The bread must be white, the butter must be soft enough to spread, and the chips should be hot. I’m a staunch believer that the chips should be seasoned with salt and malt vinegar, which helps to cut through the greasiness of the chips. (As a student in Scotland, I was told by British friends that the reason vinegar is so essential to fish and chips is so you can’t taste how old and rancid the fryer oil is. How true this is, I do not know, but I will continue to douse my chips in plenty of vinegar regardless of how clean the oil is.)

If you live in Britain, you could very easily purchase chips to make this—or just purchase a chip butty. But if you live somewhere where there are no British chips to be found or what you’re after is a superb chip butty, it’s worth taking the time to make your own chips. I’ve included my recipe for triple-cooked British chips that are crisp on the outside and pillowy on the inside, and as for other components, I recommend a good dose of HP sauce for a tangy, savory kick or ketchup for a bit of sweetness. 

I don’t make or eat a chip butty often, but when I do, the sandwich never fails to take me to my happy place.