ONCE-UPON-A-TIME my dad bought some land in the Lake District as a place to dream dreams.
It was like a super-sized garden shed. He would lose himself sat on a garden chair at the highest point, pipe in hand, looking into the middle distance imagining some improbably prosperous future involving garden centres and plant propagation.
Never have pipe-dreams been so accurately defined.
I've tested the fish twice in Wrights, the cod and the haddock, both break beautifully giving thick lush chunks of white flesh.
From thirteen to fifteen years of age I'd every Sunday have to clamber into a beaten up old Land Rover. Then my dad would drive the eighty miles from Rochdale to the Lake District and we cut grass across five acres of pasture. One man and his boy went to mow a meadow.
We also built fences to protect my dad's collection of exotic trees from the rabbits and deer that loved to munch on the tender buds. They're still there, the rabbits, the deer and the trees - now too tall to suffer at the jaws of rabbits.
Wrights outlook on the street
The Land Rover had a maximium speed of 50mph and took hours to get anywhere. I read so many books on the journeys I went through the entire stock of Rochdale Central Library. In the condensation on the vehicle's window I would write the names of the girls I fancied at Greenhill High School.
There was one reward for all the loss of days-off school - aside from the big skies and views on 'The Land', as we called it.
On the way back through Waterfoot in Rossendale we'd stop at the chippy. This was, I recall, purpose built, something like a converted garage. Although I might be getting mixed up with another great chippy on the road between Todmorden and Hebden Bridge.
I can measure my early youth by roadside chippies.
There were two outstanding qualities about the Waterfoot fish and chip shop.
These were the fish and the chips.
Only judge a chippy on these two qualities: the fish, the chips
You should only judge a chippy from these items.
Pies are usually bought in. Condiments too.
Sausages are often sourced from a company called Bits of Ear, Eye, Gristle and Gland Ltd, located in a backstreet near an abbatoir in a depressing Lowry painting over a river black with pollutants in a dank valley where it's always raining and the kids are lucky to get away with rickets.
Chippy sausages are vile.
Always.
No exceptions.
But the fish and the chips in a chippy are the sole work of the chipmeister and his or her minions. They define a good chippy, hence the name: fish and chip shop.
Delightful cod steaming up the camera lens
Wrights on Cross Street in Manchester city centre is the first chippy in this location since - let me get my old maps out - since forever. It does nostalgia standard fish. Nostalgia standard is perhaps the highest standard anything can acheive as memory is usually a liar making the mundane golden.
I've tested the fish twice in Wrights, the cod (£3.40) and the haddock (£3.60), both break beautifully giving thick lush chunks of white flesh. The batter is not so crisp it shatters like a crème brûlée cap, nor horribly thick. There has been no suggestion of sogginess. So far - and two visits is perhaps too few - the fish have been just about perfect.
The chips are fat, sturdy, filled with good potato - £1.60 for a regular portion, £1.90 for a large. First portion excellent, second portion too flaccid and flabby. Variable.
Now a Yorkshire purist - just about the only thing Yorkshire types are purist about - would argue that dripping should be used in the preparation of the fish and chips rather than vegetable oil. Time though moves on - another difficult concept for a Yorkie.
Truth is, dripping is out, its stench and its visceral meatiness means in 2013 its just about banned itself. Certainly Wrights' fish and chips don't suffer from dripping's absence.
There are some other interesting food ideas.
For instance you can buy two slices of thick black pudding (£1.50) in a bag - almost like black pudding biscuits.
One black pudding slice in a bag gone, one to go
I bought a pair and took them for a walk to St Ann's Square. I felt like cock of the north, king of the city. Fish and chips followed by a couple of black pudding slices is as good as street food gets.
Even better news is I don't have to mow an acre of meadow and rake it then drive south for ninety minutes in a drafty rattle-bag of a vehicle before noshing at Wrights.
I can walk there in five minutes from my Confidential desk.
In a northern city centre strangely empty of good chippies Wrights is very welcome. The challenge for them now is consistency, let's hope their frying standards don't drop.
You can follow Jonathan Schofield on Twitter @JonathSchofield or connect via Google+
ALL SCORED CONFIDENTIAL REVIEWS ARE IMPARTIAL AND PAID FOR BY THE MAGAZINE.
Wrights, Cross Street, City centre.
Food: 7.5/10 (haddock 8, cod 8, chips 6, black pudding 7.5)
Service: 3.5/5
Ambience: 3/5
Wrights with Tracey Emin-style neon
The bill of fare
