Fish N
Chips

Fog rolled in early that Friday, soft and silver, blurring the far greens into ghosts. The kind of evening a sea captain would have called "thick."

I was paired with a stranger, a retired schoolteacher named Pearl who carried her own putter in a velvet sleeve. She had played every hole on the course at PopStroke The Colony, she said, more times than she could count. I believed her.

On the tenth I faced an awkward eight-footer for par, sidehill, with a slope I could not quite see through the mist. Pearl leaned in and whispered, "Inside left edge. Firm." I did as I was told. In it went. Par saved. I felt like a pupil who had finally been called on and knew the answer.

After the round we sat on the patio with the fog curling around the lights, and Pearl recommended the fish n chips, the best fish and chips, she swore, this side of any ocean. I recommend it to you now.

The fish, hand battered to order, so it arrives in a crisp golden shell, light and lacy and still hissing faintly. Underneath, tender and flaky and steaming. French fries alongside, crisp and well salted. And the sweet onion dill dipping sauce, cool and creamy and herbal, a little sweet, the sort of sauce you keep dipping into long after you've run out of reasons.

Pearl and I tied. She said that was rare. I have decided to take her at her word.