When I lived in North Carlton, I conveniently lived ten steps away from a fish and chip shop. The hidden (read: totally lapsed) Catholic in me didn't feel bad about making a visit every Friday night. A piece of fish, potato cake and minimum chips. Wander home, soak it in vinegar and Bob's your morbidly obese uncle.
A few months and a few kilos later, I began to peel open the white paper to find hidden gems in my order. It might be a fried dim sim or a crab stick - sometimes a couple of extra potato cakes. Smiling to myself, I knew I'd formed a bond with my chippy that went beyond the customer-shopkeeper relationship. He loved me. He really loved me. Then one day, I opened it up and found a giant fried spring roll. This startled me. No, they weren't giving me, a single person, a little gift. They thought they were feeding another person. It was any wonder I couldn't squeeze into my jeans anymore. This was a dependency I had to break.
More recently, I've been visiting my lovely butcher at Skinner and Hackett on a pretty regular basis. Every piece of meat I buy has a history, a story and a great chance of being a memorable meal. I always walk out knowing the best way to handle the meat and usually have new ideas for serving it up. This is a healthy relationship worth preserving.
