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In my sometimes uphill search for great London chippies, George’s Portobello Fish Bar in Notting Hill had the appearance of a dead cert.

First, Jamie Oliver had named it “best fish and chips” for the Observer Food Monthly, praising its “flaky cod with a lovely golden batter”. A photo of Jamie taken at George’s was proudly displayed in the fish bar. The famous chef had reciprocated by proudly displaying a photo of George’s fish and chips in one of his cookbooks.

Secondly, the chips, which I sampled first as a possible indicator of overall quality, were outstanding. Made from Maris Pipers, these were packed with potatoey flavour and blessed with an invisible sealant-like coating that provided a light but sure crispness.

Finally, there was the reassuring presence of George Periccos, the affable Greek-Cypriot who opened the fish bar in 1961. When I asked George for details of his provenance as well as that of his fish, potatoes and oil he eagerly whisked me to the back of the busy shop to show off dozens of beautifully fresh fillets neatly arranged in the stacked drawers of a stainless-steel refrigerator. The fisherman who caught these cods could not have been prouder of them than George was.

I was desperate to try the cod and had only to wait for the chatty proprietor to take a rare breath between sentences to escape the storage kitchen. When at last he paused I rushed back to the fish bar to request and pay for a £6 order of cod and take it over to the eating counter. George soon followed. The fillet was rather thin, with unappetizing pleats on one end (see left side of photo below).

It was as if the batter had folded over itself to create greasy wrinkles devoid of fish. Ugh.

Beneath its golden coating, the cod was dry. With a proper batter to protect it from direct contact with the frying oil, a fish fillet isn’t so much fried as steamed. Had this one sat too long out of its hot oil bath and dried out as a result? I waited for George to take another rare breath between paragraphs and uttered three words: Dry. No steam. George nodded. “The problem,” he said, “is that he gave you the wrong one.” The wrong one? Not very encouraging.

George rushed to the fish bar and brought me another cod fillet. This one was thicker than the first one and had no Issey Miyake-like pleats in its robe. But the fish, once cut open, was dry. No steam.

George again blamed the cooks, his son – the one in the photo with Jamie Oliver – among them. He held his staff responsible for his delayed retirement, too. They couldn’t be trusted. He had to come in every day and keep an eye open. But given that George was physically present in his fish bar when I was served the disappointing fillets, it was hard to take his frustrations seriously. His words, like his fish, just didn’t hold water