Forget the pubs: Ireland's greatest culinary secret is hiding in a paper bag

The smell of the deep fryer wafts down the street as I approach the Irish chipper.

I vaguely wonder if I'm ordering too much - a classic burger, and chips that only come in one size - at Macari's Takeaway in Malahide, Dublin.

It'll be 15 minutes, the woman behind the counter tells me, as she moves back to the fryer, and I join the line of hungry customers.

It's Friday night in the seaside town and I've just indulged in a pint at Gibney's, a welcoming Irish pub where I was surrounded by friends meeting for drinks and football and the babbling lilt of conversation.

My order is ready, and I say yes to salt and vinegar.

"That looks lovely, and smells lovely," winks an Irish man as I tuck into my chips walking back to the hotel. He is smoking a cigarette, arm in arm with a woman, both dressed for a cocktail party.

I blow on another chip, eating it before it's cool enough, floury potato and tangy vinegar filling my mouth.

It's been raining, and winter is coming.

In the hotel lobby, patrons clad in suits and dresses spill out from one of the bars, waiters passing around canapes and bubbles. This must be where the couple came from.

I weave through with my loot: a large, white, waxed paper bag emblazoned with the chipper's branding. A young hotel worker smiles at me conspiratorially.