The First Batch

Deciding to save Heston and his pursuit of perfection for tomorrow, I attempted a much simpler method of frying potatoes this evening.  It came from a spattered old issue of Cooks Illustrated, and I had made a mental note long ago to give it whirl.  The author proposes two unlikely components: low starch, Yukon Gold potatoes and cold oil. I blinked. Of the little I had read about frites, two of the most oft preached principles were the use of high starch potatoes and sizzling hot oil. And yet he seemed tremendously scientific about process, so much so that I put misgivings aside and bustled to the store for a bag of Yukons.

Following his instructions precisely, I washed, scrubbed, and dried the potatoes, squared them off and sliced them into ¼ inch sticks. Dutifully I dropped them into the cold oil, turned on a high flame, and waited for a rolling boil. I let them cook until the outsides were beginning to harden. I stirred them and watched with mounting excitement as they turned from creamy white to pale gold and then to warm caramel brown. Then I whipped the finished fries out of the oil and onto a bed of paper towels.

At first the batons appeared perfectly crisp and burnished brown. Almost hysterical with excitement now I flung a bit of sea salt onto the pile, extracted a particularly alluring specimen, and popped it in my mouth. It was very good indeed. But then I eyed the potatoes with growing panic: here I was with a mound of chips and no one to eat them. I tested another and frowned: were they getting soggy? Already?

Desperate for my imperfect yet decidedly edible fries to be shared, I whipped together a Belgium style dipping sauce in the space of thirty seconds, grabbed the plate of fries, and ran out the door. Sprinting across the road I charged though the neighbor’s yard, across to the next street, and down to my friends’ house.

In the course of my obsession, there are times at which I find myself behaving in an utterly bizarre manner.  This was one of those times. The door was open and taking this as an invitation I flew straight into the sitting room. Glenn was on the sofa, one hand tapping at a lap top and the other clasping a phone to his ear. Failing to notice these things I shoved my fries under his nose. “Eat,” I commanded. He looked up, politely bewildered, and reached for a fry. “No!” I hissed. “The little ones, the thin ones are crispier. Quick, eat.”  Perceiving that I was borderline delusional, Glenn motioned upstairs. “Molly’s up there.”

I galloped up the stairs, banged on Molly’s door, and let myself unceremoniously in. “Try these.” I thrust the dish determinedly towards her. It would have taken a brave soul with courage—and possibly body armor—to refuse these fries with the cook in such a state of blind hysteria. She smiled diplomatically and ate one, then another. Then we trooped down stairs.

Now that I had shared my fries, sanity returned to my muddled mind, only to be replaced by acute embarrassment. I found myself sitting in Glen and Molly’s sitting room, a plate of fries on my lap, wrapped in my tattered, grease stained polka dot apron, attempting to make ordinary conversation. Only it’s not that easy when you’ve just burst into someone’s house and forced fries on them. Returning to the only topic occupying my consciousness at that moment I looked down at the plate: “They’re soggy,” I commented despondently. “I’ll have to try again.”