Fries come in many shapes and sizes: thick cut steak fries, long and skinny french fries, wedges, hash browns, potato croquettes and many more. Truely my only real weak point. Everything else I can ultimately cut out, fries I have to consume. Judging by the sheer volume of fries I consumed in my life, I must be considered an expert by experience.
99 percent of the fries you eat follow the same process. Cut up, sometimes battered, and fried in some kind of vegetable oil. Sizzling when they hit the hot oil, thick clouds of steam rising from the vessel as the outside layer's moisture evaporates. The skin quickly crisping up, the inside slowly warming. In minutes, when golden brown they are rescued from the oil, experience and temperature control paramount for the ultimate result. Guaranteed to satisfy even if the fry handler is new at his job.
And then behold the ultimate fry, the Potato King:
Last night we had dinner in Bistro Du Pont in Taipei. A restaurant dedicated to goose. Taiwanese road stand food with a french veneer. I am not a fan of goose, so I thought I was in for a rough treat. Enter The Fry: the potato who's ultimate goal is to be wedged, sprinkled with fine herbs and cooked in goose fat or duck fat. No vegetable oil, but bird grease. I always say, nothing tops butter. But when it comes to fries, bird fat is cooking with gasoline.
Not for the faint of heart, nor the fainting hearts. This stuff seriously clutters your arteries with each delicious, succulent bite. Who cares! Hearts and minds be damned. This stuff is to be savored, one bite at a time, never mind the morning after indigestion.
I thank the goose whose fat these fries were cooked in. You made my day. I was having a rough patch that day, but this was the turn around moment.
Thank you ultimate fry. Until we meet again in a not too near future.
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