CRISPS: THE STRUGGLE WITHIN – A #WorldCupOfCrisps blog

Wise folk often bang on about how the greatest battles we face are those with ourselves. As we reach the mid-tournament point in the World Cup of Crisps, this rings particularly true.

Of those crisps that have made it through to the latter stages of the tournament, there are two distinct genres of snack. These genres do not solely exist externally, but also at the very core of crisp fans’ souls.

Genre One  is the childhood favourite which we refuse to let go; the crisps hardwired to memories of tuck shop sojourns and covert detours to the newsagent on the way home from school, armed with pockets of copper acquired through any means necessary. These are terrible, joyful, formative times which dig deep.

As a result, Skips are still going very strong; so too Wotsits, Quavers, the original 10p classic Space Raiders pickled onion and two flavours of Monster Munch (including pickled onion). There is a 100% really real possibility that a pickled onion flavour crisp could take this whole thing.

Genre Two is the statement crisp, that statement specifically being I AM A MATURE, COMPLEX HUMAN BEING WITH REFINED TASTES, AND AM THUS DUE RESPECT (I ALSO PUT CRISPS IN BOWLS FROM TIME TO TIME). We’re talking Kettle Chips – lightly salted and sea salt and black pepper are both in the mix –  Sensations Thai sweet chili and Co-op sea salt and chardonnay vinegar.

I’m well unconventional, me.

It would be crass to describe what remains of the tournament as a war between chardonnay and pickled onion, but it would also be the entire, unadulterated possible truth.

I myself have had difficulty reconciling these two warring factions within. My voting has been impulsive and frenetic as I attempt to balance the inner child and the pathetic shell of adulthood.

Enlightenment may well be to realise that only one faction will prevail (inner child) and channeling your daily crisp-related meditation practice towards understanding the singularity within the dualism.

On the other hand, it may be to accept that these conflicts will always be present and manifest this realisation in voting wildly right until the end, lost in the moment of snack combat and prepared to accept whatever comes of yours and others’ desperate dives upon social media voting buttons.

Shed a salty tear for those we’ve lost in round 2

A small percentage of this blog’s ten readers may not be here for cod-spiritualistic nonsense. More fool you. Nonetheless, I will placate these wastrels with some broader #WorldCupOfCrisps-specific commentary.

In the second round of polling we have lost some big hitters: French Fries cheese and onion, prawn crackers, Brannigans roast beef and mustard, the last of the Taytos and the provocateur that is pork scratchings. There are plenty of third round competitors which don’t fit into the angle of this blog which I’ve conveniently ignored.

One highly controversial tournament qualifier (Mini Cheddars) is still polling numbers. Will the supervillain prevail? Tune in next time, or just go out and enjoy crisps innocently without the heavy, heavy weight of all this.

KULFI ICE

Ice lollies are a tricky genre of essentially average food to get right. The trick, generally, is to stay reasonably close to the fundamentals, of which the bedrock is a stick.

All ice lollies abide by this base, but beyond that, it’s chaos: icy ice lollies and ice creamy ice lollies and those that opt for the blend, with mixed success. You can stretch far beyond the average and fail, but you can also be far too average – see plain orange lollies. You can also succeed wildly by pushing the lolly game in directions that seem so inherently wrong, such as in the case of Slovenia’s finest, the Maxim Premium.

Kulfi Ice strikes one immediately as a product of a similar origin to the latter: the continental food store, either literally on ‘the continent’ or just down your UK city’s street. Victories and tragedies can be found in the freezers of such places.

Yet in a shock development, Kulfi Ice can in fact be sourced from a freezer in any medium-sized Tesco store and above. How the partnership coalesced is shrouded in mystery, but the fact that it did is a joy. For Kulfi Ice is a banger, make no mistake.

It has taken the model of the Mini Milk and pushed that particular ticket significantly. Firstly, it’s not so mini; this a satisfying snack of not-insignificant length and girth, offering the opportunity for at least a degree of savouring.

Then, it has the audacity to throw nuts into the mix, not as a crunchy outer coating put as a fundamental part of the thing itself. It’s a bold move which pays off in spades. Pistachios! Almonds! Nightmare times for the nut-allergic but for their devotees, wonderment. The flavours are mild but appreciable, created by masters deep in understanding of the need to stray beyond ‘cool thing on stick’, but not too far.

Another thing Kulfi Ice has got going for it is endearingly crap packaging graphic design. In a world where every second person claims to be a professional graphic designer, this is as refreshing as the lolly itself. It appears to feature clip art, as well an aggressive range of typefaces. ‘A true taste of the East’ claims the dubiously-aligned slogan. We’re not sure about that, but we’ll let them get away with it.

This may be the best thing presently on the aisles of Tesco PLC. Ice lolly aficionados take advantage, before the innate British fear of the foreign stops this low-level freezer revolution in its tracks before it’s truly begun.

KULFI ICE: 9/10

ALL CRISPS – A #WorldCupOfCrisps blog

We’ve covered crisps a lot in these parts, from Walker’s Deep Ridged to Parsnip and Manuka Honey Crisps, plus many in between and peripheral. Given our general subject matter, this is only natural.

Yet what poet and Twitter World Cup organisation addict Jake Wild-Hall has done is far beyond what any crisp enthusiast has previously attempted. The #WorldCupOfCrisps has begun – undoubtedly the boldest undertaking in ultimately meaningless Twitter polling ever.

Big decisions have been made from the start, not least that to not to use a qualification system of any sort. 176 crisps, covering all manner of genres within the craft, are in the running. Of course, some are more in the running than others.

Heroes and contenders are already emerging out of the melee. Solid members of the fried potato bourgeoise – Tyrells, Pringles and Sensations – have breezed through groups effortlessly, while more proletarian numbers such as Skips, Monster Munch and Wotsits have also signaled their intent. Mini Cheddars, the pariah state of the tournament dubbed “the Jaffa cakes of crisps”, have also started very strongly.

Kettle Chips have suffered shock defeats in all flavour incarnations so far. It remains to be seen whether Tsakiris Tripato, among the world’s greatest crisps but unfortunate to be resident in the crisp backwater that is Greece, is even included among the chosen 176. Even the Unofficial Media Partner of the tournament is not party to such details.

We now enter the zone of unnecessary puns: expect many crunch ties along the way, favourites to be fried, and many contentious issues that some might describe as hot potatoes. Crisp zealots will be very salty, but in the end, only one can have it in the bag.

May the best crisp win. Of course it won’t, but that’s not really the point is it? So, let us try to rise above the shock, anger and general drama of the piece. Let us state this, in the hope that it is something that we can all unite behind during this major tournament: crisps are the absolute shit.

ALL CRISPS: 9/10

RISOTTO

Reading my AFB colleague Joshua’s account of not consuming an abject porridge immediately brought me to thinking about the worst of all the abject porridges out there: the scourge that is risotto.

Risible, risible risotto. A disgrace of a dish. A myth inside an enigma inside weird, gloopy-textured carb. Do you want some gloopy mushrooms with that abject porridge, sir? Spot of chicken in there?

Never had risotto? Imagine normal rice, overboiled in pre-cum. This abject porridge cannot be saved by parmesan cheese, garlic and onion – why anyone thought it would be is completely beyond my comprehension. It also cannot be saved by some light Puccini via Radio 3 piped into the background. I sense that that the only way risotto rice may be made into a passable meal is by the addition of Lyle’s Golden Syrup.

Risotto has an impossible sense of entitlement made possible by an Italian name considered ‘classy’ (At least when Cornetto played this trick on us it had some tasty moves to back it up). I am convinced that nobody at all actually likes risotto, or at most, ten people worldwide (excluding Italians acting out of a sense of patriotism so profound that gustatory capacities are nulled). It seems, though, that people, that ignorant bunch, seem to like the idea of risotto; what eating risotto means about them as a person.

This sense of risotto as statement is only augmented by the not-uncommon sight of the selection of risotto against obviously better options on a menu. Fancy the succulent, perfectly-seasoned burger? The mouth-watering vegetarian lasagne? No, actually, I’ll have the fucking risotto.

In a culture of calling persons, groups, things and concepts out, it is amazing that risotto has remained in and un-called. And don’t get me started on risotto balls. OK, do: risotto balls, by association with risotto, are garbage – an undisguised attempted to throw a light-hearted spin on a disgusting classic. However, I will give anything a point simply for the addition of a breadcrumb.

Risotto: 0/10

Risotto balls: 1/10

THE VEGETARIAN BUTCHER NOCHICKEN NUGGETS

Sometimes it’s hard to make a call on whether a food can truly be considered part of the stable ‘average’. This one is a case in point.

Retailing at around £3.30 for a pack of not many, these soy chicken parodies are a pretty high-end low-end food. But this review’s going ahead regardless, as all nuggets of the non-gold variety are highly associated with mediocrity, albeit often extremely harshly so. Anyway, they’re often available at a knock-down rate on the reduced shelf at Waitrose (forgive me, I currently reside in a small town with very little by way of alternative, more authentically average, option).

Now I am a fan of a nugget. You’re probably going to score =>5/10 just for featuring the word nugget in your product description. But these nuggets are worthy of special attention. These nuggets are a classic, a line drawn in the sand, a game-changer. They’re better than at least 90% of the chicken numbers that this critic has eaten – and that’s a few. The original design, in this case, is far from certain to be the best.

Sure, ‘The Vegetarian Butcher’ is a bit of an annoying company name and ‘NoChicken Nuggets’ quite the shit brand, not out of keeping with veggie and vegan food purveyors generally. But these qualities cannot be picked at like a minuscule scab on otherwise almost impeccable skin.

It can only be assumed that black magic is involved in the production of this fare. They are more chicken than chicken; they are the best tribute band of all time, asking the band they’re tributing to perform a support slot for them at the Maracanã, Rio de Janeiro. Succulent, perfectly crunchy, shape-holding, the complete nugget experience for tooth and tongue. To the purist carnivore, these must surely be considered a dangerous gateway drug that should be banned immediately.

10/10

FOOD STRAIGHT OUT OF PACKAGING

In a world of packaged food, said food must be considered in the context of said packaging.

Here at AFB, we do not shy away from fundamental truths. And here’s another one: quite a lot of foods taste better consumed straight out of the packaging.

Peanut butter (crunchy, all else is heresy) is your quintessential example here. Is the superior option to laboriously ladle the stuff onto a secondary food surface and then consume, or to spoon straight out of jar into mouth? The latter, the latter, the latter. The crunch of the nuts, the saltiness of the salt, all are brought to heightened status in a spoon-mouth manoeuvre, with such qualities negated by arduous ritual and, dare I say, even toast.

Cereal straight out the box all the way over bowl, spoon and milk. Nonsense, all of it.

Vaguely-relevant image

Some foods have got this all along, crisps being a great example, or bananas. Greggs, I’m sure, are well aware of the fact that at least 73.6% of the gustatory joy from eating a vegan sausage roll, for example, derives from the fact it’s eaten out of a paper bag.

But Gary, nobody at all entreaties, is this more than a blog and rather a call to do away with grace, manners, nay, even civilisation itself? After some consideration, I can conclude that the answer is yes.

It is not, however, a call for more packaging. That would be silly. Perhaps it is an argument for less production of plates, knives and forks; I haven’t quite decided.

Before this prose fizzles out, as per, into the incoherent mumblings of a mundane madman, it is worth noting that there are numerous exceptions to the straight-out-packaging-is-better rule: almost anything out of a clear plastic bowl, cheese out of a toothpaste-esque metal tube, flour out the bag – all vile, degrading experiences.

Just eat peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon, yeah? Thanks, goodnight.

 

Crunchy peanut butter on secondary food surface: 7/10

Crunchy peanut butter straight out of the jar: 9/10

Cereal with milk, bowl and spoon: 6/10

Cereal dry, straight out of the box: 7/10

 

VIENNETTA/ ARCTIC ROLL

Born for a double-bill, Viennetta and Arctic Roll both sit in a unique socio-economic and philosophical niche. They are also both, clearly, ice cream centred.

This pair of freezer fancies are low-value products with ever-diminishing status – possibly even maligned. They are most commonly seen in highly mediocre convenience outlets such as Costcutter and Spar. They are local and relatable, yet so highly contrived as to be vaguely mysterious.

They are the dickhead mates with hearts of gold, there when you need them to somehow both mock your situation and improve it, if only for a short while. They are a cold warmth, a gaudy backslap in times of struggle.

Reader, I have been in both Viennetta and Arctic Roll moments on many occasions. Admittedly, Arctic Roll is generally a fallback in the case of no Viennetta stock, and my consumption of it so infrequent that I neglected to notice that it had been both discontinued and revived. Regardless, the links continue.

Wall’s and Bird’s Eye, the respective manufacturers, find themselves struggling for relevance in a world of faux-artisan options. It is somehow incredible that these products cling on to the shelves of mainstream commerce, yet they do, rather like the fallen big-time comic now doing free shows of the same material in the upstairs rooms of pubs at the Edinburgh Fringe to die-hard returning customers.

It is time for the reviews, I suppose. OK then.

Viennetta is almost indistinguishable across its various flavour and colour guises. This is reassuring. The ice cream is more often than not initially rock hard, then on the verge of melting after three minutes in a bowl with no intermediary period of consistency. This is also reassuring. The crunch of the chocolate layered effect is delectable, the chocolate itself less so. All in all, it is uniquely of itself.

Arctic Roll offers a vanilla/raspberry and a double-chocolate option. The latter is untrue to the source material, so should not be considered as an edible option. The soft-sponge-meets-ice cream effect does not pack the punch of the Viennetta. Ultimately, despite also being uniquely of itself, it does suffer additionally in comparison to its review-mate due to it bringing back horrible flashbacks of school lunch hours.

There may not be many years of shelf life left for these hardy veterans of low-brow dessert. My advice: stockpile.

Viennetta: 9/10

Arctic Roll: 7/10

TRAVELODGE ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT ENGLISH BREAKFAST

I went to Joshua’s wedding. I reviewed the food at said wedding. I left all our loyal three readers hanging with the promise of a review of my Travelodge breakfast.

Well, here it is goddamit. Late but not forgotten. I hope you have not lost two weeks of your precious life waiting for this banger to drop.

But if you have, let’s get straight to the chase: the Travelodge all-you-can-eat English breakfast is an absolute crock of shit.

At £8.95 premium on top of your room cost, this is probably one of the worst ways you can spend money, in a nation where it’s hard to extract any value from anything whatsoever.

It features uncooked lukewarm tomatoes, flavourless and lukewarm mushrooms dribbling a liquid that may well be tears, and the kind of sausage that could be achieved with well-mashed paper and budget sausage flavouring. I can’t even be bothered describing the rest. The Heinz condiments were at least reliable.

On the day I visited, there weren’t even initially any forks available, so I resorted to attempting to cut bacon, which was probably the highlight of this profound shit show, with a spoon.

All-you-can-eat? I ate very little. Even that was far too much.

Of course, you could argue that I should have tried the ‘continental’ breakfast elements as part of my nine-quid haemorrhage to try and lessen the damage, but by this point I was psychologically broken. I left my key card on the desk with a quietly-uttered and insincere thanks and walked into the suburban street, a sense of hopelessness consuming me.

1/10

MAXIM PREMIUM ICE CREAM LOLLY – BOROVNICA (BLUEBERRY)

As a child, my mum always used to say to me: “Never underestimate Slovenian ice cream lollies.”

I nodded dutifully, while never fully understanding the weight, or indeed point, of her words.

But now the day has come, and I understand clearly. For Slovenia’s very own Maxim Premium blueberry-flavoured ice cream lolly is one of the leaders of its kind.

From the sublime crunch of the white chocolate coating to the subtle nudges of fruit provided by the cold creamy goodness within, this is a once-in-a-generation sweet freezer-originating treat. Inspired. Experimental. Traditional. Confusing, in all the right ways.

I cannot give it a ten out of ten. The Slovenians, as far as I’m aware, are a modest people, and I am very concerned that they would take a full marks as a badge of satire. I am absolutely not here to lampoon. In the realm of European sweetmeats, I have a reputation for taking matters extremely seriously indeed.

Also, if we’re going to get down to the very brass tacks of the matter, this ice cream lolly is too small. You could argue that eating a Maxim Premium is an experience to be treasured regardless of such crass issues as size, but it’s also, crucially, one that calls for elongation. The latter argument is, for me, far more compelling, so gets 0.5 points knocked off.

Another 0.5 reduction is for having a brand name that more evokes a type of scented condom than a delicious cold food experience. 

I can admit it now: for all these years, I have unconsciously been underestimating Slovenian ice cream lollies, flying in the face of my mother’s marvellous advice. Never again. Never. Again.

Oi, Magnum: Ljubljana called. It’s just chuckling on the end of the line. Shall I tell it you’ll call back later?

9/10

FISH FINGERS

Someone else’s serving suggestion.

I truly cannot believe that we haven’t at any point in the patchy life of Average Food Blog covered fish fingers, but I have analysed the content in forensic detail and concluded that this is indeed the case. Sadly the case.

Sincerest apologies, microscopic readership, but it’s make-up time.

For my most recent bit of life I have been spending some time in Greece, where the cuisine is mostly fantastic, with very occasional bouts of true mediocrity. Given the mostly fantastic part of the last sentence, you may assume that I have not been, at any point in this period, eating fish fingers.

Of course, whenever ‘you may assume’ features in writing, there follows with tiresome predictability a striking down of that assumption. This is not a forum for striking down assumptions about assumptions. I have retained fish fingers in my diet.

The psychologies behind this may well be complex; perhaps a mix of tightly gripping on to parochial culture, a longing for home or a deep-seated desire to wilfully participate in the destruction of all life on earth. I am not a psychologist.

What I will remark upon with greater certainty is that I am and always will be a profoundly unimaginative home cook, and that I actually like fish fingers, in as much as you can have affection for any of the most average of foods.

A review of the goods in question is almost completely redundant. The fish fingers of any sea-flour mill tradition are more or less identical in all but one feature.

They taste without being tasty, and get a bit crispy when exposed to significant heat for 20 minutes or so. In the parlance of lower-league football, they ‘do a job’ – they’re your 6.5/10 every game defensive midfield journeyman, a real fans’ favourite.

The signifiant key difference brand-to-brand is in regards to tendency towards losing crumb to baking trays through a phenomenon known as ‘sticking’. I have noted that major Greek fish finger brands sadly do have this tendency. In contrast, Bird’s Eye will be with you, fully intact, until the end. Sometimes, there is a reason why the market leader is just that. No-one wants a partially-soggy finger.

Point of note: fish fingers can act as either a trigger or salve of bouts of depression, depending on the specific tone of gold they display upon exit from the oven.

Sauces? I’ve tried a few. Normally I go in for a splodge of both ketchup and mayonnaise. So string me up and pelt me with those ice crystals that form at the back of the freezer.

FISH FINGERS: 6.5/10