One cannot take the particulars of potatoes too seriously.
To establish a hierarchy is necessary; to crown the waffle variety king of that hierarchy is obvious; to offer a defense of such a position is effortless. And why should that be? The manifest weakness of the competition? We could distract ourselves with a drawn-out discussion of third-party candidates—the road too well-traveled—but most of the lot can be summarized in the space following the semicolon of a single sentence; steak fries are mushy, shoestring fries are gritty, and almost everything else is either too trivial or too ordinary.
Curly fries do deserve their very own special rebuttal, if only for their startlingly effective frivolity. Why have so many bought into the curly cult, anyway? “They’re curly,” the apologists lamely assert, as if novelty alone could serve a legitimate function. “They’re so spicy and peppery, so savory; how could one fail to appreciate that?”
And what should be said about this seasoning? As is the case with tasteless little outfits like Arby’s, this so-called seasoning isn’t anything more than a crude preparation of paprika and onion powder glued onto a flash-frozen product. So why engage in this unashamed debasement of their fries? What have they to hide? Need one wear a flamboyant necktie if the suit is Savile Row? Need a scrumptious porterhouse from a Michelin three-star be saturated in A1? Need a thirty-year Balvenie ever be found in a highball glass cavorting with cola—or even ice cubes, for that matter? (And if your answer to any of these is “yes,” fine, insist on having it your way; murder the steak, machine-wash the suit, mix the scotch, who cares what you do?) The implication here indicts itself.
But even if one were still to be concerned or convinced by the seasoning thesis, one mustn’t allow one’s opponents to suggest that it is truly any kind of point in their favor; just because curly fries often happen to be seasoned does not preclude waffle fries receiving the same treatment. And indeed, wonderful seasoned waffle fries are extant in proper restaurants across America. And while we’re on the subject on versatility: unlike their inferior cousins, waffle fries can also serve as delightful substitutes for tortilla chips with queso, and they are more solidly structured to hold ketchup or mayonnaise. They’re not only the greater canvas, but the greater brush as well.
But one still might have reservations about it, about the superiority of the form. Thus, we have left the most profound and most devastating point for last; curly fries must, by nature of their structure, be either chewier or mushier than waffle fries. If a curler doesn’t fry his wares long enough, they are damned to a rubbery, underdone fate, and if he fries them too long, they exchange their characteristic bounciness for a mushy, dry, and separated existence. And there is no happy medium, but rather only an intermediate wasteland in which the hapless consumer is treated to the consequences of both weaknesses. Contrast this to the rather stable nature of the waffle fry, which remains solid and palatable even when overdone. And of course, when they’re prepared properly, their high surface-to-mass ratio ensures a crispy shell with a buttery, molten center, something that by its physical nature, the curly fry could never hope to attain.
So whether in application and practice, it seems we can regardless observe the superiority of the waffle paradigm. In all, we are fortunate to have a Chik-Fil-A—the industry leader in the waffle style—in our student union, and for those who have weaned on stale, chewy fare like that served up routinely at ordinary fast-food joints, hand-cut waffle fries are a revelation, and nothing else will ever suffice.
