This was, in fact, the last bag of the salt & vinegar variety sitting near the steam trays that were keeping hotel pans of burnt ends and tater tot casserole at just the right temperature to keep the health inspector away. A cursory glance at the shelves as I walked through the junk food aisle revealed no further bags of this stuff but it was, after all, only a cursory glance.
It seems that chips fried in tallow is a trend, of sorts, as this is the third brand I've seen around town and, while I have not scoured the city for chips kissed with tallow goodness, I would presume there are others yet unknown to me to be had.
Fat of the Land is an Indianapolis company (see you in 2 months, Indy). Their website is pretty basic, which is not inherently bad, I suppose. It's one where their chips don't have pages dedicated to them explaining ingredients, cooking methods, and whatnot; they only have pages dedicated to buying them in bulk. And so the lone page I can find for these salt & vinegar chips offers little more than the ability to buy a 12-pack for $85.
Perhaps the company is working on a shoestring budget and is keeping things on the utilitarian side and so we don't get any ad copy about the wonderful tanginess to be had as they explode like a supernova on your tongue. Nor do we see the ingredients list which disappointingly features no vinegar powder nor any acetic acid. Instead the bag lists only citric and malic acids.
When I found this bag, I wondered when the anti-seed oil movement started. I wouldn't be at all surprised if it dates back to the late 1960s and has patiently bided its time in the (pot) smoke-filled backrooms of places like the Willy Street Co-op waiting for its chance to hit the mainstream. It only came into my consciousness last year when RFK was railing against them and they seemed to become moderately unfashionable, like gym shoes with velcro instead of laces.
I did a modicum (or less) of research into this and it seems that seed oils are not, in fact, pressed by Lucifer himself in Hell, contra RFK leading me to believe that making fats, whatever their source, a minor part of your diet is probably best.
I appreciated that the edges of these chips had retained the skin of the potato. The rest of the spud slices were light yellow and the perimeter of brown on each just somehow seemed to achieve a Golden Mean effect. Not all dark, not all brilliant. OK, a food aesthete I am not. In addition to being light yellow, the broad surfaces of these babies were riddle with bubbles. They were also sliced more thickly than your normal chip.
I stuck my nose in the bag and took a whiff several times and found that tallow was the most prominent smell but it wasn't particularly pungent unlike with the other brands of tallow-fried chips I've had. I could barely smell any spud and was not able to discern any tang-inducing acids whatsoever.
Tasting started well with a big crunch as I put a couple into my maw. They had a very nice earthy potato flavor and I found that a little extra salt had been applied. The tallow taste was very mellow and I was disappointed to find that there were only homeopathic levels of acidity to be had. Tanginess was more a vague sensation than a taste.
In almost every review of salt & vinegar snacks I have done, I make a quip about them needing more vinegar, more sourness. Rarely, if ever, has that sentiment been more true than here. It was bad enough that there was no vinegar used in making these "salt & vinegar" chips, but it seems they barely applied any citric or malic acid in its place.
These chips taste good and had a very fine balance of tallow and spud. However, I found that, in order to taste anything remotely tangy, I had to put a few into my mouth at once, chew them well, and move that glob of potato paste around my tongue to find that, uh, sweet spot, where I could taste sour.
See you in July, Indy. Now I need to find a place for a Hoosier sandwich.
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