White chip, good. Brown chip, bad.
July 1998, Washdyke, New Zealand.
There was a warm nor-west wind blowing. The night sky was a delightful pinkish hue.
A young 27 year old Grodin was on the nightshift at McCains, listening to Friday Flash Racing on Radio Caroline, and singing “On the Nightshift” to himself, when the farmers truck pulled in at the weighbridge.
The driver was a middle aged burly Maori man he’d not met before.
Grodin zipped up his overalls, grabbed a bucket, and started wheeling the ladder out towards the truck.
Atop the ladder, he gazed out over the sea of freshly unearthed spuds, selecting the most perfect 25 within reach.
Back in the quality testing lab, he washed the dirt off them, and cut a single chip from the centre of each potato. He put the 25 chips into the frying cage, and dunked them into the boiling oil, reflexively hitting the 2:00 minute countdown clock above the vat.
The driver, Dave Winiata, had jumped down from the rig and come inside the lab. He stood just inside the doorway, smoking, breathing heavy, eyeing Grodin suspiciously, pretending to be listening to the radio. Both men pretended to listen to the race on the radio.
As the clock beeped 0:00 Grodin withdrew the chips instantly, and spread them out on a paper towel.
25 perfect centre chips.
He reached for the colour testing chart.
The chart consisted of 12 hand drawn chips, all slightly different colours, light to dark, coloured in with felt pens.
Dave inched closer, curious about what the young fella was looking for.
Dave: What are you doing now?
Grodin: Well, we cook them for 2 minutes, and then look to see if the tips are getting too, brown.
Dave: Too brown?
Grodin: Yeah, you see there’s an acceptable level of browning, like the light brown ends on these two here. But these two are getting a bit too dark.
Dave: Too dark eh?
Grodin: Yeah, but it’s ok, cos there’s only 2 here that are a bit dodgy. If there were more than 3, I’d have to call the boss in, and he’d have to decide whether to accept the load. But, I’ll tell you something, I’ve been working here a couple of months, and frankly, we accept the load even if 5 of the chips are too dark.
Dave: Why the fuck does it matter if a chip is brown or white?
Grodin: I think it’s a taste thing, but it could also be an aesthetic thing.
Dave: Aw, yeah. So, when the taties get sent into the factory, cut and cooked…are there people in there, picking out the dark chips and throwing them out?
Grodin: Yes.
Dave: All sounds a bit racist to me mate.
Grodin: Hey buddy, I don’t make the rules, I just grift here…you want me to put them in the vat for another 2 minutes so you can eat them?
Dave: Yep.
Grodin put them back in the vat, hit the clock, and grabbed the salt and sauce from the shelf.
Ebony and Ivory came on in the background.
Dave was now deep in thought.
There was a warm nor-west wind blowing. The night sky was a delightful pinkish hue.
A young 27 year old Grodin was on the nightshift at McCains, listening to Friday Flash Racing on Radio Caroline, and singing “On the Nightshift” to himself, when the farmers truck pulled in at the weighbridge.
The driver was a middle aged burly Maori man he’d not met before.
Grodin zipped up his overalls, grabbed a bucket, and started wheeling the ladder out towards the truck.
Atop the ladder, he gazed out over the sea of freshly unearthed spuds, selecting the most perfect 25 within reach.
Back in the quality testing lab, he washed the dirt off them, and cut a single chip from the centre of each potato. He put the 25 chips into the frying cage, and dunked them into the boiling oil, reflexively hitting the 2:00 minute countdown clock above the vat.
The driver, Dave Winiata, had jumped down from the rig and come inside the lab. He stood just inside the doorway, smoking, breathing heavy, eyeing Grodin suspiciously, pretending to be listening to the radio. Both men pretended to listen to the race on the radio.
As the clock beeped 0:00 Grodin withdrew the chips instantly, and spread them out on a paper towel.
25 perfect centre chips.
He reached for the colour testing chart.
The chart consisted of 12 hand drawn chips, all slightly different colours, light to dark, coloured in with felt pens.
Dave inched closer, curious about what the young fella was looking for.
Dave: What are you doing now?
Grodin: Well, we cook them for 2 minutes, and then look to see if the tips are getting too, brown.
Dave: Too brown?
Grodin: Yeah, you see there’s an acceptable level of browning, like the light brown ends on these two here. But these two are getting a bit too dark.
Dave: Too dark eh?
Grodin: Yeah, but it’s ok, cos there’s only 2 here that are a bit dodgy. If there were more than 3, I’d have to call the boss in, and he’d have to decide whether to accept the load. But, I’ll tell you something, I’ve been working here a couple of months, and frankly, we accept the load even if 5 of the chips are too dark.
Dave: Why the fuck does it matter if a chip is brown or white?
Grodin: I think it’s a taste thing, but it could also be an aesthetic thing.
Dave: Aw, yeah. So, when the taties get sent into the factory, cut and cooked…are there people in there, picking out the dark chips and throwing them out?
Grodin: Yes.
Dave: All sounds a bit racist to me mate.
Grodin: Hey buddy, I don’t make the rules, I just grift here…you want me to put them in the vat for another 2 minutes so you can eat them?
Dave: Yep.
Grodin put them back in the vat, hit the clock, and grabbed the salt and sauce from the shelf.
Ebony and Ivory came on in the background.
Dave was now deep in thought.
posted by Guy Fraser at 11:30
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