Not What You Expect

Patat Oorlog translates literally (or so I'm told) as War Fries. I imagine this is because there is a war between your brain and your belly as you get to the bottom of the cone of deliciousness. Your belly is bursting at the seams with the sweet and savory combination of of mayonnaise and sweet, sweet peanut curry sauce while your brain is insisting that you eat more of the crispy, potatoey goodness.

When I approached the counter to order my first batch of fries, I didn't immediately see them on the menu. I panicked for a small minute while I tried to figure out what to order instead. Then I saw it: Patat Oorlog/Speciaal. To the young man behind the counter I said, "I'd like the Oorlog fries please."

He looked confused. I thought maybe I had gotten it wrong. I tried again. "The Speciaal fries? The Oorlog?"

I've since come to find out that they are two different things, and perhaps I actually received the Speciaal fries rather than the Oorlog, but since the War fries are what I wanted, I'm determined that they are in fact what I received.

He took my bills, less than three euro, and dropped a basket of fresh potatoes into the deep fryer.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

After what seemed like way too long, he retrieved my basket of fries, masterfully filled a cone to the point where I was sure the fries would fall out with the slightest provocation, and liberally doused them in mayonnaise. He then disappeared into the back room with my fries.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

Finally, he emerged from the back room, having done magic to my fries and covered the majority of the mayo in a dark reddish brown sauce before sprinkling it with onions. He held the cone out to me as if it was the world's largest ice cream cone and asked if I'd like two forks.

"Danke," I replied, hoping that I had understood him correctly.

I walked away from the counter with my prize, a cone of fries drenched in assorted sauces with two red, plastic forks sticking out of the top. I giggled to myself about the forks. American don't use forks, I thought, that's just silly.

As I walked down the stairs out of the train station, I gabbed a fry, dipped the tip in the mayo/dark sauce mix, and smeared it around to achieve maximum exposure. I popped it straight into my mouth and realized my mistake within about .5 seconds.

It was HOT!

I opened my mouth part way and inhaled rapidly, hoping to cool the scalding mixture before it could do any real damage to my taste buds. Inhale, repeat. Inhale, repeat.

Between gasps of cooling breath, I had a realization: this was quite possibly the best fry/sauce combination I'd ever tasted. It burned with exotic spices from the far East, yet cooled with the semi-sweet creamy mayo absorbing some of the heat. The diced onion added yet another layer of crisp - not the tense, savory crisp of freshly made fries, but the refreshing bite of a newly sliced onion - pungent and filling my nose with a slight tingle as if to remind me of its presence.

After several gasps and attempts to chew without causing damage to my tongue, I managed to clear my palate and ready myself for the next bite. It took great restraint, but I blew on the fry long enough to avoid the pain on the second bite.

For the rest of the cone, I experimented with different combinations of mayo to dark to onion mixture. Every single bite was satisfying. However, I did give in and use the little red plastic fork to avoid having more sauce on my fingers than on my fries.

It turns out, the good folk of Amsterdam were right about that too.